in front of her, a magnificent white structure in traditional Moroccan design with delicate ornamentation and beautifully carved arches that looked as though they were covered in lace, so fine and intricate were the traceries on them.
Gerard drew the car to a halt in front of the massive arched front door studded in brass, which was immediately opened from within to reveal a small, slender woman of thirty or so who moved out on to the top step, her brown face wreathed in smiles and her body swathed in the Moroccan jellaba, a long loose robe of cotton. ‘This is Assad’s wife, Amina,’ Gerard whispered quietly as he raised his hand in greeting. ‘Assad’s brother, Abou, also works here with his wife Halima and their family. Unfortunately Assad and Amina have no children, which has been a source of great grief to them, although Assad has resisted the temptation to take a second wife, which is quite permissable for him under Moslem law, especially if his first wife is barren.’
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