You are the woman I love, Anna. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. "Enough!" cried Jonathan, eagerly pocketing the memorandum. The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. To buy the freedom of a poor little Chinese slave-girl! For what was the sing-song girl but a slave, the double slave of custom and of men? Ruth wanted to know keenly what had impelled the idea. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go.
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