In Old Palace Yard everybody ran. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. She realized that with a pang of disgust and horror. The students passed Juicy Fruit sticks and notes back and forth, bartering various forms of social currency.
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