He temporized, and the girl raised her eyes once more to his. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him. “What can one do?” asked Ann Veronica. She was informed by Ah Cum that the Chinaman was one of the literati and that he was expounding the deathless philosophy of Confucius, which, summed up, signified that the end of all philosophy is Nothing. You are not going to that infidel Russell’s classes. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris.
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