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 some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. “But this is a surprise!” said Ramage. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night.
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