“I’m going to talk of indifferent themes,” said Ramage, a little fussily, “until these interruptions of the service are over. We have him as safe as a linnet in a cage; and could wring his neck round as easily. Melusine cursed herself for his injury. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. It was a dead calm. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. This was good. "Where is he?" asked she, in an agitated whisper. It had been intensified and corrupted by time, as if to add insult to injury. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. "As an honest Chinaman.
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