And now the fiend Gosse had taken even that away from her. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. I said I’d make shirts. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms.
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