And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons. Even though the individual faces of her audience were not to be singled out, she had been conscious from the first moment of her appearance that something was wrong. "Mr. . 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. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Perhaps you will now explain the alarm.
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