Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. Instead of which they walked sharply. “Home, of course,” she answered. Sanguine they were not. Her confession was still unmade. Some trustworthy Chinaman to watch, for a small bribe, while he, James Boyle O'Higgins, enjoyed himself in Hong-Kong, seeing the spring races, the boxing matches, and hobnobbing with Yankee sailors.
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