A hand of iron fell upon the scowling young man’s shoulder. That register would be easy to get at; comforting thought. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any. To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. \" It was a lie: Lucy ate one forced meal a day, supper. \" Lucy obliged her, walking back to the entryway and slipping off the loafers. “My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. “You will go and see her,” he begged.
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