There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. Advancing to the middle of the chamber, he halted, drew himself up, and fixed his dark, expressive eyes, on Thames Darrell. ‘You see, it’s difficult to do a service for someone when you don’t know who they are, or what they’re up to. ‘Dead then, is he?’ ‘If I could say that he is dead, it would give me very much satisfaction. “I think that I will leave this letter for him,” she said.
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