At a sign from Ah Cum, official custodian of the sightseers, the polechair coolies pressed toward the left and halted. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. ‘What’s this? Impertinence! French manners, is it?’ ‘Grace à vous,’ Melusine threw at him fiercely. She turned and looked at the red LED of the alarm clock that read 3:55. “Well, make sure you use something. It isn’t illusions—for us.
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