“Do you think he’s still around?” She paused thoughtfully. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. After he was gone in the morning, Ruth would steal into the study and hurriedly read what he had written the previous night. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue.
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