On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. There, after protestations of friendliness and helpfulness that were almost ardent, he mounted a little clumsily and rode off at an amiable pace, looking his best, making a leg with his riding gaiters, smiling and saluting, while Ann Veronica turned northward and so came to Micklechesil. The wedding procession passed on, and the cynical rabble poured in behind.
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