Gosse cursed him finely, of course, but there was nothing he could do. Knew something was up. His literary instincts were reviving. Running his hand hastily over it, he was startled to find it one complicated mass of bolts and bars. “I’m five years older than you, and no end wiser, being a man. “I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on.
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