This time she feinted as his point came up to deflect her own, and disengaging, passed under and cut at his cheek. She went on from street to street, and all the glory of London had departed. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. Spurling has induced him to sit down again. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors.
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