ABSTRACT
The gay and gaudily dressed crowd which throngs the bazaars in the day-time vanishes at night into privacy, privacy more complete than any the West has ever known. The houses have no windows, nothing but grey, blank mudwalls; and even when an entrance-door happens to be open for this first passage is invariably built at an angle, so that no glimpse may be had of the interior. Womankind never goes about unveiled, the veil being of horsehair, dense and stiff like cardboard, nor without the shroud of a grey cloak worn over the head, the sleeves dangling empty; so that in the street all ladies look alike, and go about as if clad in boxes. Every good rule is relieved by at least one exception, however, and in Samarcand exceptions are all grouped in a cosy corner. The visitor is offered sweets in endless varieties, and they seem the natural food of this land of honeyed, almost cloying, and prettiness.
