He succeeded so well that they were almost in Montague Street before Anna stopped short. She sought hastily in her mind for a plausible answer to an obvious question that didn’t come. From the portals of the hotel—scarcely fifty yards from the canal—one saw the blank face of the ancient city of Canton. “Not to-night,” she said. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. “But I wish,” she said, “I had some idea what I was really up to.
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