Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. The sing-song girls in Hong-Kong are far handsomer. “Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world. A true nun. Wouldn't take my advice. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Ireton," cried Jack, in accents of the most urgent entreaty, "before you take me hence, I implore you—if you would further the ends of justice—search this house.
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