“I do mean that,” she declared. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. ‘But―but how can he know?’ His soldier’s instinct overtook Gerald and he dropped all his insouciance in a bang, becoming brisk. ‘Still—here? Wasting your—time. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. All this torrent of misleading, spurious stuff that pours from the press.
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