She finished the olive and looked up. "Yes … but dreadfully tired. ‘I try to be. "I understand," she said. ‘En effet, it is for this that I was enquiring of this man if he has pen and paper. There was scant social life on the Sha-mien aside from masculine foregatherings, little that interested him. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Probably he has something to say and can't say it, or he writes well about nothing.
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