A whiff of musk, a puff of sandal-wood, and a breath of sickly jessamine-oil caught his opened nostrils.
'I am here,' said Kim at last, speaking in the vernacular: the smells made him forget that he was to be a Sahib.
'Seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one,' the man counted to himself, stringing pearl after pearl so quickly that Kim could scarcely follow his fingers.

He slid off the green shade and looked fixedly at Kim for a full half-minute.

The pupils of the eye dilated and closed to pin-pricks, as if at will.

There was a fakir by the Taksali Gate who had just this gift and made money by it, especially when cursing silly women.

Kim stared with interest.