There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. I ought to have seen—” “It doesn’t matter a rap—if you’re not disposed to resent the—the way I behaved. "There, Sir," she added, unlocking the door, "you can go in. ‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand. F. . "Tell him that I—his adopted son, Thames Darrell— am detained here by Jonathan Wild. So Ruth returned to her room and sorted the books and magazines the doctor had loaned her, inspected the titles and searched for pictures.
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