The man looked hard at him. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. For a time Spurlock did not move. The young lady—if she had come in here at all—had vanished. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. Do you mind talking to some one else. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. You have taken upon your shoulders the burden of her misdeeds. But he did not follow on with the thought.
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