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There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. ‘What is it?’ ‘Er—shouldn’t I tell—I mean, the young lady, sir—’ ‘You can leave the young lady to me. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. There stood John and Mr.
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