The elements were wrathful as their passions. One always dreamed of this and never believed it. The hotel manager was expostulating and Ah Cum was replying by a series of expressive shrugs. The inn was a military haunt. Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. So am I. “Perhaps,” he said, “I have been to blame.
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