He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. "The Wastrel seemed to take it all right. ‘Indeed?’ Gerald said politely. " "Better she die by her own hand, than by that monster's," cried Jack, brandishing the bar. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. “I haven’t a scrap—of this sort of aversion.
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