[H]e was not at all the person to knock into a gutter, for though not in orders, he had the air of being on the verge of them, and his features, as well as his clothes, had the clerical cut.
He finds a scrabbly trail, a children's entrance up sheer mud.
Don’t assume that the connotations of authority, history, scholarship, hallowed tradition and judiciousness in the word “Academy” actually fit this self-serving club.
His mind was a field of ashes, most of his hope gone. But there were hot coals of anger under the ashfield, and any indication that she still respected him as an adversary would feed his ego and fan flames from those coals.
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