He gripped the window-sill behind him. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. “You see the pointer?” he asked. . "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. It wasn’t. She was curious to know why he had boarded a dingy train instead of hailing a cab or his own private chauffeur like the others in expensive suits were doing. She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast. Let us walk about. ***** In the daytime the streets of the ancient city of Canton are yet filled with the original confusion—human beings in quest of food.
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