He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. There is turmoil, shouts, cries, jostlings, milling congestions that suddenly break and flow in opposite directions. Or had you not noticed?’ He sneered. Finger to his lips, Gerald pointed in the direction of the noise.
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