She recognized me at once, although I hardly knew in her the slender, pretty Victoria of old.

Her eyes were soft and nice, but smallpox had pitted her nose and cheeks and the deadly incubus of flesh had upholstered her in many soft and cushiony folds.

I asked her if she had married and she said she never had, which information I matched with promptness.

She spoke English quite well and seemed prosperous and--yes, motherly.

There's no other word for it, although she is now hardly thirty.
It was a terrible disappointment, a collapse of delightful memories, and as I walked away from her little silk shop with a vague promise to call again I knew perfectly well that I should never go back.
I left Manila after less than two days and rolled and plunged and tumbled back across the China Sea to Hongkong.