We thought of starting in half an hour’s time, and trying for a theatre somewhere on the way. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. Spurlock's vision was oddly of the past. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane.
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