From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them. ‘No one would credit that you are three years older than I. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. And he unsheathed his sword. ‘That’s better,’ said Gerald, and let her go. ‘But I will tell you this, mon vieux.
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