And yet she knew it was not fair to call her a foolish girl. “Thanks, I’m not very fond of coffee,” Anna answered, “and I hate music. The sunshine broke across each shoulder, one lance striking the yellow face of a Chinaman, queueless and dressed in European clothes, the other lance falling squarely upon the face of the man he had journeyed thirteen thousand miles to find. Perhaps he had heard of this Enschede. She was frowning, but it was evident that her initial fright had left her. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. It was the beginning and the end of the transaction. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. The tropical dawn is swift.
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