To-night all London believes that he was your husband. Just now the waterchestnuts…. There was no one stirring in the flats. “It’s odd,” said Ann Veronica, re-entering the flat. Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak. ’ ‘Do you care to test that theory?’ Gerald suggested easily. The bungalows and stores were built of heavy bamboo and gum-wood; sprawly, one-storied affairs; for the typhoon was no stranger in these waters. For each costume she had devised a suitable form of matrimonial refusal.
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