She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you. “What year was 221 that, about 1350?” He asked in wonderment. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. The next moment, an exclamation was heard in the voice of Thames.
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