Sir Rowland waved his hand, and the attendant withdrew. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. She understood. It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. She addresses you as the Flower of the Lotus, as the Resplendent Moonbeam. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest.
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