What sort of a standard of life yours may be I do not know, yet in your heart you know very well that every word you have spoken to me has been a veiled insult, every time you have come into my presence has been an outrage. It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. Either we go forth together, or they shall bury me.
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