The boy was coming around. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. A moment afterwards, the street was illumined by a blaze of torchlight, and a tumultuous uproar, mixed with the clashing of weapons, and the braying of horns, announced the arrival of the first detachment of Minters. There was nothing in the pockets of the coat. They agreed to lend her their hold-all and a large, formless bag which they called the communal trunk. She felt terribly modern, even sporty as the magazines declared you should be.
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