The Widow and her Child. “I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. “For instance?” She smiled. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. Canton at night is as much China as the border town of Lan-Chow-fu. Now I have done something for which you might be pardoned if you did kill me. Not wisely but too well.
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