” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. "Come here," said the petticoated tyrant. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound.
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