There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. She whispered, “Another car is coming,” as lights approached their car. Her eyes still had the fevered glow of sickness, yet she seemed in perfect health. You can test it out on us this Thanksgiving Sunday. Ah, no, I have it wrong.
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