A little Cockney recovered it, and made ridiculous attempts to get to her and replace it. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. You might even tire of me by then, you know. The black clad students streamed slowly to their positions carrying their instruments like offerings to the pilgrimage. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. ‘Why does this person say you are mad?’ ‘Because I am risking having my head blown off,’ Gerald answered cheerfully.
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