It was past seven when she got back to her hotel. That’s the difficulty. "These writer chaps are queer birds. Sensitive, aren’t they?” She chuckled. 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. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. And that confounded engagement!” “Gone!” They came upon a platform, and stood before her compartment. After all, I fancy that I shall have to apply for a situation as a nursery governess who understands French. Earles threw down his pen with a little exclamation. A curious silence ensued.
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