To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage’s orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. But at the word “home” she turned again. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. I hope I may never come near her.
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