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Updated: June 23, 2025
It was early March, and the difference between the temperature of the train and the raw air of the station struck him unpleasantly as he climbed down on to the platform. Leaving Yoshio, equally at home in Paris as in Yokohama, to collect luggage, he signalled to a waiting taxi. He had the hood opened and, pushing back his hat, let the keen wind blow about his face.
He had done, and a deeper peace came to him than he had known since those far away days in Japan. He called to Yoshio. Almost before the words had left his lips the man was beside him. And as the Jap listened to the minute instructions given him the light that had sprung to his eyes died out of them and his face became if possible more than usually stolid and inscrutable.
And Yoshio, enjoying to the full his state of temporary authority, sat outside the door of the tent and kept away inquirers. Listlessly Craven watched the evening shadows deepen and darken. For hours he had thought, not of himself but of the woman he loved, until his bruised head ached intolerably. And all his deliberation had taken him no further than where he had begun.
The sound of subdued voices reached him occasionally, and once or twice he heard Yoshio speak to some passer by. Then, not far away, the mournful chant of a singer rose clearly out of the evening stillness, penetrating and yet curiously soft a plaintive little desert air of haunting melancholy, vibrant with passion. It stopped abruptly as it had begun and Craven was glad when it ended.
If I'm ever in a big scrap I hope I shall have Yoshio behind me." "You seem to be pretty well known over yonder," said Atherton with a vague movement of his head toward the shore. "It is not a big town and the foreign population is not vast. Besides, there are traditions. I am the second Barry Craven to live in Yokohama my father lived several years and finally died here.
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