He recalled the exquisite daintiness of her appearance, her ruffles of lace, the winning sweetness of her eyes.

Not in Chiltistan would he find a woman to drive that image from his thoughts.
Meanwhile he drew nearer to the Delhi Gate.

A stream of people flowed out from it towards him.

Over their heads he looked through the archway down the narrow street, where between the booths and under the carved overhanging balconies the brown people robed and turbaned, in saffron and blue, pink and white, thronged and chattered and jostled, a kaleidoscope of colour.

Shere Ali turned his eyes to the right and the left as he went.