"The ban-dogs!" thundered a tall man, whose stature and former avocations had procured him the nickname of "The long drover of the Borough market. From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. ‘Sir?’ enquired the lad. But Gerald wouldn’t hear of it. Spurling. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us.
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