But that first night I couldn't look at chicken, I couldn't even laugh at the woodeny pears and rice which were the next course. I declined everything, lay in bed and drank tea, the wind came in through the open lattice-work, guttered my candle and then blew it out, and I, first hot, and then cold, and always miserable, stared at the luminous night sky, cut into squares by the lattice-work of the window, was conscious of every bone in my body, and wondered if I were not going to be very ill indeed.
CHAPTER X—THE TUNGLING
A Peking cart as a cure for influenza—Difficulties of a narrow road—The dead have right of way—The unlucky women—Foot binding—“Beat you, beat you”—Lost luggage—“You must send your husband”—Letter-writing under difficulties—A masterless woman—Malanyu—Most perfect place of tombs in the world.
But I wasn't. As a rule I find I worry myself unnecessarily in life. Either a thing can be altered, or it can't. If it can't there's an end to the matter, worrying doesn't mend it. I had come here of my own free will—it wasn't nice, but there was nothing to do but make the best of it. In the morning if I wasn't very happy I was no worse, and to go back that weary journey to Peking would only be to make myself ridiculous. Therefore I arose with the sun, and a nice, bright cheerful sun he was, looked at my breakfast, drank the tea and was ready to start. All the hamlet watched me climb into my cart. I felt I couldn't have walked a step to save my life, and we rumbled over that steep step, and were out in the roadway again.