Whenever Ah Cum (whose normal stride was sufficient to keep him at the side of her chair) pointed out something of interest, she had to strain the cords in her neck to focus her glance upon the object. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. She hated the manor. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury.
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