Finally, the furnace disappeared, and so did the scattered
wood and metal. The men filled the holes in the yard with fresh
dirt, and Lao Lao swept the courtyard clean. I was free once
again to race my tricycle with Di Di and my friends, and spend
quiet moments smelling the flowers and petting my rabbits. In
our garden, the women resumed their sewing and washing, and
the men their chatting. Life seemed to have gone back to what it
But, then, why did I feel as if something had changed?
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...