She frowned, appearing to think for a moment. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. 7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. The discussion wandered, and was punctuated with bread and butter. It was a clear, lovely, October morning. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. The Cantonese, excepting in the shops where he expects profit, always resents the intrusion of the fan-quei—foreign devil. But that doesn’t alter the fact that there IS innocence.
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