“Mr. ‘And that object confirms me in the belief that it is not I who will shortly meet my maker. You see, I’m selfish. He sounds to me like a soldier of fortune. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. “It is incredible. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. We have known men who have come here for no other purpose than to prove their unassailable virtue, who have strode into the arena of temptation, waving the—the what is it—the white flower of a blameless life, only to exchange it with marvellous facility for the violets of the Parisienne.
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