He whispered in her ear. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. “Here goes for the new life!” “Here goes for the new life,” he echoed and stood up. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. Her head ached with a hollow pain. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. I take it, down where we're going will be nothing new to you. Canton at night is as much China as the border town of Lan-Chow-fu.
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