On that basis alone, he had no right to give or accept love. He stirred continually, thrusting his legs about and flinging his arms above his head. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. Not to go to her is wickeder than if I had run away with my friend's wife. "You've given me more than the amount, Sir Rowland," he said, after he had twice counted them, "or I've missed my reckoning. Her unnatural calm was giving way.
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