He held the pouch on his palm and stared at it as if it contained some jinn clamouring to be let out.

Presently he broke away from this fascination and rocked his body, eyes closed--like a man suffering unremitting pain.
"God's curse on them!" he whispered, opening his eyes.

He raised the pouch swiftly, as though he intended dashing it to the tiled floor; but his arm sank gently.

After all, he would be a fool to destroy them.

They were future bread and butter.
He would soon have their equivalent in money--money that would bring back no terrible recollections.
Strange that every so often, despite the horror, he had to take them out and gaze at them.