“—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. It would be too mortifying. 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. The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course. “No, those are my brother’s dog tags. “The truth!” Annabel bent over her and whispered in her sister’s ear. What is it you’re after? Money, I suppose. This was not exactly what the woollen-draper desired. But she veiled her feelings.
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