A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. She was going through a new world with him side by side. She held her hand to the place where he had slapped her. There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter. In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic. It was as if he could smell it on her. In each pause she could sense his growing trepidation. Even the love of a mother does not sway him.
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