The Breton in leaving the park of Tai Lin usually passed out of the city by the Great Southern Gate, and following the Street of the Sombre Heavens came nearly every evening to this part of the bund, where he loitered instead of continuing on his way to the Mission. Eventually the bund loafers became accustomed to his tall form standing at evening motionless on the bund’s very edge, his garments blown by the river’s wind, and his eyes dreamily lowered on the floods rolling at his feet.
Men passing him commented:
“Scholar.”
“He is wasting his time.”
“He thinks,” said one.
“A fool,” replied another.
“He is a wise man,” growled a misanthrope.
“Why?”
“He is thinking of jumping into bed.”
“He dreams,” said a boat-woman.