‘My papa he does not wish me to marry the man I choose, and thus he places me in the convent that the nuns may lock me up and I cannot escape. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. It wasn’t anything splendid, you know. . ’ He regarded her thoughtfully. “Very likely,” he answered. ‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. But the offences I have committed are venial in comparison with what I should commit were I to wed your father. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. Lassitude?” “I suppose so.
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