Lost trumpet
(237)
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THE LOST TRUMPET 237
eyes towards me. She nodded. “Oh, yes. I was
his mistress. I killed him that morning before I left
Rashida.”
Subchapter in
I think that was probably as strange a procession
as ever threaded the Warrens and came at length out
into the sunshine and the waning afternoon of the
Esbekieh Gardens—the Russian ^/gr/-dragoman,
the Egyptian prostitute-murderess, the English
novelist. I walked in front through the narrow lanes
and though I had believed I was far enough from
days of such prudery a ghostly, shamefaced self of
other years whispered at my shoulder. Once or
twice I glanced back. The boy, white-faced, was
engaged as he had been ever since we left the house
in the Wagh el Berka—in attempting to induce the
woman to return.
She seemed genuinely puzzled at his reluctances.
But you wanted me, Esdras. So I come with you.”
But you don’t realize—look here, you must go
back. Murder ! My God, I can’t believe that of
you !”
“But why not ? And it will help you. . . . Here
is the sun again, and the Esbekieh Gardens. I can
smell them. And the tall man has stopped. Have
you money, Esdras ?”
He jingled coins in his pocket. She sighed satis-
fiedly between the two of us, smiling up at him
gravely, her unwinking eyes merry. “That is good.
eyes towards me. She nodded. “Oh, yes. I was
his mistress. I killed him that morning before I left
Rashida.”
Subchapter in
I think that was probably as strange a procession
as ever threaded the Warrens and came at length out
into the sunshine and the waning afternoon of the
Esbekieh Gardens—the Russian ^/gr/-dragoman,
the Egyptian prostitute-murderess, the English
novelist. I walked in front through the narrow lanes
and though I had believed I was far enough from
days of such prudery a ghostly, shamefaced self of
other years whispered at my shoulder. Once or
twice I glanced back. The boy, white-faced, was
engaged as he had been ever since we left the house
in the Wagh el Berka—in attempting to induce the
woman to return.
She seemed genuinely puzzled at his reluctances.
But you wanted me, Esdras. So I come with you.”
But you don’t realize—look here, you must go
back. Murder ! My God, I can’t believe that of
you !”
“But why not ? And it will help you. . . . Here
is the sun again, and the Esbekieh Gardens. I can
smell them. And the tall man has stopped. Have
you money, Esdras ?”
He jingled coins in his pocket. She sighed satis-
fiedly between the two of us, smiling up at him
gravely, her unwinking eyes merry. “That is good.
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| The books of Lewis Grassic Gibbon > Lost trumpet > (237) |
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| Permanent URL | https://digital.nls.uk/205192558 |
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| Description | J. Leslie Mitchell. |
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| Shelfmark | Vts.143.j.8 |
| Attribution and copyright: |
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More information
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| Description | Sixteen books written by Lewis Grassic Gibbon (1901-1935), regarded as the most important Scottish prose writer of the early 20th century. All were published in the last seven years of his life, mostly under his real name, James Leslie Mitchell. They include two works of science fiction, non-fiction works on exploration, short stories set in Egypt, a novel about Spartacus, and the classic 'Scots Quair' trilogy which includes 'Sunset Song'. Mitchell's first book 'Hanno, or the future of exploration' (1928) is rare and has never been republished. |
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