“It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. They were Jonathan Wild and Quilt Arnold. Happily they had no one else to wait for, and it heartened her mightily to think that she had ordered the promptest possible service of the dinner. I said I knew he disliked and distrusted you and your work—that you shared all Russell’s opinions: he hates Russell beyond measure—and that we couldn’t possibly face a conventional marriage. Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells. “I did it for love of you,” he said. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. Ruth returned to the table. She tossed her head, and, having no further words, moved toward the door. “Annabel,” she said brusquely.
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