"There's a young woman. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. My letters are returned unopened, her maid will not even allow me across the doorstep. “Life is upsetting enough, without the novels taking a share,” said 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.
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