"Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English. What sort of a standard of life yours may be I do not know, yet in your heart you know very well that every word you have spoken to me has been a veiled insult, every time you have come into my presence has been an outrage. He could not contain his satisfaction, but chuckled, and rubbed his hands with delight.
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