Drummond smoked his cigarette meditatively. 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. “Your name and address were upon an envelope found in the pocket of an Englishman who was brought here late last night suffering from serious injuries,” he said in a dry official tone. Lucy went hunting on a Thursday night. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. Was he really awake? The arrival and departure of this strange father lacked the essential human touch to make it real. If you forget your sex, jade, I must forget mine.
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