’ ‘What matters it?’ cried Melusine impatiently. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. The Cantonese, excepting in the shops where he expects profit, always resents the intrusion of the fan-quei—foreign devil. Too many. ‘She’s wearing a lightskirt’s clothing?’ ‘Nothing obviously so, I assure you. You’re NOT to go.
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