There was a sharp knocking at the outside door. “Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?” Annabel laughed scornfully. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. That’s the fact about them. It is of no use. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. "She was mine before you ever saw her. "But I soon shall be," returned Jack; "take these," he added, flinging the handcuffs against the wooden partition, "and wear 'em yourself. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading.
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