For five days The Tigress chugged her way across the burnished South China, grumpily, as if she resented this meddling with her destiny. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.
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