’ ‘She?’ scoffed Martha. “So I see that you have become content with your hardscrabble existence, your week-to-week survival, your Martin Chen!” “Who?” “Your limp-wristed lover!” “Um. He, a Chinaman, troubling himself over Occidental ideas! With his hands in his sleeves, he proceeded on his way. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. The envelope might contain only a request as to what he wanted done with the manuscripts. Yesterday!—who cared? To-morrow!—who knew? "Porpoise," she said, touching his hand. He read the Times with an unusually passionate intentness, and then declared suddenly for the earlier of the two trains he used. ’ She flounced back to stare out of the window again.
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