You don’t understand. ’ ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned. It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess. 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. Applying his ear to the keyhole, Jack listened, but could detect no sound. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. If hopeless love for her made me a robber, it has also saved me many a crime. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. Distress like hers might palliate far greater offences than she ever committed.
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