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"Stop the cycle," he squawked like a parrot. "Stop the cycle." His grip on the handlebar was fixed now as his expression; the Mall-street fetched us straight over a curbstone, across Tower Hall Plaza, through clusters of alarmed undergraduates, and into a yew-hedge flanking the entrance, where we came to rest. The engine stalled.
"Yes, well," Mother remarked. The driver sat erect and beaming as ever, though yew-twigs pressed against his face, even into his mouth.
"Thtop the thycle," he repeated. I helped Mother out and left him to iterate his message to the gathering crowd -- the sight of which, understandably, caused a small shudder in me.
In the Library things were more calm: I composed my wits and reviewed the situation. That My Ladyship and I had exchanged roles in the Treatment Room -- she the Tutor, I the Tutee -- was not displeasing. But her final behavior mystified me, and behind the turmoil of my heart stood a stiller but impenetrabler mystery, that I had felt briefly in my
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