The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. "Owen, Owen," pursued Mrs.
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