To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. —BRENDON. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. If there was a Yankee bar-keep in HongKong, James Boyle would soon locate him. She would flee to the wild fastnesses, the places where there were no overarching systems of any use, where she could blend with the unstable populace and kill in relative peace. She could not go to him with a preachment against strong drink; she knew from experience that such a plan would be wasted effort. This time they would call it murder.
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