"My portrait!" echoed Jack. ’ She gestured at his hand, on which Roding’s makeshift bandage had been replaced by a more efficient one. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. ‘Ah, Madame Joan. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances.
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