P. Wood was once a favourite of yours. She had made her way since then a little further into the heart of life. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. Around her neck was a little gold chain. He spoke English with astonishing facility and with a purity which often embarrassed his tourists. He began munching his water-chestnuts—a small brown radish-shaped vegetable, with the flavour of coconut—that grow along the river brims. Neither did his interest,—which was by no means inconsiderable,—nor his general popularity, procure him the preferment he desired. Sheppard staggered forward.
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