There sprang from that a vague hope that perhaps she might extort a capitulation from her father by a threat to seek that position, and then with overwhelming clearness it came to her that whatever happened she would never be able to tell her father about her debt. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. I didn’t get it, why she put on the innocent act.
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