Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. She was still good at following orders. “There are policemen—and buses. But it is the truth. One day I can be a Gothic chick, and the next day I’ll be Hitler Youth. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed.
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