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. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. "And the Marchioness is your daughter," added Thames. ” “How long had he been in the hospital?” Courtlaw asked.
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