Part 3 Ann Veronica’s father was a solicitor with a good deal of company business: a lean, trustworthy, worried-looking, neuralgic, clean-shaven man of fifty-three, with a hard mouth, a sharp nose, iron-gray hair, gray eyes, gold-framed glasses, and a small, circular baldness at the crown of his head. There are certain smells, certain tinges to the air. The Cantonese, excepting in the shops where he expects profit, always resents the intrusion of the fan-quei—foreign devil. "It is time!" "For what?" grumbled the latter, rubbing his eyes.
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