\" Mark was tall and skinny, a mop of brown hair over a pillar of freckles. “Jacques is wounded and we are arrested by this imbecile of a sergeant. Oh, to face facts! Gods! what a world it might be if people faced facts! Understanding! Understanding! There is no other salvation. But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent. You get the idea. The doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could not tell how or why. People are brought up to be so shy about money. On this I am resolved. He stood transfixed. As they passed beneath the thick trees that shade the road to Dollis Hill, the gloom was almost impenetrable. “Why?” He inquired. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More.
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