The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. She knew she was pregnant when she missed her period in the first weeks of August that year. 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. It is so that I may marry an Englishman. “What are you doing?” he asked.
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