“I suppose a girl MUST be underpaid and sweated,” said Ann Veronica. The Cantonese, excepting in the shops where he expects profit, always resents the intrusion of the fan-quei—foreign devil. “Look here! Aren’t you going a little too far? This—this is degradation—making a fuss with sleeves. ’ ‘Will you indeed? Truly?’ His smile held so much tenderness, she was tempted to surrender at once. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said.
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