“You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged. For five days The Tigress chugged her way across the burnished South China, grumpily, as if she resented this meddling with her destiny. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against.
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