Part 4 At eight that evening Miss Stanley tapped at Ann Veronica’s bedroom door. The sky periodically pummeled her with hail pellets as she would pass through the deserted intersections. "It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets. They didn’t talk about it much, but Mike had been through some eerily similar foster homes in Florida, the where he was born. There's good stuff in him, if one could find the way to dig it out. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. Canton at night is as much China as the border town of Lan-Chow-fu.
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