She turned her head away sharply. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. "I should like to know where Mr. Death belongs to God, young man. Only I’m so incensed with that crazy fool Gerald that—oh, well, never mind. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. Arrived at the secret door, she grasped the lever that opened it and placed the lantern on the floor. “You didn’t expect that I should kiss you?” “How was I to know that a man would—would think it was possible—when there was nothing—no love?” “How did I know there wasn’t love?” That silenced her for a moment.
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