Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. 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. "Excuse me," he said, plunging his fork into a fowl, and transferring it to his plate. He stopped in mid-sentence, and Ann Veronica opened the door for her aunt. .
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