So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. “I wouldn’t. "Who, then?" demanded Jack. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency. "Do you think we are to be disturbed in this way? Make less noise, hussies, or I'll turn you out of the Lodge.
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