You may go back, Marthe. CHAPTER XIII. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. He recognized the handwriting, and turned a shade paler. The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. The next morning she went out with her post-office savings bank-book, and telegraphed for a warrant to draw out all the money she had in the world. .
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