The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. “Very well,” said her father. The Night-Cellar. ‘You make a game with me, I think. ” “Do you mean,” Courtlaw asked, “that from now to the end of the six months you do not wish to see us—any of us?” Her eyes were a little dim again. He would have to make sure of her silence. She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. The atmosphere seemed heavy with the odour of drugs.
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