In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic. She had grabbed! She became less and less attentive to his meditative, self-complacent fragments of talk as she told herself this. Was it that the struggle of things to survive produced as a sort of necessary byproduct these intense preferences and appreciations, or was it that some mystical outer thing, some great force, drove life beautyward, even in spite of expediency, regardless of survival value and all the manifest discretions of life? She went to Capes with that riddle and put it to him very carefully and clearly, and he talked well—he always talked at some length when she took a difficulty to him—and sent her to a various literature upon the markings of butterflies, the incomprehensible elaboration and splendor of birds of Paradise and hummingbirds’ plumes, the patterning of tigers, and a leopard’s spots. The dress was her mother's, and she was wearing it to save a little extra money. ” He left the room, and she stood motionless, with flaming cheeks, listening to his retreating footsteps.
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