He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic. ‘Come,’ she called. I don't think. . “I believe that you are right,” he said softly. In the struggle, Mrs. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. All the initial confidence in herself was gone; her courage was merely a shell to hide the lack.
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