I hated him more when Suliman came in, dressed for the street in a rather dirty cotton smock, with a turban in place of his fez.

He told the boy to hold the wooden handle of a paper-knife behind my ear to prevent the hot needle from going too far on its sizzling journey.
It didn't seem to me the way to reciprocate volunteer secret service.

Suliman's grin at the prospect of seeing a man tortured was enough to provoke murder.

I brushed the boy aside, fly-fashion, got up, crossed the room, and sat down again in the corner.
"Good enough!" laughed Grim.

"You'll do." "Yes, I think he'll do," agreed Templeton.
But I took no notice.