India 2001 books

We stopped at wayside inns and politely treated the old lady to coffee
at a penny a cup to make up for our inappreciation of her conversational
powers.
Women passed carrying the usual enormous bundles. Sometimes they were
accompanied by husbands or brothers, who strolled along entirely
unladen.
Jo busily sketched everybody she saw.
Passers-by demanded, "What is she doing?" and the onlookers answered--
"She is writing us;" for everything that is done with pencil on paper is
to them writing.
One pretty young woman shook her fist, laughing--
"If I could write, I would write _you_," she said.
We were no longer in the Sanjak. Turkish influence had vanished, and we
longed to see the famous Black Mountains of old Montenegro.
At Danilograd we marvelled at the enormous expensive bridge which seemed
to lead to nothing but a couple of tiny villages. We missed the
picturesque Turkish houses, built indeed only for to-day like their
roads, but full of unexpected corners and mysterious balconies.


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