She had come to the end of her resources. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. From the portals of the hotel—scarcely fifty yards from the canal—one saw the blank face of the ancient city of Canton. Let’s face it, she hates Missy’s guts. ‘Truth is, it’s Gerald who’s put me in the devil’s own temper, ma’am. I'll go with you. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea.
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