Mariam dabbed at her eyes. “That's one thing I can't stand,” he said, scowling, “the sound of a woman crying.”
“I'm sorry. I have no patience for it.” “I want to go home,” Mariam said. Rasheed sighed irritably.
A puff of his smoky breath hit Mariam's face. “I won't take that personally. This time.”
Again, he took her by the elbow, and led her upstairs. There was a narrow, dimly lit hallway there and two bedrooms.
The door to the bigger one was ajar. Through it Mariam could see that it, like the rest of the house, was sparsely furnished:
bed in the corner, with a brown blanket and a pillow, a closet, a dresser.
The walls were bare except for a small mirror. Rasheed closed the door. “This is my room.”
He said she could take the guest room. “I hope you don't mind. I'm accustomed to sleeping alone.”
Mariam didn't tell him how relieved she was, at least about this.
The room that was to be Mariam's was much smaller than the room she'd stayed in at Jalil's house.
It had a bed, an old, gray brown dresser, a small closet. The window looked into the yard and, beyond that, the street below.
Rasheed put her suitcase in a corner. Mariam sat on the bed.
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