Percival Pollard in _Town Topics_:
"It is a book to make one forget that the world is gray. Be as sad, as
sane as you like, for all the other days of your life, but steal one mad
day, I adjure you, and read 'Three Weeks.'"
_The Western Christian Advocate_:
"The power and beauty of its descriptions and the pathos of its scenes
are undeniable."
_The Brooklyn Eagle_:
"A cleverly told tale, full of dainty sentiment, of poetic dreaming and
dramatic incident."
_The San Francisco Argonaut_:
"We feel inclined to throw at her (the heroine) neither stones nor
laurels, but rather to congratulate the author upon a powerful story
that lays a grip upon the mind and heart."
_The Detroit Free Press_:
"No wonder that 'Three Weeks' is one of the best sellers."
+They Were Alone....+
The magic of the desert night had closed about them. Cairo,
friends,--civilization as she knew it--were left far behind. She, an
unbeliever, was in the heart of the trackless wastes with a man whose
word was more than law.
And yet, he was her slave!
"I shall ask nothing of you until you shall love me," he promised. "You
shall draw your curtains, and until you call, you shall go undisturbed."
And she believed him!
Do you want to see luxury beyond your imagination to conjure,--feel the
softness of silks finer than the gossamer web of the spider--hear the
night voices of the throbbing desert, or sway to the jolting of the
clanking caravan?
Egypt, Arabia pass before your eyes. The impatient cursing of the camel
men comes to your ears. Your nostrils quiver in the acrid smoke of the
little fires of dung that flare in the darkness when the caravan halts.
The night has shut off prying eyes. Yashmaks are lowered. White flesh
gleams against burnished bands of gold. The children of Allah are at
home.
And the promise he had given her?... let Joan Conquest, who knows and
loves the East, tell you in
+DESERT LOVE+
_For sale wherever books are sold, or from_
+The Macaulay Company+
+PUBLISHERS+
+15-17 W. 38th St.+ +New York+
_+"I have owned a hundred women!"+_ he answered defiantly.
The girl recoiled as from a blow. Was this man who paraded his conquests
before her the same one who had feasted so freely on her lips that
moonlit night in Grand Canary?
She was his prisoner now. He had stolen her and brought her to his
stronghold in the desert. Her father was also a captive. Pansy Langham's
life had crashed in ruins about her. What good were her millions now?
The mask had been removed. Raoul Le-Breton was the Sultan Casim El
Ammeh!--a Mohammedan!
And yet she wanted no man's kisses but his. Love for him consumed her,
but race and religion stood between them.
Little did she guess that the Arab had foreseen this minute, that he had
trailed her father, Sir George for fifteen years. The Englishman, a
captain at the time, had killed his father. Casim El Ammeh had not
forgotten. Revenge was his at last!
He had intended having his way with her and then selling her as a
slave--a fate more cruel than a white man could conceive. But love--an
emotion an Arab scoffs at--had come to thwart him. Was he to forego his
oath of an eye for an eye, or open the doors of his harem and seek
forgetfulness?
_Read_
+A Son of the Sahara+
+By Louise Gerard+