Once a sick sailor drew three pictures for me and set down every stay and brace and sail—square-rigger, schooner, and sloop. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. “I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside. He was normal now, and the coat was only a coat. Canton at night is as much China as the border town of Lan-Chow-fu. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding.
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