" "That is your fault, none of mine. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. "Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. Go to it; and the best of luck!" He went out. ‘It is all the fault of that lantern.
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