It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. But he can't have his eyes always about him, or he'd have been with us this morning at the Mint, eh, Mr. His face turned a dark crimson. On the walls were noticeboards bearing clusters of newspaper slips, three or four big posters of monster meetings, one of which Ann Veronica had attended with Miss Miniver, and a series of announcements in purple copying-ink, and in one corner was a pile of banners. Tombs were desecrated, beautiful statues toppled, and the colorful shops that she had been enchanted by along the canal had been closed or burned. As for the doctor, he found a pleasure in this service that would have puzzled him had he paused to analyse it. Everything proclaimed the mischievous propensities of the recent occupants of the chamber. Wouldn't it be fun to see his name on a book-cover some day? He'll go strutting up and down without ever dreaming he owed the whole shot to us.
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