I—I don’t understand,” the man faltered wearily. You think everything is harmless and simple, and so forth. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. But I must summon my janizaries.
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