For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. “I will make it possible,” he cried. “But, my dear!” said Ann Veronica’s aunt. Don’t ask me how. "It's not an offer," continued he, "that I'm likely to make, or you're likely to receive every day in the year.
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