When he comes he will do that raid of the pantechnicons the justice it deserves; he will picture the orderly evening scene about the Imperial Legislature in convincing detail, the coming and going of cabs and motor-cabs and broughams through the chill, damp evening into New Palace Yard, the reinforced but untroubled and unsuspecting police about the entries of those great buildings whose square and panelled Victorian Gothic streams up from the glare of the lamps into the murkiness of the night; Big Ben shining overhead, an unassailable beacon, and the incidental traffic of Westminster, cabs, carts, and glowing omnibuses going to and from the bridge. He may not know you’re in England, but if he has the smallest knowledge of your character, he must surely be expecting you. "These writer chaps are queer birds. I have unfinished business. In after years you can return to your own country—to your friends. “We shall try again later. She turned and looked at the red LED of the alarm clock that read 3:55.
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