ABSTRACT

O N C E there was an ancient hag of ninety, her face a mass of wrinkles, her complexion yellow as saffron. Her cheeks were as full of creases as the leather of a mendicant’s w allet; yet she still passionately yearned for a husband. Her teeth had all dropped out, her hair was as white as milk, her back was bent like a bow, all her senses were atrophied; yet she was entirely possessed by passion and lust and hunger for a husband. All the ardour for the hunt was there, though the trap was in ruins.