For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. ” He snarled. ’ Melusine hit lightly at his chest. ” The dinner came to an end at last, and the whiskered waiter presented his bill and evacuated the apartment and closed the door behind him with an almost ostentatious discretion. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable.
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