But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. A white man, wandering about the streets of Canton at night, was a challenge to such a catastrophe. Hidden menace; a prescience of something dreadful about to happen. Her mouth was once more covered as they left the second floor guest saloon and headed for the back stairs. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. "Perhaps that would have been best. I don't know whose brainless head it may be, but it'll do for my collection.
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