Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. He lunched in the Legal Club in Chancery Lane, and met Ogilvy. The street was deserted, no pedestrian school-goers walked immediately in front or behind them. 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. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. So far as I'm concerned, nothing could please me more. To-morrow we'll raise our first island.
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