In Europe or in America people would have smiled; but in Singapore—the half-way port of the world—where a human kaleidoscope tumbles continuously east and west, no one had remarked her. In others, she acts with the speed and surety of the loosed arrow. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. She stopped abruptly, and looked in a flower-shop window. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. “But, dear, think! He is your father. I can’t love you. " "By Heaven!" cried Kneebone, with increasing fervour, "it is true—as true as my affection for you. Daughters were not like sons.
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