CHAPTER XVIII. Only a book detective could dope this out. " "To-morrow will be too late," replied the widow, in a hollow voice, "I feel it will. He sells his daughter to a geisha or a sing-song master, and the girl is rented out until the debt is paid. The thought of going back!—the thought of the unknown out there!—" with a tragic gesture toward the east. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. "Mother!" cried Jack, springing towards her.
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