‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. And then came the vile experience of being forced and borne along the street to the police-station. He became primitive, literal in his conception; the ramifications were, for the nonce, fairly relegated to limbo. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. I love you—unendurably. .
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