She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. ‘Dreadfully untidy, is it not? Can’t abide bare rooms. Salvation. " Ruth did so, but without any particular fervour. "That is good. Then she spoke, with a carelessness he instantly suspected. “Forgive you, indeed.
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