Everything was very neat; it had evidently been straightened up and kept for her. Guns were impossible. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. She felt the thrill race through her body. Will you let me go out of this room?” “No,” cried Ramage; “hear me out! I’ll have that satisfaction, anyhow. You see, it's like this. "You are my prisoner. I don’t care. Not Trodger. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage.
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