There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. They used the rope—not that a rope was at all necessary, but because Ann Veronica’s exalted state of mind made the fact of the rope agreeably symbolical; and, anyhow, it did insure a joint death in the event of some remotely possibly mischance. Joan told me it was hung somewhere in the house, only I couldn’t remember where after all this time.
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