She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. There were electric and ice plants, and a great store in which one could buy anything from jewsharps to gas-engines. "I beg pardon," he said. "We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices. If I could but——” To escape from her thoughts she began to undress, humming a light tune to herself, though her eyes were hot with unshed tears, and the sobs kept rising in her throat. He had never liked to be hugged, but she wondered if his corporeal needs would be made apparent by human touch. Never before had any human being kissed her lips.
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