"I tell you what, Mr. When I think of the love you give me—One ought to give you back love. It’s a damned hard thing to do. She began to think persistently of Capes, and it seemed to her now that for some weeks at least she must have been thinking persistently of him unawares. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. " "It won't.
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