‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. Her head swam. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. This accident rather confirms than checks my purpose. At length the manager arrived; and together he and Ruth succeeded in getting some of the aromatic spirits of ammonia down the patient's throat. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. “I want a vote for myself,” she said.
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