She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. Her skin prickled. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. Wood resounded from below. I thought that Hill was dead, but I was frightened, and I wanted to get away from Paris. With a curt command to her cavalier to get up on the box and give the direction to the interested coachman, he jumped in beside the girl and shut them both into privacy. There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. One always dreamed of this and never believed it.
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