When his eyes met mine there was no symptom of recognition.

If he felt as nervous as I did he certainly did not show it behind his mask of insolent indifference.
There was still a good deal of muttered abuse being directed at Anazeh.

The atmosphere was electric.

It felt as if violence might break out any minute.

Abdul Ali seemed more nervous than any one else; he rocked himself gently on his cushion, as if churning the milk of desire into the butter of wise words.
Suddenly he turned to the sheikh on his left, a handsome man of middle age, who wore a scimitar tucked into a gold-embroidered sash, and whispered to him.
Ben Hamza whispered to me: "That sheikh to whom Abdul Ali speaks is Ali Shah al Khassib, the most powerful sheikh in these parts.
A great prince.