"The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. That is what I don't understand. ‘Does Charvill know that this Melusine of yours is here?’ The question distracted Gerald. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise. Supposing he too wanted love and his arms were as empty as hers? Some living thing that depended upon her. Both carried packages of books and magazines. And then she would find work. Then he stood up and repeated it again. Canton was something like a blind alley; unless you were native, you couldn't get anywhere except by returning to Hong-Kong and starting afresh.
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