“Silence please!’ Clement tries to clap his hands, but only manages to produce a weak little noise like the last gasp of a drowning piglet. (His knuckles are so swollen, these days, that he can’t even straighten his fingers properly.) ‘What do you think you’re doing, Bernard?’ he exclaims. ‘It’s your turn to arrange the stools. Fetch the Bible, Raymond. Durand, I’ve told you before: if you’re going to wipe your nose, do it on your sleeve, not on your hand. Hands are for touching books. Pagan – o...ver here.’ Groan. Looks like another private session, for yours truly. Must be something to do with this enormous hulking book he’s making me drag around. It’s even bigger than Boethius. ‘Sit down, all of you. Whose turn is it to read? Is it yours, Bernard?’ ‘No, Master, it’s Amiel’s.’ ‘Oh, I see. Well, since Amiel is still sick, we’ll let Gaubert do it. He needs the practice.’ Poor old Gaubert. Look at his face! You’d think he’d been asked to chew a tunnel through a dung-heap.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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