She went to her room and changed the loose morning gown in which she had lunched for a dark walking dress. Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. ” He glared at Martin. A white man, wandering about the streets of Canton at night, was a challenge to such a catastrophe. “We shall try again later. ‘Perhaps she don’t understand English,’ suggested Roding. Wood heard the cry. This is your choice. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. He had not to wait long.
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