She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells. A bad man, in fact. “Just forget it, Lucy! Keep your secrets to yourself!” He stomped out, slamming the heavily paneled oak door. Because she states her case in a tangle, drags it through swamps of nonsense, it doesn’t alter the fact that she is right.
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