" Half an hour later she laid aside the book. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. 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. She had black hair, fine eyebrows, and a clear complexion; and the forces that had modelled her features had loved and lingered at their work and made them subtle and fine. You’re all such good cooks. Love is a great thing, and happiness a joy. “I can’t imagine it,” said Miss Miniver.
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