‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob. The Tigress is second-hand, built for coast-trade. "I declare I'm all in a cold sweat. I have made up my mind to insist upon moving from here into Park Lane, or one of the Squares. White said. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. That was the true marvel of it.
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