But they did what they could for her. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. He had brought her here to this place—where her freedom was curtailed even more than at the convent so that a cavalier was very much needed—and only on Monday came again. She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. “You found the cabochon? After all these years?” He asked, incredulous. The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend. But perhaps I had better get a room in an hotel to-night and look round.
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