Sir John and Annabel seated themselves at one of them, and the proprietor himself, a small dark-visaged man, radiant with smiles, came hurrying up, followed by a waiter. She was finally dead, going to Hell. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. The country was partitioned in a similar manner. Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness.
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