As Jack departed, a dark figure, emerging from behind a wall, rushed after him. But it was almost choked up with fallen stacks of chimneys, broken beams of timber, and shattered tiles. “Indeed,” she said, “I would not. “Nor am I now,” he answered. The doctor had sown a seed, carelessly. From the first I could see that neither believed my story. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided.
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