They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. Anna leaned back with half closed eyes. " "I forgot to mention there's a trifling reward for his capture," cried Shotbolt, popping his head from under the cloth. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow.
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