What had shifted his casual interest was the visible prospect of a party of three who were coming down the packet gangplank. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. It did not seem quite fair. Wild is incapable of such baseness. He reminds me of a slave I once had in Rome with those sullen dark eyes and that wistful pout. The hotel on the Peak had the aspect of a fairy castle. Almost worthy of your own fertile imagination. If anyone noticed, he did not report the event.
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