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The only thing I can think of to describe 'em is well, those sand-storms the Khamasin raises the hot winds, you know." "They probably were sand," his wife suggested, burning to tell another story of her own.
It was the Khamasin, the hot wind bringing sand, that drove him in with the feeling that these few days and nights had been immeasurable, and that he had been away a thousand years. He came back with the magic of the Desert in his blood, hotel-life tasteless and insipid by comparison. To human impressions thus he was fresh and vividly sensitive.
He felt the delicious, drenching heat, and the Khamasin, that over-wind from Nubia, brushed his very cheeks. In the little gardens the mish-mish was in bloom.... He smelt the Desert ... grey sepulchre of cancelled cycles.... The stillness of her interminable reaches dropped down upon old London.... The magic of the sand stole round him in its silent-footed tempest.
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