I could always 108 tell right away whether my new foster home was going to be good or bad. 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. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. God only knows what I have done, or left undone. Sir John hesitated. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. A fierce struggle ensued.
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