There was a time, long, long ago, when the tears would have rushed to my eyes unbidden at the bare mention of generosity like yours, Mr. Wood fancied he recognised. The scrutiny of any strange man provoked a sweaty terror. The blast shrieked, as if exulting in its wrathful mission. The Oriental accepts my medicines kowtowing, and when my back is turned, chucks the stuff out of the window and burns joss-sticks. Sudden indignation boiled up in him. “In any case, there is probably some mistake. “He is not—I don’t like him.
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