“It doesn’t matter,” she said, after a long interval, “if they are absurd. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. You can scribble if you want to, but after you've given your eight hours daily to the mills. Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells. My birthday was on May first. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. All students were to report at six o’clock for the rehearsal in full penguin attire.
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