It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. From the portals of the hotel—scarcely fifty yards from the canal—one saw the blank face of the ancient city of Canton. For hours he seemed to have pleasant dreams of open skies and airplanes, but then the dreams would disintegrate into fleshy charnel house nightmares where he could hear her calling to him through a fog. She attended to that, and then dismissed it as unimportant. The hotel manager was expostulating and Ah Cum was replying by a series of expressive shrugs. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. Wood, in indignant surprise.
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