Kneebone's door, you begged me to await your return here, assuring me you would not detain me five minutes. You have betrayed me. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals.
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