The strong potation he had taken, combined with fatigue and anxiety he had previously undergone, made him oversleep himself, and when he awoke it was just beginning to grow light. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill. Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly. “My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please.
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