'Ahem,' grunted Sid Norman, who was concealed in the shadow of an
alcove.
Amina looked up. Furies! what an appalling rencontre! She looked as pale
as the corpses which she adored; she would have shrieked, but had no
more voice than a ghost; she would have fled, but was riveted as with
the gaze of a basilisk.
'Dear,' said Sid Norman, with an uxorious smile, 'what ails you? Has the
fast of Kamazan begun? Hardly yet, for this looks more like the
carnival. How much gave you for this Cashmere, my love?'
A great sculptor was Sid Norman, for, without lifting a hand, or using
any other tool than a keen eye and a sharp tongue, he had wrought out
before him, carved as in cold marble, the statue of a beautiful, bad
woman. Such is genius. Such is conscience!
'Mrs. Amina Sidi Ghoul Norman,' proceeded the husband, giving his wife
time to relax a little from her rigor, 'is dinner ready? We want nothing
but a little rice. Set on only two plates, a knife and fork for me, and
a _bodkin_ for you, if you please, madam.'
(_A symptom of hysterics, checked by a nightmare inability of action_.)
'Have you nothing to say? Is thy servant a dog? Why have you wrought
this deviltry? Take that.
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