Which, being dolts, they copy word for word. And so the class is roaring-laughing, as, like a pistol shot, Master Delporte’s supple cane smacks the miscreant’s desk. Dark hair splattering, the master is now shaking Rimbaud’s work for hire in the fat, freckled face of the woeful Jacques Sorel, who...
That’s him over there, isn’t it? With the cane? You never told me he walks with a cane. Is he lame from the war? Lame? asked Moore, who frankly had never noticed. I don’t know. No, not lame. I have no idea why he carries that thing. It’s so annoying...