Either ignorant of the accident, or heedless of it, the foremost horseman pursued his way without even turning his head. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. He came along, he said, just to call, with large, loud apologies, radiantly kind and good. Wood,—"he'll never mend. ” She shook her head, snapping out of her reverie. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested.
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