She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. To buy the freedom of a poor little Chinese slave-girl! For what was the sing-song girl but a slave, the double slave of custom and of men? Ruth wanted to know keenly what had impelled the idea. In mid-bite, she heard a car door slam that was recognizable. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. “How’s the star?” John’s father asked. " "You had better take some refreshment before you start," rejoined Wild. "Are you his ghost, then?" "No—no," answered Jack. She made a curious movement toward her niece, then suddenly, convulsively, she dabbed down something lumpy on the table and turned to follow her brother. ‘Gérard!’ ‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned.
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