” It was a tiny little room, daintily furnished, individual in its quaint colouring, and the masses of perfumed flowers set in strange and unexpected places. Brendon and I returned from the ‘Unusual,’ and found him lying in my room shot through the lungs. No, let us dine here, and then go and have our coffee on the boulevards. In the matter of his conscience he was primitive; and for an educated man to become primitive is to become something of a child. CHAPTER X. .
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