His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. Presently she was going through a swaying, noisy crowd, whose faces grinned and stared pitilessly in the light of the electric standards. Once she reached the bamboo curtain, clutched at it and tore it down as his arms went around her waist. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. “I am sorry,” he said slowly. Gold-handled, too. It was an odd little encounter, that left vague and dubitable impressions in her mind. We fetched the doctor and the police. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. She must kill this man, or kill herself.
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