that house where everyone, even the fugitive hiding in the
cellåöfrom his faceless enenuies, finds his tongue cleaving dryly to the roof of his
mouth, wheæteven the sons of the house have to go with the
whisp futtivelv
1101Tif'
- • inv
the te4Y3th of and
s of be • 1B tilin
h
, ' Wh&belie€es the c
a' an extension
of the brothel business), where life has been transmuted int
by
irruption into it of history, eventually in the murkiness@.uvamdervvorld he
cannot help himself, he finds his eyes straying upwards, up along delicate sandals
and baggy pajamas and past loose kuna and above the dupatta, the cloth of
modesty, until meet eves, and then —Salman Rushdie
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