“And now, my dear professional pessimist,” said Locke as they stepped away from the Sinspire and acquired relative privacy, “my worry-merchant, my tireless font of doubt and derision … what do you have to say to that?” “Oh, very little, to be sure, Master Kosta. It’s so hard to think, overawed as I am with the sublime genius of your plan.” “That bears some vague resemblance to sarcasm.” “Gods forfend,” said Jean. “You wound me! Your inexpressible criminal virtues have triumphed again, as inevitably as the tides come and go. I cast myself at your feet and beg for absolution. Yours is the genius
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