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The Vagabond chortles. For him "Spring's first flutes and drums" sound this morning; he has arisen, with an impulse of exquisite malice, at 8.30 and sits on the edge of his bed, knowing that the world is good and that men suffer. Already a few of the damned have twitched into topcoats and have set out on their mumbling way to the Yard. For each of them the Vagabond has a hypocritical smile of sympathy.
As 9 o'clock sounds, more preoccupied intellectuals-for-a-day appear on the sidewalk, nervously testing the points of their pencils or considering the ink supply of their fountain pens; some glance momentarily at crumpled sets of notes, then thrust them back into their pockets, apparently overwhelmed by the immensity of knowledge and the frailty of man.
All this the Vagabond observes minutely, glorying in his Zeus-like superiority to the moiling creatures below. He yawns luxuriously and considers his plans for the day. It is 9.15, and a grinning slave of Morpheus has just begun to sprint furiously, for he and his fellows have Divisionals this morning. For the Vagabond, Readin Period begins.
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