We remember it. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. “I have noticed,” he said, “that you seem to delight in taking a topsy-turvy view of life. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. ‘Why does this person say you are mad?’ ‘Because I am risking having my head blown off,’ Gerald answered cheerfully. "These are my terms, Sir Rowland," he added, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket, and pushing it towards the knight.
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