”
Miss Miniver followed with an expression of perplexity, her mouth shaped to
futile expositions. “You propose, then,” she remarked, “that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo
husband. ”
“Capital!” Mr. She was not afraid exactly, but there was that about her
loneliness to-night she distrusted. 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. "You are, Sir," thundered Jonathan; "and, unless you find him, you shan't hold
your place a week. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve
him!—is still living.
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This video was uploaded to golfrealestateonline.com on 03-07-2024 19:52:47