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The Same Old Mr Chips
When you are getting on in years (but not ill, of course), you get very sleepy at times, and the hours seem to pass like lazy cattle moving across a landscape. It was like that for Chips as the autumn-term progressed and the days shortened till it was actually dark enough to light the gas before call-over. For Chips still measured time by the signals of the past; and well he might, for he lived at Mrs Wickett’s, just across the road from the school. He had been there more than a decade, ever since he gave up his mastership; and it was Brookfield far more than Greenwich time that both he and his landlady kept. ‘Mrs. Wickett,’ Chips would sing out in his jerky, high-pitched, still sprightly voice, ‘would you mind bringing me a cup of tea before prep?’
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