And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. 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. ‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask.
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