“She found my collection of witchcraft books under my bed and threw them away. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. Nor, he would wager, had the heroic Monsieur Valade, who had rescued her from that life and brought her to England, taught her in that short time all that Gerald was certain she knew of men. It was just a shabby, stupid, furtive business that began between us. “I do hope I have been able to make you understand how I feel, that you don’t consider me a hopeless prig. " "That sounds funny … to play it with your feet!" McClintock laughed.
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