She pulled him towards the bed. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. You'd be coming up to Hong-Kong, but you'd be cutting out Canton. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. For the past four weeks mirrors had been her delight, a new toy. And if you mean that he may have reconciled himself with his own father, you waste your breath. It was neither good nor bad.
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