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 is the story of the pale shadow of a forgotten love and of the death which therefrom came to the soul of a man. It is also the story of another man, a man of Hindustan, who took the soul of the first man for the sake of revenge, and squeezed it until it was as dry as a dom-nut and as bitter as a Dead-Sea apple.

But, if the whole truth be told, it is the story of the jest which Allah made of the human heart, when he breathed life into one lump of clay and gave to it blue eyes and a white skin, and then, with a strange wink at the Fallen Angel, breathed life into another lump of clay and gave to it blue-black hair and a brown complexion. {{dhr Krishnavana, a young Hindu of highest Brahman caste, came to England thirty years ago, in the good old days when the word sedition was unknown in