He might live to be a steward eighty years old, but he never would get over the awe, the embarrassment of these invasions by night.

Each time he saw a woman in her peignoir or kimono he felt as though he had committed a sacrilege.

True, he understood their attitude; he was merely a serving machine and for the time wiped off the roster of mankind.
A long blue coat of silk brocade enveloped Kitty from her throat to her sandals; sleeves which fell over her hands; buttoned by loops over corded knots.

An experienced traveler could have told him that it was the peculiar garment which any self-respecting Chinaman would wear who was in mourning for his grandfather.

Kitty wore it because of its beauty alone.
"Thank you," she said, as Thomas went out backward, court style.