It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. She saw his finger pull back on the hammer of the gun and shrieked a warning just as Jack launched himself forward and Gosse turned and fired. On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed.
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