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. "I am, Charcoal. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. "It's the ordinary's signature, undoubtedly," replied Jack. He bent to her hand, and she slipped off the ring and gave it to him to examine. "My father!" she whispered.
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