She glimpsed Chinese penury when she entered a square given over to the fishmongers. “Mrs. Sir Rowland laid his hand upon his sword. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. His nose was large but also fine and angular, tapering to a point at the end like a nobleman’s. “Well——” She stopped short. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet.
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