” Annabel rose slowly to her feet, walked to the door as though to see that it was shut, and came back with slow lagging footsteps. Sebastian leapt down into the crypt. That was supposed to be Madame Valade. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. As he understood it, folks saw in two or three days all there was to see of Canton. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. The train, meantime, had passed Marylebone Lane, when it again paused for a moment, at Jack's request, near the door of a public-house called the City of Oxford. They agreed to lend her their hold-all and a large, formless bag which they called the communal trunk. She saw marks in the dirt where he had been pacing.
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