“Uh, can you get me a soda or something?” She said, shielding her exposed teeth with her hand. She stepped backwards. ” Resigned, she rosined the bow and tightened the loose strings. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. There were shadows under his eyes. 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 houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same.
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