She would come and sit cross-legged just beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. Stanley, at the door. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. The report of his detention caused an immense sensation. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good.
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