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” “I believe you,” she murmured. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. ‘How in God’s name did the wretched fellow get in then?’ ‘Dug a tunnel?’ suggested Gerald, halting next to a pair of French windows at the front. She would come and sit cross-legged just beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning.

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