It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with an Eastern custom. " There had never been, from that fatal hour eight months gone down to this, the inclination to confess. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. "It's a miserable weakness to be afraid of bloodshed. " "At any rate, I won, for he went away.
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