The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. A thing which had mystified her since childhood, a smouldering wonder why it should be, and until now she had never felt the urge to investigate. For five days The Tigress chugged her way across the burnished South China, grumpily, as if she resented this meddling with her destiny. You disgust me. From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly. She didn’t like the shops, she didn’t like the other women’s faces; she thought the smirking men in frock-coats who dominated these establishments the most intolerable persons she had ever had to face.
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