Gerald studied the darkness beyond the aperture. It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. “One has to be so careful of one’s friends and acquaintances,” he remarked, by way of transition. Still silence everywhere. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. The air became hot and swollen with June humidity. "I guessed what was coming. You must forgive the poet’s license I take.
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