For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. She looked at her for a moment fixedly. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. He was a man who in all things classified without nuance, and for him there were in the matter of age just two feminine classes and no more—girls and women. “She is living there now,” she remarked. Did he track her? She was unaware if he did. .
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