‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. “Take her limbs again. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. They were filthy after the burial. That is why I am here. What is done cannot be undone. I want to enrich it with hangings and gladden it with verses. He was out of breath, and spoke in broken sentences.
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