Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. In rushed Mr.
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