On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. It filled her with indefinable fear. "You are all right?"—anxiously. \" Shari drawled as she looked up from her dissected sausage. Fine but strong lines marked the profile: that would speak for courage and resolution. She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. "It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. “I will make it possible,” he cried. Good riddance. She tried not to notice how much attention Martin Chen had been paying her, but he had been bold enough to speak to her the other day.
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