Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. “I shall be waiting for you there, and in the meantime, if you will help yourself—pray don’t look like that. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. "Where are the boys?" "In the hall. The Ragged Edge. He was still thickly clad in jeans. It is we who have become the parasites and toys.
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