The boy had all kinds of opportunity; but it's the old story of father making it too easy. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. For freedom at least. Paris copies London. “Good luck! Good luck!” She waved from the window until the bend hid him. “Why not? They tell me that London is impossible till after ten, and I want my first impressions to be favourable. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of his tie and hair were almost rakish.
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