Something seemed awry. ‘You do not know how I am like my mother. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites. “And if she can’t have the right one? “We’ve developed such a quality of preference!” She rubbed her knuckles into her forehead. 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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