“Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief.
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