"She is grown up now, Rachel."
"She very pretty?"
"Yes."
"And very rich?"
"We are well-off."
"But she? I give her two good gifts that make her rich all by herself.
She no use them?"
"What gifts were those, Rachel?" The mother drew nearer and peered with haggard eyes at the Malay.
"I tell you, missis. Because I love my baby so much and want her be very rich and happy, I give her two good things—the gift of bright stones and the gift of hate well."
Sophia Ozanne drew nearer still, staring like a fascinated rabbit into the mournfully sinister dark eyes, while the soft voice rippled on.
"She no use those gifts I give her? I think so. I think she say, 'I hate that man,' and he die, sometimes quick, sometimes slow. Or she not hate too much, and he only get little sick. Or she wish him bad in his business, and he get bad. That not so?"