She had
taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat
commanded by the windows of the house. I
have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you. 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. "But it won't do. \" Michelle drifted into a
reverie. About this time,—namely, in November, 1703—
while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he
received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which,
at once, destroyed his hopes. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her
face in a pillow.
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