“We don’t pretend. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. So strongly was he impressed with this idea, that grasping the iron bar with both hands, he dashed it furiously against the door, making the passage echo with the blows. One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. ” He left off abruptly. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees.
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