One of the coolies held the paper lantern. He could not make good his hold. "Put it under my pillow," he said. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off. To Gerald’s eye, the refugees therefore presented a rather forlorn little group, almost huddling together and chattering in low tones in their own tongue.
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