He sprung out of the driver’s side and ran to her door. “Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. I arranged that he should. Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals. Set yourself to find it out, if you will—but if you do, never dare to call yourself my friend again.
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