To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. He would have to sit down here in Canton and wait, perhaps for weeks. Yet either the rest or the wine seemed already to have done him good. ‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. She doesn't understand; she believes he has taken a sudden dislike to her. Nor, he would wager, had the heroic Monsieur Valade, who had rescued her from that life and brought her to England, taught her in that short time all that Gerald was certain she knew of men.
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