In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. He did it, he said, “to distract his mind. Presently she was going through a swaying, noisy crowd, whose faces grinned and stared pitilessly in the light of the electric standards. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. The devastations, however, were speedily made good, and, in two years more, it was finished. She had a vision of policemen, reproving magistrates, a crowded court, public disgrace. And from that point they went on to a thoroughly embittering wrangle. ‘I think,’ he said pleasantly, ‘that it would be as well if you, Hilary, were to go and fetch the troops.
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