She had fallen into it naturally, the only expression of the dance she had ever seen or known, and that a stolen sweet. She was in ill trim for walking, but somehow or other she made her way as far as the Champs Elysées, and sank down upon an empty seat. Framed in one of the square ports of the packet was a face which reminded Ah Cum of a Japanese theatrical mask. That same adventurousness that had already buoyed her through crises that would have overwhelmed any normally feminine girl with shame and horror now became uppermost again.
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