What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. ” She marked an hotel that seemed neither opulent nor odd in a little side street opening on the Embankment, made up her mind with an effort, and, returning by Hungerford Bridge to Waterloo, took a cab to this chosen refuge with her two pieces of luggage. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. ‘And it is not only a question of her identity, but a matter of her life as well. The rest of the crowd followed suit with weak laughter.
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