In Shanghai in 1935, the autumn atmosphere was already too strong to let go. The broad leaves of the French plane tree have lost their last bit of green under the hazy sky, become yellow and curled, and are swept by the late autumn wind, swirling on the damp and cold streets. A half-new rickshaw rolled over the fallen leaves, making a thin and dull crackling sound. The wheels rolled over the newly paved asphalt road and over the potholed and water-logged gravel road, making a monotonous and drowsy rhythm.
