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Updated: June 17, 2025
A thin youth, brooding above a wooden tray close by, held up in his delicate fingers a long bottle, sealed and furnished with a tiny label, but Batouch shook his head. "For perfumes you must go to Ahmeda, under the arcade." They crossed a sunlit space and stood before a dark room, sunk lightly below the level of the pathway in a deserted corner.
For the first time the mystery that coils like a great black serpent in the shining heart of the East startled and fascinated her, a mystery in which indifference and devotion mingle. The white figure swayed slowly to and fro, carrying the dull, humming voice with it, and now she seemed to hear a far-away fanaticism, the bourdon of a fatalism which she longed to understand. "Ahmeda!"
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