It was now a quarter past twelve. Too late, alas, to stop the disastrous marriage. Sebastian had known it was coming, but he could not avoid sleeping as easily as she could. "That man should have been an Italian bravo," murmured the knight, sinking into a chair: "he has neither fear nor compunction. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. . ” “Let us say that Café Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at half-past seven then,” he decided. "That's well. “Oh, dammit!” he remarked, “dammit!” with great bitterness as he faced it.
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