This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. On his way he made a slight divergence from the direct route and paused for a moment outside the flat where Anna was now living. “You knew it,” he added, in her momentary silence. The Cantonese, excepting in the shops where he expects profit, always resents the intrusion of the fan-quei—foreign devil. “Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. Burn your palette and your easel. I don’t understand the workings of a gentleman’s mind. She felt her own body stir, ready for more. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other. But, no. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion.
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