He pulled rein at the sight of her, saluted, and regarded her with his rather too protuberant eyes. She walked through the office to the door, aimlessly. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. He did not write this with lead but with his heart's blood. “Life—things—I don’t think her prospects now—Hopeful outlook. ” She dropped back into a crouching attitude and began to weep. Q.
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