He opened the drawer of the writing table. “Father,” she cried, “I have to live!” He misunderstood her. Wasn’t easy, I can tell you. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. She came back with two women, one in each arm, which she threw down like sticks as she alit onto the stone causeway.
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