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 out, fondly looked on, and hid again. It was no other kind than a common handkerchief with which foreigners blow their noses. Why does she take a particular care of it, I wondered. Not only this girl, nearly all the Japanese women, carry a cotton handkerchief, not for blowing their noses, but for many other decent purposes; I thought it was most absurd, even shabby, as I learned in the West it was merely to blow the nose. But this Madam Chrysanthemum did not strike me as laughable at all, even with her cotton handkerchief, which she took out, fondly looked on, and hid again. I thought it was most important to solve why she took such a particular care with it.

It might be, I fancied, from the hereditary reverence towards cotton; we have a romantic legend of a certain weaving maiden in the sky in connexion with the Milky Way, and we regard her even as a goddess. It may not be possibly that. Then what? I kept up my reverie while the car rolled on unceasingly. I suddenly thought it might be the handkerchief which had been given her (this inexperienced Rh