Immeasurable disgust possessed her. There were no mourners. He wriggled underneath her heaving body, pinned like an insect. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. 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. Very slowly emerging out of a phase of stupefaction, these personal affairs and her personal problem resumed possession of her mind. ’ A sudden frown sprang to the fellow’s face. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone.
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