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Updated: May 2, 2025
They are generally very old, always dirty, while the khansamah is as ancient as the bungalow. He either chatters senilely, or falls into the long trances of age. In both moods he is useless. If you get angry with him, he refers to some Sahib dead and buried these thirty years, and says that when he was in that Sahib's service not a khansamah in the Province could touch him.
"Who's been letting off fire-works?" Sam Tuk nodded senilely, but spoke not a word. Kerry stooped and stared into the heart of the fire. A dense coat of white ash lay upon the embers. He grasped the shoulder of the aged Chinaman, and pushed him back so that he could look into the bleared eyes behind the owlish spectacles. "Been cleaning up the 'evidence, eh?" he shouted.
They are generally very old, always dirty, while the khansamah is as ancient as the bungalow. He either chatters senilely, or falls into the long trances of age. In both moods he is useless. If you get angry with him, he refers to some Sahib dead and buried these thirty years, and says that when he was in that Sahib's service not a khansamah in the Province could touch him.
They are generally very old, always dirty, while the khansamah is as ancient as the bungalow. He either chatters senilely, or falls into the long trances of age. In both moods he is useless. If you get angry with him, he refers to some Sahib dead and buried these thirty years, and says that when he was in that Sahib's service not a khansamah in the Province could touch him.
Then the old cripple, more than ever bent upon his stick, but nevertheless chuckling to himself all the way, preceded them into the house. "Ah, she is clever," he muttered; "she thinks her demon tells her everything. But even La Meffraye will not know where I have hidden that beautiful gold." So he sniggered senilely to himself between his fits of coughing.
Save for the three years of her brother's short married life, it had been part of herself. As for the name, he had used that of his wife, Viscountess Drane in her own right, a notorious beauty of whom, so History recounts, he was senilely enamoured and on whose naughty account he was eventually run through the body by a young Mohawk of a paramour.
"And if you will do it yourself, Messer Syndic, so much the better." He pointed to the door of the staircase. The Syndic recoiled, his beard wagging senilely. "No, no," he babbled. "No, I will go back." It was no longer the formal magistrate, but a frightened man who stood at Claude's elbow.
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