“I ought to have done anything! “What’s a man for? “Friendship!” He doubled up his fist, and seemed to contemplate thrusting it through the window. Her English was halting. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. ‘Do you think I do not know? What am I doing here, do you think?’ ‘That’s just exactly what I’ve been asking myself,’ he returned. To such characters, fine actions are in themselves sufficient.
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