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32 The curtains and tapestries had appeared over the windows before Marina had died, growing moldy from the dampness and the oils of lavender, clove, and clary sage soaking them. “You’re not interested in politics?” he asked, almost with a note of protest. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. A door, it may be remembered, opened from Wild's dwelling into this yard. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. \" He said with a question in his voice, a question that revealed that he was intimidated, and not only that, but he had it bad. She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand. ‘Yes, do,’ approved Lucilla.
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