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Show sleep, there's no knowin' to-morrow whether-'' "You'll hit the wretched sheep or pot your guide. I know. Trot along." Sir Claude turned to trot. A sharp little sound rang through the room. He looked round. The Spahi had cracked the nut with his fingers, and was smiling gently as he tenderly extracted the kernel. "I dunno that I am ready for bed," began Sir Claude. "P'r'aps I'll have a smoke first on-" "No, no; the bolster calls you. I know by the lobster look in your dear eyes. Come along, Crumpet!" She vanished from the room followed by her husband. The Spahi looked after them, got up, lit a cigarette, and strolled out into the little paved enclosure above which the veranda projected. He shoulder against a pillar and stood there motionless, staring towards the Judas-trees and the white road that wound away among the shadows of the gorge towards the desert. |