Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. " "Why, surely you don't think your guests would steal them," observed Rachel, archly. The last time Pottiswick had called out the militia on suspicion of intruders in Remenham House, a large rodent had been all the spoil. Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells.
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