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the new maths master

‘Angela!’ The new Maths Master summonsed, pointing his stately forefinger in her direction.

‘You are correct.’

Angela to the left of the class, lonesome in her solitude of the slow learning. To her right the moderately endowed, to their right the magnificently endorsed. Prefect’s pendants glittering in their midst.

Thus was this class. Thusly they had been taught class distinction.

But not today.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, this new man with his mane of swept-back dark hair, athlete’s bearing and love of Shakespeare, ‘whether you are first or last to the right answer.’

And here he swept his broad hand over the other pupils in his class.

‘Having it means they are no better than you are.’

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