"
Barlow took her arm leading her through the bathroom to the back door;
he opened it, and listened intently for a few seconds. Then he took
her oval face in his palms and kissed her, passionately, saying,
"Good-bye, little girl; God be with you. You are sweet."
"The Sahib is like a god to Bootea," she whispered.
As the girl slipped away between the bushes, like something floating
out of a dream, Barlow stood at the open door, a resurge of abasement
flooding his soul. In the combat between his mentality and his heart
the heart was making him a weakling, a dishonourable weakling, so it
seemed. He pulled the door shut, and went back to his bed and finally
fell asleep, a thing of tortured unrest.
CHAPTER XVII
Barlow was up early next morning, wakened by that universal alarm clock
of India, the grey-necked, small-bodied city crow whose tribe is called
the Seven Sisters--noisy, impudent, clamorous, sharp-eyed thieves that
throng the compounds like sparrows, that hop in through the open window
and steal a slice of toast from beside the cup of tea at the bedside.
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