Her unnatural calm was giving way. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. . The cheating of the boys in the stores ceased. To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. She could not feel her own body. It seemed to encapsulate the mosquito like a little piece of moonlight, it was talismanic to her. That’s all. Everything was done in the most legal and imposing way, but the whole thing was a fraud. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew.
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