The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. “One doesn’t want to turn the whole thing into a mere sex antagonism. After all there are other things. To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. She gurgled. We pretend we never think of everything that makes us what we are. I put your clothes out an hour ago. "Prisoner at the bar," thus ran the sentence, "you shall be taken to the prison from whence you came, and put into a mean room, stopped from the light; and shall there be laid on the bare ground, without any litter, straw, or other covering, and without any garment. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. He would pursue that little pastime on some other occasion. The life with which he had endued these sheets of paper began to beckon imperiously.
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