‘But I find you excessively rude, Gérard. His own heart was too full of melancholy foreboding. He handed her a cheque for thirty-one pounds, ten shillings, and read the agreement through to her. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. There was something markedly and deliberately liberal-minded in his manner in all their encounters. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously.
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