"I am cream and you are coffee."
"It is true," the other had admitted in her practical, serious
way, "but some men do not like cream. All men like coffee."
Zahara rested her elbows upon the table and surveyed the
reflection of her perfect shoulders with disapproval. She had
been taught at her mother's knee that men did not understand
women, and she, who had been born and reared in that quarter of
Cairo where there is no day but one long night, had lived to
learn the truth of the lesson. Yet she was not surprised that
this was so; for Zahara did not understand herself. Her desires
were so simple and so seemingly natural, yet it would appear that
they were contrary to the established order of things.
She was proud to think that she was French, although someone had
told her that the French, though brave, were mercenary. Zahara
admired the French for being brave, and thought it very sensible
that they should be mercenary. For there was nothing that Zahara
wanted of the world that money could not obtain (or so she
believed), and she knew no higher philosophy than the quest of
happiness. Because others did not seem to share this philosophy
she often wondered if she could be unusual. She had come to the
conclusion that she was ignorant.
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