“Did you? What of that?”
“I don’t really know. He ducked, that’s all, rode a donkey right through the crowd.”
“That’s strange.”
“It sure was.”
When, some twenty minutes later, in search of a clean handkerchief, Mary opened her bag, she let out a gasp:
“Why! This is not my bag!”
Her father stared. “It must be!”
“It’s not. These garments are not mine. Nothing is mine. And,” she ran her hand through the carefully packed bag, “the roll of papyrus is not here!”
“That man must somehow have gotten his bag mixed with yours.”
“But this is a lady’s bag.”