From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. 59 He was not present during the night the next morning, or the next, or the next. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. Manning, with a sweep of the arm.
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