Another glass, Jack. But, go and see who it is, love. "Who's there?" cried Rachel. 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. He tells me that you will not even see him. I may want you. Well, well; all he himself could do would be to watch this singular drama unroll. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. It wasn't worth while to invest imaginatively a man with evil projects simply because he was physically ugly.
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