Saren Chen was a tall woman, thin and beautiful in a masculine way, Germanic. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. He personated over there a millionaire named Meysey Hill, and it seems that he induced Annabel to go through some sort of marriage with him at the Embassy. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. ‘Come, I am concerned merely for your safety, you know. Perhaps the boys had already faced off and he had missed it, he thought sourly. Something namelessly abhorrent in the eyes of those men…! She knew what arms were for—to fold and embrace and to hold one tightly; but why men wished to kiss women was still a profound mystery. She looked steadfastly out.
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