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Crouching down, Gerald waited, hands at the ready. Ill-drawn, without method or sense of proportion, you have put wonderful things on to canvas, have drawn them out of yourself, notwithstanding your mechanical inefficiency. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. It'll be your turn to save mine next. Beauty has bloomed and faded. He jumped back, cursing. The doctor drew out the contents hopefully.
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