H. Bedford-Jones, The Barren Islands — Chapter 2 (1924)
“ A man more impatient, less master of himself, might yet have ruined everything; but not John Trenchard. He turned away, watched the town ahead, listened to the bells clanging below, waited by the open gangway as the little boat banged in at the wharf and lines were flung. Then he was out and ashore with his bag, and beckoning a rickshaw. “Hotel Paris.” He rode on through the town—a Hindu and Arab town with its arched windows and doors, its lintels and door-posts elaborately carved in Bombay and brought here for installation, its throngs of stately Arabs and bustling Hindus. ”
