"Rat!" grated Lark between his teeth. "Another crack like that—"
"Silence!" whispered Kang. "His words mean nothing. It is written, 'Speech will neither spot the lily's face, nor hide the leper's sores.'"
A voice raised from the audience. "Two hundred dwari, Tisru!"
Tisru's sharp face looked grieved. "Two hundred, sire? For a beautiful mistress such as this? Two thousand, you mean. Behold this graceful throat, this slender waist ... these tiny hands which can thrill with a thousand caresses—"
"Three hundred," cried another voice.
"Four hundred."
"Five hundred."
"Six."
The auctioneer's oily insinuations did not lack the power to titillate his listeners. A flurry of interest sharpened the bidding.
"Eight hundred" ... "Nine!" ... "One thousand dwari!"