He was a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men in the Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out.
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