She has that voluptuous selfness of a cat.
Hautiness and rigor battle at her brown brows; her mulatto lips, thick as a split caterpillar, are bloodied by her incessant nibbling on betel nuts. Her talk and manner of speech are indistinct and lazy-lovely; she pads about with the subtle self assurance of a calm Cleopatra. Never have I beheld any creature under the sun with her symmetry and sublime self-sufficiency. She never races anywhere, but always arrives at exactly the right time. Just when my crumple heart begins to gnaw after her elliptical absence, that is when she is bound to arrive, her hair wreathed in the perfumes of exotic trees. Half the time her arms are loaded with an offering of koko-l’taanga, the rich and subtle fruit heavy against her breasts, and graced with an astonishing pinkness when they are sliced and served, often with a dash of cayenne and brown sugar. Altogether, an experience that stimulates.
She is, I believe, one of the half-caste Muslims, descended from political prisoners brought hence a hundred years ago. I occasionally see her kneeling and touching her forehead to the dust, which smells of sheep, a fleecy affluence of the air. The quaking aqua of the water, peered at from every hill, makes one quite conscious of the embittered liveliness of the sea, as if God had but one huge eye, and it lay in the sea, and it watched you incessantly.
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