She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. “Well, you have thought it over?” he said, sitting down beside her. "But she is saying something to me! What is it?" The hotel manager, who spoke Cantonese with facility, interpreted. “I want to be your friend,” he said. Spurling, who did not dare to exhibit her satisfaction otherwise than by privately pinching the arm of her expected husband. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands.
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