Then, naturally, I went on talking. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. “We’ve all been mixing our ideas, and we’ve got intellectual hot coppers— every blessed one of us. They concern us all. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. Now you haven’t the ghost of one—not if you play the game fair. So saying, he manfully resumed his work; while Wood and Thames quitted the room, and went down stairs. Warm reality was now so near her she could hear it beating in her ears.
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