” The official shrugged his shoulders. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. He looked at her, hurt. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate.
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