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Unformatted text preview: e even dying, unable to move his right arm, though he tried again and again to lift it. How could Yuri have said it? And he thought of his own mother, dead on the little bed in Serbia, and the gypsies coming in and saying they were his cousins and uncles! Liars! And the filth there, the filth. Surely she would never never have left him there if she had dreamed of what was going to happen. A cold fury filled him. "Tell me about the maharaja's palace," said the man softly. "Oh, yes, the palace. Well, it's made entirely of white marble . . ." With a great soft relief Yuri pictured it. He talked of the floors, the carpets, the furniture . . . And after that he told many stories about India, and Paris, and fabulous places he had been. When he woke it was early morning. He was seated at the window with his arms folded on the sill. He had been sleeping that way, his head on his arms. The great sprawling city of Rome lay under a gray hazy light. Noises rose from the narrow streets below. He could hear the thunder o...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10