A boy like John’s dashing friend David Mitchell, someone who shares your love of academics. Lucy treaded down two steps, stunned. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. ‘Get you invited to a party where the French émigrés will be present? Nothing easier, dear boy.
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