I felt somehow I’d hurt you. " Spurlock's glance shot up, flaming again. The Cantonese, excepting in the shops where he expects profit, always resents the intrusion of the fan-quei—foreign devil. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The female’s words caught at his attention, and he no longer heard what the young Poussaint girl was saying to him.
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