There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. I am sure he would go with you. This astute personage was somewhat under the middle size, but fairly proportioned, inclining rather to strength than symmetry, and abounding more in muscle than in flesh. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path.
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