The carte de jour was before Monsieur. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. "Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper. But she threw a verbal bombshell into the spinsters' camp. Mr. He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. “Tiffany’s?” He looked at her comically. She recalled that day of the typhoon and the sloop crashing on the outer reefs.
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