” She wanted to feast upon him badly, his passion, his youthfulness. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. From the portals of the hotel—scarcely fifty yards from the canal—one saw the blank face of the ancient city of Canton. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. ‘You said?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, your great-aunt, miss. ” Lucy gestured to the Treehouse, which had been roofed and framed. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. Kneebone cordially on the shoulder, and began to laugh as heartily as any of them.
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