He was
dying to smoke, and, behold! priceless Turkish tobacco was thrust into
his willing hand. He rolled a stout cigarette, lighted it. Then a sigh
reached his ears. "The lady smokes," he thought, and slyly chuckled.
A sound of something tearing was heard, and a pair of beautiful hands
reached for the tobacco. In a few moments the slender fingers were
pressing a cigarette; the slave lighted a wax fusee; the lady took it,
put the cigarette in a rent of her veil, and a second volume of odorous
vapour arose. Pobloff leaned back, stupefied. A Mohammedan woman smoking
in a Trans-Caucasian railway carriage before a Frank! Stupendous! He
felt unaccountably gay.
"This is joyful," he said aloud. She smoked fervently. "Western manners
are certainly invading the East," he continued, hoping to hear again
that voice of marvellous resonance. She smoked. "Why, even Turkish women
have been known to study music in Paris."
"I am not a Turk," she said in her deepest chest tones.
"Pardon! A Russian, perhaps? Your accent is perfect. I am a Russian.
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