The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. She turned and looked at the red LED of the alarm clock that read 3:55. She would write to Gerald. Ah, Thierry and Poussaint, if my memory serves me. The necessity of defending herself and assuming a confident and secure tone did much to dispell the sense of being exposed and indefensible in a huge dingy world that abounded in sinister possibilities. “What can one do?” asked Ann Veronica. Canton was something like a blind alley; unless you were native, you couldn't get anywhere except by returning to Hong-Kong and starting afresh. I've been thinking about it ever since morning.
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