The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. “We will take it then,” he said, “that you have refused or ignored one request I have made you this morning. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds. The man asked twelve guineas, but after a little bargaining, he came down to ten. Until now none of her prayers had ever been answered. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. You have the ideas.
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