“John, that is what you say now. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. I’m too young 117 for this to sound right. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. "What did you do?" he asked, in a broken voice. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. As to the picture, I'll keep it myself, though, if you do go I shall need no memorial of you. You'd be coming up to Hong-Kong, but you'd be cutting out Canton.
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