Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. ‘Now then, my lad, you’re under arrest you are. "It is time!" "For what?" grumbled the latter, rubbing his eyes.
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