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. “Let’s go outside. This discovery made, I hastened back to London to offer you my hand, but found you had married in the mean time a smock-faced, smooth-tongued carpenter named Sheppard. She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. We are amiable to one another, but we don’t mix.
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