She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. Unconscious of the interest he excited, and entirely occupied by his own thoughts—which, if his bosom could have been examined, would have been found composed of mingled hopes and fears—the young man walked on till he came to an old house, with great projecting bay windows on the first floor, and situated as nearly as possible at the back of St. A. She found it rather funny that he always wore the shirt fastidiously tucked in and never wore the ensemble without a stiff brown leather belt. No Cantonese was in those days permitted to cross to the Sha-mien after sunset without a license. She chose to hold her nose. “If I sit here,” he said, standing up before her abruptly, “I shall have to shout.
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