One always dreamed of this and never believed it. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. It was a dull, foggy day, and the atmosphere was so thick and heavy, that, at eight o'clock, the curious who arrived near the prison could scarcely discern the tower of St. I’m sick of this town and I can’t wait to get out.
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