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"They couldn't have felt as we did about that old ivied wall and that grassy, flowery moat under it; and the beautiful Damenthor and that pile-up of the roofs from the Burg; and those winding streets with their Gothic facades all, cobwebbed with trolley wires; and that yellow, aguish-looking river drowsing through the town under the windows of those overhanging houses; and the market-place, and the squares before the churches, with their queer shops in the nooks and corners round them!"
Again, and again there was no advance; but when Neil picked himself out of the pile-up he made the discovery that something was radically wrong with his right arm and shoulder. He sat down on the trampled turf to think it over and closed his eyes. He heard the whistle and Reardon's voice above him: "Hurt?" Neil looked up and shook his head.
And all the time he smiled; smiled when he went charging through the blue line, smiled when he took Toppan on his shoulder and hurled him over the mix-up for six yards, smiled when we pulled him out of a pile-up looking like a badly butchered beef, and still smiled when we trotted of the field in a chaos of sound. But that smile wasn't pretty.
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