The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. She located her foster family. 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. Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside. There were lines in her face that age had not put there. Nothing seemed to be amiss.
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