There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. But somehow he could not bring any of these affairs to an orderly end. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. She handled it half fearfully, and set it carefully down again. Marvel, therefore, remained on his probation. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment.
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