Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. “Look here! Aren’t you going a little too far? This—this is degradation—making a fuss with sleeves. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. The plank hung over his head. " "Don't hurry yourself," said Jonathan, "I'll wait for you here. “Please go and see that—nothing happens,” she pleaded. ” He consumed Irish stew for some moments.
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