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In a mud-floored miserable mussafarkhana, without its gates, Moussa Isa slept, naked, hungry and very sad for he somehow seemed to have missed the sea. Surely if one kept on due westward always to the setting sun, one reached the sea in time? The time was growing long, however, and he was among a strange people, few of whom understood the Hindustani he had learnt at Duri.
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