Was there no echo anywhere in Miss Stanley’s pacified brain? Those empty rooms, if they were empty, were the equivalents of astoundingly decorated predecessors. He lit a cigarette and loitered about. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. Just my room. Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side of one of the screened windows. He relayed many details of the location and the beautiful rivers of her home, a subject she never tired of. “I’m fine,” she said softly.
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