Others were
clutching their Baedeker, and their Amelia Edwards, and their
"Kismet," and their note-books, and wore a do-or-die expression of
countenance. One or two others floated around aimlessly, with dreamy
eyes, as if they were already lost in the past which now pressed so
closely at hand. Then the coach from the Gehzireh Palace rolled by in
a cloud of dust, and people hurried down the steps of Shepheard's and
took their places in _our_ coach, and the dragomans in their gorgeous
costumes followed with wraps, and the porters bustled about stowing
away hand-luggage, and Arabs crowded near, thrusting their violets and
roses and amber necklaces and beaded fly-brushes into your very face,
and the old man who sells turquoises made his last effort to sell you
a set for shirt-studs, and the Egyptians and East-Indians from the
bazaars opposite came to the door and looked on with the perennial
interest and friendliness of the Orient, and a swarm of beggars
pleaded, with the excitement of a last chance, for backsheesh, and
there was a babel of tongues--French, English, Italian, German, and
Arabic, all hurtling about your ears like so many verbal bullets in a
battle, when suddenly the door slammed, the driver cracked his whip,
the coach lurched forward, the children scattered--and we were off.
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