For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic. He stirred continually, thrusting his legs about and flinging his arms above his head. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. ‘My papa he does not wish me to marry the man I choose, and thus he places me in the convent that the nuns may lock me up and I cannot escape.
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