He smiled and produced a rubber stamp, saying that if I wished to visit Beirut or Aleppo I must get a vise from him.
"Je m'em been garderai!" I answered.

"I'm going to see my aunt at Damascus." "And this lady?
Is she your wife ?" I laughed aloud--couldn't help it.

All the Old Testament stories keep forcing themselves on your memory in that land, and the legend of Abraham trying to pass his wife off as his sister and the three-cornered drama that came of it cropped up as fresh as yesterday.

There was no need that I could see to repeat the patriarch's mistake, any more than there was reasonable basis for the Frenchman's impertinence.
"Is that your business ?" I asked him.
"Because," he went on, smiling meanly, "you speak with an American accent.

It is against the law to carry gold across the border, and Americans have to submit to personal search, because they always carry it." "Show me your authority!" I retorted angrily.
"Oh, as for that, there is a customs official here who has full authority.