She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. Such revelations she hoped would be considered out of place and inappropriate. The unfortunate prisoner, meanwhile, who was not informed of the respite, languished in his horrible dungeon, and, at the expiration of three weeks, became so seriously indisposed that it was feared he could not long survive. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. ‘Can you not open it?’ she cried. Proof that the scoundrel had risen from the dead—for he was dead to his father! He glared at the female whose appearance in England had revived those painful memories—churning unbearably since Brewis Charvill had brought him the news and put him in the worst of tempers—and the fury spilled out. But it is only fair to warn you that it isn’t expected. On the fifth day he had ventured speech with her. “I’m not gentle. She was always breaking rules, whispering asides, intimating signals.
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