The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. He and his friends (he had at least two per class, even in Trigonometry) would make their exits as quickly as possible. Earles closed the piano with a little bang. "Fear nothing, Sir," said the man, in a voice which Thames instantly recognised as that of Blueskin.
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