I was consigned, so soon as my hideous deficiencies
were known, to the sewing-room. Then how I sighed for my
machine! Alas! it was not there; but I constructed an
imitation from a cannon-wheel, a coffee-mill, and two
nut-crackers. And with this I made the underclothing for
the palace and the Zenana.
I also vowed revenge. Nor did I doubt one instant
how; for in my youth I had read Lucretia Borgia's
memoirs, and I had a certain rule for slowly slaying a
tyrant at a distance. I was in charge of the Shah's own
linen. Every week I set back the buttons on his shirt
collars by the width of one thread; or, by arts known to
me, I shrunk the binding of the collar by a like
proportion. Tighter and tighter with each week did the
vice close around his larynx. Week by week, at the
high religious festivals, I could see his face was
blacker and blacker. At length the hated tyrant died.
The leeches called it apoplexy. I did not undeceive
them. His guards sacked the palace. I bagged the
diamonds, fled with them to Trebizond, and sailed thence
in a caique to South Boston. No more! such memories
oppress me.
Her voice was hushed. I told my tale in turn.
THE CONDUCTOR'S STORY
I was poor. Let this be my excuse, or rather my
apology. I entered a Third Avenue car at Thirty-sixth
Street, and saw the conductor sleeping.
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