One never knew when it would be necessary to resume her disguise. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. A long chest under one of the windows was open, some of its contents dragged out and spilling onto the floor. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself.
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