A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. By this time Capes’ hair had bleached nearly white, and his skin had become a skin of red copper shot with gold. 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. Then she burst into a peal of laughter. You know that.
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