John’s demeanor shifted. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit. And all the talk of the Miniver people and the Widgett people seemed always to be like a ship in adverse weather on the lee shore of love. She stood among them, watching them and feeling curiously alien to them.
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