Which is C?” Ann Veronica, with a curious sinking of the heart, regarded the black cavities of the vans. 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. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Don't you understand? Back among your own again, and only a few of us the wiser. Annabel was conscious then of the slow anger which had been burning within her since the night of her visit to the “Unusual.
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