Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. But it was only when that damned scoundrel nearly spitted you in the chapel—’ He broke off and, to her intense satisfaction she saw he was not as much in command of himself as he would have her believe. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. She addresses you as the Flower of the Lotus, as the Resplendent Moonbeam. The fellow is little better than a lunatic. He answered with the greatest assurance, that he knew nothing whatever of the matter—had seen no pocket-book, and no associate to give up.
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