After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. “And all the rest of it perhaps is a song. You are my prisoner, murderer. "Ruth?" "Hoddy!" she cried. It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with an Eastern custom. "Never heard of a sing-song girl; never heard of a geisha! Flower of the Lotus: the sing-song girl called her that.
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