When I first came to Old College, I thought the business of auditing the endless number of keys to be mind-numbing beyond belief. Now, though, it has almost become a kind of therapy; the tinkling array of curiously-fashioned metal brings a strange concentration that dims all practical thought.
Although today it is not quite enough to dim the vicious-sounding gurgles from the pit of my stomach. I am not so sure that the food last night agreed with me entirely. On the other hand, Head Porter’s evening with The Dean seems to have been very agreeable. He is whistling cheerfully and strutting around the Porters’ Lodge with the kind of lusty vigour usually reserved for marching bands. He hasn’t said much and I haven’t asked him, but I know he is dying to tell me all about it.
“You know, The Dean and I are remarkably similar when you think…
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