“My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. “You are unjust and quixotic, Anna, you have no right to treat any one as you are treating me. I have never spoken of these things to any human being. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. I’m not half smart enough for the West End.
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