"My mother!—my poor mother!" ejaculated Thames, falling on his knees, and bursting into tears. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. Tombs were desecrated, beautiful statues toppled, and the colorful shops that she had been enchanted by along the canal had been closed or burned. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Why not kill her here, and leave silently, the way he must have come? Could it be that he had not the intention to kill her? En tout cas, it gave her a chance.
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This video was uploaded to thenextfuture.net on 19-09-2024 13:35:51
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