Paris, 18. ” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. So he made his dispositions and went off on some other fool’s errand. At sunset the swarming abruptly ceased; even the sampans appeared to draw closer together, with the quiet of water-fowl. She wished she had not stood up. “I am sure of it. Mr. What the devil is the matter, Dunster?” “I beg your pardon, sir,” the man answered, “there is a lady here to see you. You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. She crushed the letter in her hand.
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