A motley throng of women were in the outer room--fat black women with
waists two yards around, canary-colored women laced into low-cut
European evening dresses, brown women in native dress; a babel of
voices, chattering in curious French, Arabic, Turkish, and Greek. All
the women were terribly out of shape from every point of view, and not
a pretty one among them. One attendant snatched my bouquet without
even a "Thank you" (I had been wondering to whom I should give it, but
I need not have worried), and patted me on the back as she pushed me
into the room where the bride sat on a throne amid piles upon piles of
bouquets. She had a heavy, pale face covered with powder, eyes and
eyebrows blackened, nails stained with henna, and a figure much too
fat. She wore a garment made of something which looked like
mosquito-netting heavily embroidered in gold, which hung like a rag.
Her jewels were magnificent, but the effect of all this gorgeousness
was rather spoiled to the artistic eye by her grotesque surroundings.
After we had visited the bride we were approached by a little yellow
woman in blue satin, who asked me in French if I would not like to see
the _chambre a coucher_, and I said I would.
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