I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic. “You know,” he went on, “this doesn’t seem to me to end anything. "Your detective has been remiss in his duty; let him suffer for it. Eh bien, she must use her tongue against him. “Who killed her husband?” “Go and nurse him, missus!” “Murderess!” Anna looked from left to right. Lost ground must be regained. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. As to following, there was no one.
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