Save us!" he cried, as his glance accidentally alighted on the drawing, which Winifred had dropped in her agitation. She was carefree. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She knew that the primary reason lay in the fact that both she and Chen were physically attractive people. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. “Now look here, Veronica, let us be plain with each other.
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