She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. "I hear you plotting with your wicked associates," cried Mrs.
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