Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. Critically, she stared at her own features. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. Gerald’s thoughts raced as he reached out supporting hands and murmured meaningless phrases to soothe. Eric Vorsack still toiled at work. He was always visualizing the Hand whenever he let his gaze rest upon the horizon.
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