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On Friday afternoon Glover's car lay sidetracked at the east end of the Nine Mile shed waiting for a limited train to pass. The train was late and the sun was dropping into an ashen strip of wind clouds that hung cold as shrouds to the north and west when the gray-powdered engine whistled for the siding.
Staring, blinking, trying to shelter his eyes against the demons of the storm, the Master turned toward him. "What, Rrisa?" Down into the wady stumbled the Arab, gray-powdered with clinging sand. "Oh," he choked, "it has been taken from these yezid, these abusers of the salt! Now we rescue it from these cut-off ones!
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