“Now,” he said, “no one can blunder in upon us. You say I know nothing. ” The detective nodded. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. 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. “But you’re wrong. It surprises you. ‘Odd sort of a nun.
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