That fancy-pants came around for you.
“Mid-Lent, and the Enemy grins,” remarked Selwyn as he started for church with Nina and the children. Austin, knee-deep in a dozen Sunday supplements, refused to stir; poor little Eileen was now convalescent from grippe, but still unsteady on her legs; her maid had taken the grippe, and now moaned all day: “Mon dieu! Mon dieu! Che fais mourir!”
The tea grown in the southern Fukien hills goes out through Amoy; in a shallow bay on one side of town there stand out of the mud at low tide hundreds of upright granite blocks like Western tombstones, on which oysters are grown. But the only unique industry Amoy and its island seem to boast is the making of toy cats, dogs, lions, tigers, and even more fearsome beasts from mud gaudily painted, the heads and tails so balanced that they wag gravely back and forth.
And then they launch into a face-melter by way of acoustics, playing so hard that one expects Thile's fingers either to spontaneously combust or at least start spurting blood.
