“‘C’est bizarre, Yashim. As he gets older, my son grows more and more infatuated by the European style–yet I, who was born to it, find that I prefer the comforts of oriental tradition. He hardly comes here any more, only to see me. His new palace delights him. I find it looks like a manufactory.’
Yashim inclined his head. The Validé was propped up on her sofa against a cloud of cushions, with the light as ever artfully arranged behind her head, a blind drawn across the little side-window, and a shawl across her legs. She walked rarely now, if at all; yet her figure was still graceful and the shadows on her face revealed the beauty she had once been and still, in a sense, remained. Her hands, a little lined, were white and delicate. Did the Validé not know that her son was dying at Besiktas?