On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime. He was a man tout à fait capable, this Gerald. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. God help me. Even Blueskin looked on with anxiety. Thames Street was wholly impassable.
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