She entered the kitchen. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. “There is my aunt,” she said. Smith's melody had subsided. He placed his chin upon the top of her head. Her whole conduct and tone had been modest and ladylike.
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