Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. “Mr. . "Oh God!" exclaimed Jack, in a tone of the bitterest anguish. Sampans with fish and fruit and vegetables swarmed about, while overhead gulls wheeled and swooped and circled. The pause lengthened, and he had the satisfaction of seeing despair melt the set mockery of Spurlock's mouth. He did not know—and probably never would unless she told him—that it was very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly ways in this latitude. Her tone was icy.
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