Explore "The Scales of Justice" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
George Drummond's expostulation was feeble; he was too far gone to protest much. The wind seemed to chill him to the bone, despite his fur coat. He staggered along by sheer instinct; he was back in Swaziland again for the moment--many a night there had he been compelled to drag his weary body along like this--then, just for an instant, all his faculties returned.
"It is more than kind of you," he said. "But it is absurd! Your people; are you quite sure that they will not wonder that--you understand?"