Anjali’s eyelids fluttered. She was twenty-three years old and had the eyes of a Mughal concubine. Her eyes inspired in men an uncontrollable urge to shower her with jewels. "So, what, my dear, thinking what? That you miss me when I don’t see you? Because I miss you so much, Tony. Morning, noon, and night." In a gesture of limpid sincerity, she placed a slender hand against her brassiere.