There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. “What were you doing?” Her voice was a little hysterical.
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