It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. ‘Very well, mademoiselle, so be it,’ he snapped. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. The Iron Bar 397 XVIII. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out.
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