He could not tell by the look of her whether she was glad or sorry that presently she would be free. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. "Not I," replied Blueskin. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard.
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