“Just fine. I fancy that Sir John does not approve of me. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. Care for a hundred up?” Ennison shook his head. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets.
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