ssion painted on clot skipped a beat.

    trils carrying a coquettis  me out of ture. It  to me. As if in a dream, I ed to s, but my voice .

    In one continuous movement, I collected up ts and cs to Master Osman, laying the page open before him.

    ture.

    ion appeared on ient. “trils of tly like te’s book,” I exclaimed.

    doure, t ouche page.

    I couldn’t stand t a yle and mete’s book,” I said, “but tist attempted to see t. “It’s a  resembles a Cure, but t Chey’re our people.”

    ter’s lens seemed to be flat against t against to see,  only  . Silence.

    “trils of t open,” er, breathless.

    I leaned my  o cared at trils for a long long time. I sadly realized t not only rils cut, but Master Osman hem.

    “You do see it, don’t you?”

    “Only very little,” ure.”

    “If you ask me, ted on a gray s nostrils cut open, so be  of guards o imidating black beards, furroactle-axes and scimitars indicate t to tesurkmen of transoxiana. Perty bride—o judge by t sraveling  nig of oil lamps and torches—is a melancholy Chinese princess.”

    “Or perurist, to empy, er Osman.

    “ be, my  acy, traveling teppe in t accompanied by grim-faced foreign guards, o a strange land and a ely added, “ermine  is from trils of the horse she rides?”

    “turn tell me er Osman.

    Just tting on t as I o bring to Master Osman; t together.

    e sarikingly beautiful Ced in tyle of our melancogete. e saw Chinese houses, morose-looking caravans