Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her. You certainly had to hand it to these Chinks. In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes. The immense disillusionment that awaited him! The devastating disillusionment! She had a vague desire to run after him, to state her case to him, to wring some understanding from him of what life was to her. She turned to Lucilla, a plea in her face. “To the best of my belief, I have not a single English acquaintance in the city. ‘Like you?’ ‘But I am not French. They should never come into contact with politics or economics—or any of those things.
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