The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. Towards night, however, he ventured out, and walked on towards London. ” “You have not seen the evening paper?” “No. "It would be a thousand pities, wouldn't it, to put so promising a lad out of the way?" "Devil!" exclaimed the knight fiercely, "Give me the paper.
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