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. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. "The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. ’ ‘What is all this about your proof?’ demanded Roding, diverted. . .
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