A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. "I'll tackle it to-night!" "But it's after ten!" "What's that got to do with it? … The roofs of the native huts scattering in the wind! … the absolute agony of the twisting palms!…. ‘But on the off chance—slim, I grant you —that there is a spy down there, I don’t want to miss the fun.
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