The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. They WERE, she realized, acutely beautiful things. A riding-habit is all I have seen.
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