“Call me Cathy, John. What is it?" "Is there anything I can do?" The idiocy of the question filled him with the craving of laughter. If you forget your sex, jade, I must forget mine. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. He relayed many details of the location and the beautiful rivers of her home, a subject she never tired of. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest.
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