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. He had brought her here to this place—where her freedom was curtailed even more than at the convent so that a cavalier was very much needed—and only on Monday came again. Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. You can trust me, Anna. First-off, he had decided not to tell her what he had found at the bottom of that manila envelope. And yet, at the end of this prayer a subconscious thought broke through to consciousness. It’s to do with adolescence. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself.
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