The chance had gone. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. The bungalows and stores were built of heavy bamboo and gum-wood; sprawly, one-storied affairs; for the typhoon was no stranger in these waters. She had seen a man’s head steal out for a moment and draw the curtains a little closer. "You forget that you promised me a kiss the last time you were here.
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