‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. Wood fancied he recognised. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. He did not so much cut into this conversation as loom over it, for he was a tall, if rather studiously stooping, man. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. Where was the message? Where was Gerald? Until he came back, what was there for her to do? Eh bien, it made no sense to do anything.
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