“Yes, he said, a quarter, please. He leaned up against the counter, steadying himself, she could hear him breathe, she could see his hand holding on to the counter’s polished edge, she could see the bones and a meandering of veins. The peppermints rattled into the scales. The brass shone against the darkness of the shop, focussing the eyes, and she was glad, because she did not want to look up. It’ll soon be the races, he said. It ought to be good for trade. We always do well in Race Week, she s...aid. His voice was tired. She did not, could not look up as she watched for the weight of the peppermints on the scales. She felt a sudden tingling of hate, a smarting. The peppermints fused in a white coagulated lump, then resolved slowly with the waning of emotion, and she put them into a paper bag, specially stamped at Moorang with an ARTHUR QUONG. Thanks, Miss Quong, he said. We all have our little weaknesses. She smiled, not so much at him as at the shining scales. Then he was going out.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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