She could see over a waist high stone wall into the miniature courtyard, complete with benches only a small child could sit upon, one which had been broken in half, its two pieces left unjoined on the sandy ground. She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. There were white men with families, a fine mission-house, and a club-house for cards and billiards.
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