“We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. The girl wished that she had come afoot, despite the knowledge that she would have suffered many inconveniences, accidental and intentional jostling, insolence and ribald jest. Sheppard, raising herself, and looking at him as if her life depended upon the answer. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously.
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