\" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars. ‘Leonardo again,’ he growled. Brute! Fool! To have come to her on such an errand. She had tried to shift the subject of conversation away from herself and was even managing successfully until Chen the father addressed her. We'll get together this afternoon; and you can pretend that I am your father. Why don't you try to find out how the every-day Chinese lives, how he treats his family, what his normal habits are, his hopes, his ambitions? Why don't you come to China as I went to America—with an open mind?" "You're on," said O'Higgins, briskly. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars.
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