For the next five minutes I smoked at every pore, like a frame house that is on fire on the inside.

Not any more narghili for me.

The smoke had a vile taste, and the taste of a thousand infidel tongues that remained on that brass mouthpiece was viler still.

I was getting discouraged.

Whenever, hereafter, I see the cross-legged Grand Turk smoking his narghili, in pretended bliss, on the outside of a paper of Connecticut tobacco, I shall know him for the shameless humbug he is.
This prison was filled with hot air.