The Cantonese, excepting in the shops where he expects profit, always resents the intrusion of the fan-quei—foreign devil. “But your hair,” he gasped. He had heard everything. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. Everything seemed designed to unhinge the mind and make the cat wretched. She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. At length, he fell down on the road, fully expecting each moment would prove his last. A minute pressure inwards showed him that it was not locked. It’s the only clean way for us. " The tone was neutral. E.
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