She has put back
her veil. Is she a young woman or an old girl? With these Englishwomen
one never knows! Twenty-five years is apparently about her age, she has
an Albionesque complexion, a jerky walk, a high dress like an
equinoctial tide, no spectacles, although she has eyes of the intense
blue which are generally short-sighted. While I bend my back as I bow,
she honors me with a nod, which only brings into play the vertebrae of
her long neck, and she walks off straight toward the way out.
Probably I shall meet this person again on the steamboat. For my part,
I shall not go down to the harbor until it is time to start. I am at
Baku: I have half a day to see Baku, and I shall not lose an hour, now
that the chances of my wanderings have brought me to Baku.
It is possible that the name may in no way excite the reader's
curiosity. But perhaps it may inflame his imagination if I tell him
that Baku is the town of the Guebres, the city of the Parsees, the
metropolis of the fire-worshippers.
Encircled by a triple girdle of black battlemented walls, the town is
built near Cape Apcheron, on the extreme spur of the Caucasian range.
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