" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. I hope you won’t think less of me, you’ve treated me so well. I don’t see what you can have to say. ‘It is not easy. That’s— that’s my private life. . ’ ‘Je m’en moque. " The air in the narrow street, which was not eight feet wide, swarmed with smells impossible to define; but all at once the pleasantly pungent odour of Chinese incense drifted across the girl's face, and gratefully she quickened her inhalations.
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