His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. " "Alas! that one so highly born should submit to such a degradation?" groaned the knight. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. He could not quite make her out; a new type. Teenage boys never change, she thought to herself. Gerald tried it.
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