Inside was Anna, leaning a little forward to watch the passers-by, bright-eyed, full to the brim of the insatiable curiosity of youth—the desire to understand and appreciate this new world in which she found herself. Small blame to her. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. “And me. Mr. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question. Then he hovered undecidedly for some seconds with his hands in his pockets and his mouth puckered to a whistle before he turned to go home by the Avenue. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with an Eastern custom. "Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket. “You did not wish to see him particularly this evening, then?” Anna hesitated. She softened her tone and scrambled for the right words.
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