If they are not obvious errors, they are left as in the original. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. He looked distant, irritated. The musician. He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. To buy the freedom of a poor little Chinese slave-girl! For what was the sing-song girl but a slave, the double slave of custom and of men? Ruth wanted to know keenly what had impelled the idea.
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