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Updated: May 6, 2025
Safiyeh was a mere inexperienced child yet Agapoulos had brought her to the house, and Zahara, wise in woman's lore, had recognized the familiar change of manner. It was a great problem, the age-old problem which doubtless set the first silver thread among Phryne's red-gold locks and which now brought a little perplexed wrinkle between Zahara's delicately pencilled brows.
Many men who know Chinatown distrust its shadows, but the furtive fear of which Grantham had become aware was due not to anticipation but to memory to a memory conjured up by that gesture of Zahara's. There were few people in London or elsewhere who knew the history of this scallywag Englishman.
Going behind the carven screen he rapped upon the door of Zahara's room, and she directed him to come in. To Zahara, Hassan was no more than a piece of furniture, and she thought as little of his intruding while she was in the midst of her toilet as another woman would have thought of the entrance of a maid. "Two men," reported Hassan, "who won't go away until they see somebody."
A ready pupil, Zahara had early acquired the art of attracting, and now at twenty-four she was a past mistress of the Great Craft, and as her mirror told her, more beautiful than she had ever been. Therefore, what did Agapoulos see in Safiyeh? It was a problem which made Zahara's head ache. She could not understand why as her power of winning men increased her power to hold them diminished.
The flame-coloured cloak slowly slipped from Zahara's shoulders, and the veils, like falling petals, began to drop gently one by one upon the blood-stained carpet. "Singapore is by no means herself again," declared Jennings, looking about the lounge of the Hotel de l'Europe. "Don't you agree, Knox?" Burton fixed his lazy stare upon the speaker. "Don't blame poor old Singapore," he said.
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