Such names shone brightly in the darkness, with black spaces of unilluminated emptiness about them, as stars shine in the night; but now—now it was different; now it was dawn—the real dawn. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. H’m.
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