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48 <6> THE FRIDAY NIGHT SHOW The air was chill and the sky overcast and misting. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl.
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