The sealskinned gentleman received the tire, placed it inside the car, gazed intently at the ex-coachman, and muttered to himself inscrutable words.
Undervoicing the flame, there was the popping of hollow weed stalks, the tinkle of woody stems crisping and falling in coals.
He would sit his hat across the room, and we would sail cards into it.
Blue-eyed women he believed there were in Kashmir, but here was the mythical Englishry of fair hair as well.
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