“Don’t you get it, Lucy? I’ve always thought he was an idiot. The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer. I kicked the living shit out of him. She whispered, “Another car is coming,” as lights approached their car. But your role would have been to go about saying, ‘I beg your pardon’ in a reproving tone to things you understood quite well in your heart and saw no harm in. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. The rear of the party was brought up by a large, powerfully-built man, with a bluff, honest, but rugged countenance, slashed with many a cut and scar, and stamped with that surly, sturdy, bull-dog-like look, which an Englishman always delights to contemplate, because he conceives it to be characteristic of his countrymen.
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