She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. Spurling, who sat on the right of the table. “Come,” she said. " Just then, the infant began to sob piteously. D'ye hear. "How, Sir?" "Except by adoption. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. "There's an old proverb," continued Wood, rising and walking towards the fire, "which says,—'Put another man's child in your bosom, and he'll creep out at your elbow. ‘You are not the only one to seek them out,’ he said. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it.
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