‘Madwoman,’ he screamed back, as he climbed over the next pew, eyes darting down briefly to check for his sword. There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud.
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