A white man, wandering about the streets of Canton at night, was a challenge to such a catastrophe. Their doors stood open, and placards with big letters indicated the section assigned to each. The life with which he had endued these sheets of paper began to beckon imperiously. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. ‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. Anything. She dropped the locket into its sweet hiding place. “Annabel;” he moaned. ’ Melusine did not forget.
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