Her shoulders were gripped hard and a familiar voice spoke. ‘Again?’ Another simple parry. From the portals of the hotel—scarcely fifty yards from the canal—one saw the blank face of the ancient city of Canton. Come back—you must come back. What's all this about, anyhow? You. That there would eventually be a lover Ruth knew; and she waited his appearance upon the scene, waited with an impatience which was both personal and literary. "Vat ish it, Mishter Vild?" inquired Mendez. I feel at moments as though I could bolt for it. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble.
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