‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. Last week. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. But there was something in his face at once stupid and invincible that told her he would go on forcing himself upon her, that he would esteem speech with her a great point gained. ‘Very well, arrest me.
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