There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. . A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. No one could take the place for anything but what it was, and even Gosse hesitated in the doorway. . Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. ” Lucy said tenderly.
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