I wish very much that you had written before leaving Paris. At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. But I will disappoint you.
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