She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. She was emerging from the primordial as Spurlock was declining toward it. Wood fared still worse. "I repeat," said Ah Cum, "that the venture is not propitious. I haven't touched the other. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. She hated living like that. “Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?” Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper. The picture might easily apply to The Tigress: outwardly disreputable, but richly and comfortably appointed below.
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