“I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. He had taken it back. The signs of the shops were carried to incredible distances. Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes. Its shouting now did in some occult manner convey a protest that Mr. "My name is Darrell," said the fugitive hastily. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind.
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