Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. But I will never—never return. I know not who you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an injustice. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting. .
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