“I wonder which of us is right,” she said. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. He turned the wheel carefully as he touched her neck with the other, threading her soft curls in between his slim fingers. It presented itself in the likeness of a great, gray, dull world—a brutal, superstitious, confused, and wrong-headed world, that hurt people and limited people unaccountably. He will tell you confidentially that he simply hates the place.
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