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"The Luck of Thirteen Wanderings and Flight through Montenegro and Serbia"

We had
an enormous director of a sanitary department and a plump wife,
evidently risen, but fat people rise in Serbia automatically like
balloons. We had three meagre old gentlemen, one unshaven for a week,
one whiskered since twenty years with Piccadilly weepers like a stage
butler; some ultra fashionable girls and men; and a dear old dumb woman
wearing three belts, who had been a former outpatient; and several
sticky families of children.
The old gentlemen took a huge interest in Jo. They drew her out in
Serbian, and at every sentence turned each to the other and elevated
their hands, ejaculating "kako!" (how!) in varying terms of admiration
and flattery.
The American has not yet ousted the Turk from Serbia, and the bite from
our wheel banged off the revolutions of our sedate passing. Trsternik's
church--modern but good taste--gleamed like a jewel in the sun against
the dark hills. On either hand were maize fields with stalks as tall as
a man, their feathery tops veiling the intense green of the herbage with
a film, russet like cobwebs spun in the setting sun.


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