I believe I am getting impudent. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. ‘You don’t believe her?’ ‘My dear Major Alderley, I do not know her,’ Mrs Sindlesham pointed out. ‘Jacques?’ she called out, forgetting the need for silence. She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand.
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