CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. Most of you Americans pattern all Chinese upon those who fill a little corner in New York. Nothing is wrong that you do. I was certain of it.
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