She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. ‘The gatehouse? But why must you move him at all?’ ‘Listen, missie. 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. I promised to put him in touch with some people in Rome, an idea which he warmed to. He was ready to seed his legacy, and you were a pawn to be moved out of the way. He's on the ragged edge.
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