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. I want to know more about her. A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag.
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