" "Pshaw!" cried Thames. He’s waiting. Advancing to the middle of the chamber, he halted, drew himself up, and fixed his dark, expressive eyes, on Thames Darrell. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. I don’t have to take this shit. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society.
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