‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. I'm about to leave this country for ever. Oh, don't worry. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. “I know. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. Once, when he thought he had done so, he smiled an ingratiating smile. I’ve been waiting all my life to get out of this town. A modest drinking bout which had its windup in a fan-tan house over in Kowloon, where O'Higgins tussled with varying fortune until five in the morning.
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