“A wonderful piece of work,” he declared. A thousand eager assistants pressed behind him. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. He took her hand in his, raising it closer, and gently touched the maltreated skin. The face of the man who lay there was clearly visible. In Paddington. I’ve seen him, and he doesn’t a bit understand. The shape of the head, the height and breadth of the brow, the angle of the nose, the cut of the chin and jaws, all were fine, of a type she had never before looked upon closely. A skeleton was propped against the mantelpiece. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. Their houses became a refuge of ill repute, the source of rumor and intrigue in the highest echelons of society.
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