“I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered. The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. A modest drinking bout which had its windup in a fan-tan house over in Kowloon, where O'Higgins tussled with varying fortune until five in the morning. ‘Think it’s worth getting some sort of light and following her down there?’ asked Roding. “Earning a salary!” “You’re like a Princess in Exile!” he repeated, overruling her. “I don’t care a rap for remembering. Wasting no time, he crossed straight to the shutters and opened them. She refused to accept her fate, but what is it that she could do about it? Night after night she invented alternatives. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon.
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