Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 4, 2025
So the message ran then: "A widow, in the Gully in which is the heap of bhusa, desires you to come at eleven o'clock." Trejago threw all the rubbish into the fireplace and laughed. He knew that men in the East do not make love under windows at eleven in the forenoon, nor do women fix appointments a week in advance.
The message ran then "A widow dhak flower and bhusa, at eleven o'clock." The pinch of bhusa enlightened Trejago. He saw this kind of letter leaves much to instinctive knowledge that the bhusa referred to the big heap of cattle-food over which he had fallen in Amir Nath's Gully, and that the message must come from the person behind the grating; she being a widow.
So the message ran then "A widow, in the Gully in which is the heap of bhusa, desires you to come at eleven o'clock." Trejago threw all the rubbish into the fireplace and laughed. He knew that men in the East do not make love under windows at eleven in the forenoon, nor do women fix appointments a week in advance.
The message ran then: "A widow dhak flower and bhusa at eleven o'clock." The pinch of bhusa enlightened Trejago. He saw this kind of letter leaves much to instinctive knowledge that the bhusa referred to the big heap of cattle-food over which he had fallen in Amir Nath's Gully, and that the message must come from the person behind the grating; she being a widow.
Next morning, as he was driving to office, an old woman threw a packet into his dog-cart. In the packet was the half of a broken glass-bangle, one flower of the blood-red dhak, a pinch of bhusa or cattle-food, and eleven cardamoms. That packet was a letter not a clumsy compromising letter, but an innocent unintelligible lover's epistle.
Next morning, as he was driving to the office, an old woman threw a packet into his dog-cart. In the packet was the half of a broken glass bangle, one flower of the blood red dhak, a pinch of bhusa or cattle-food, and eleven cardamoms. That packet was a letter not a clumsy compromising letter, but an innocent, unintelligible lover's epistle.
He staggered to his feet; only to fall again, face downward, as Desmond and Courtenay hurried up to him, and covered by the fire of his Sikhs carried him into comparative safety behind a stack of bhusa, within reach of the ambulance; his bugler following close at their heels. "I'm done for," he panted, as they laid him down. "Make the best job you can of me; and prop me . . against the stack.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking