Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. "Well, it's a good story. Deep verandas ran around the bungalows, with bamboo drops which were always down in the daytime, fending off the treacherous sunshine. She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. Look at these walls. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. ‘You keep a-hold of him,’ Trodger ordered his men. Her expression was a little changed, less innocent, more discerning.
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