Penwiper, the dog, was still in sole possession of the street, and again
went mad with joy at the sound of English women's voices, and
accompanied us everywhere, generally upside-down in the snow, clutching
our skirts with her teeth.
Jan was in and out of the Transport Office door while Miss Brindley and
Jo were being followed around the streets by a jeering crowd of
children, who seemed to think that Miss Brindley's india-rubber boot-top
leggings and Jo's corrugated stockings and safety-pinned-up skirt out of
place. We bought some bags from a woman we afterwards heard was
suspected of being an Austrian spy.
Poor old Prenk Bib Doda was in our hotel. He was Prince of the
Miridites. As a boy he had been kidnapped by the Turks and haled off to
Constantinople. Grown to a middle-aged man in captivity, he was restored
to his tribes during the Young Turk Revolution, only to be abducted by
the Montenegrins, and to be kept practically a prisoner in Cettinje. We
don't know if he disliked it, possibly not, for his walk in life seems
to be that of a professional hostage, if one may say so.
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