There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. But she did not in the least want to do that. ‘But how do you come here?’ ‘Down on a routine patrol, unluckily for you,’ he answered grimly. He bullied frankly.
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