He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. He encouraged her to join him in his debauchery. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. " Neither man spoke. To my loving parents and brothers, and my Aunts, Gail and Barb. ‘It is pretty. .
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