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Updated: May 28, 2025
They seemed to be there for her, to be calling her, and they brought back to her memory the sound of Baroudi's voice, when he raised himself up, stared into her face, and sang the song about Allah, the song of the Nubian boatmen. And then she saw him before her in the darkness with a painful clearness, as if he were lit up by the burning rays of the sun.
It's a false note." "Of course. But it appeals to my sense of humour like that ridiculous cuckoo clock. Don't let's change anything. The incongruities are too delicious." "You are a regular baby!" he said. "All right. Shall we make Baroudi's 'den' your boudoir?" She nodded, smiling. "And you shall use it whenever you like. And now for the bedrooms!" "More incongruities," he said. "But never mind.
From the garden there rose to her nostrils the delicate scent of some hidden flower that gave its best gift to the darkness. In the distance, to her right, there was a pattern of coloured fire relieved against the dimness, that was not blackness, of the world. That was Baroudi's dahabeeyah. Women were smiling in London, were rejoicing in her misfortune.
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