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Updated: June 18, 2025
All night, he sang a sad song of his native country, a song which echoed through the whole mountain. Another, a Spaniard, was as if maddened: he tried to bite. It was necessary to kill him. Many have died of kif, a kif that is more violent than opium. When they no longer have Antinea, they smoke, smoke. Most have died that way ... the happiest. Little Kaine died differently.
"'That depends upon them and the pleasure that she takes in them. Two months, three months, on the average. It depends. A big Belgian officer, formed like a colossus, didn't last a week. On the other hand, everyone here remembers little Douglas Kaine, an English officer: she kept him almost a year. "'And then? "'And then, he died, said the old woman as if astonished at my question.
It kept me from faltering in the midst of these rigid evidences of so many monstrous sacrifices.... Number 26. It was he all right. Lieutenant Douglas Kaine, born at Edinburgh, September 21, 1862. Died at Ahaggar, July 16, 1890. Twenty-eight. He wasn't even twenty-eight! His face was thin under the coat of orichalch. His mouth sad and passionate. It was certainly he. Poor youngster.
Loder bowed and moved to the front of the box, nodding to Kaine as he passed. "It's only for an hour," he explained to Lillian. "I have an appointment for eleven." He turned and bowed to the third occupant of the box a remarkably young and well-dressed girl with wide-awake eyes and a retrousse nose. "Only an hour! Oh, how unkind! How should I punish him, Lennie?"
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