By the time I was quite out of breath there wasn't a cushion or a coffee-pot fit for business.

Suliman was standing out of reach on the bench in a corner yelling with laughter, while the two men struggled to get through the scullery door, which was too narrow to admit them both at once.

I earned that ten piastres.

By the same token I did not let the kaffiyi fall off my head and betray my western origin.
Unable to think up any more original motions, and having breath for none, I sat on the floor and spat repeatedly, having seen a madman do that on the Hebron Road and get feared, if not respected for it.

There seems to be a theory prevalent in that part of the world that the sputum of a madman is contagious.
But I overdid it.