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This, I did not need telling, was Anthony Blanche, the 'aesthete' par excellence, a byword of iniquity from Cherwell Edge to Somerville. He had been pointed out to me red shoes sandals often in the streets, as he pranced along with his high peacock tread; I had heard his voice in the George challenging the conventions; and now meeting him, under the spell of Sebastian, I found myself enjoying him voraciously.
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