She was slowed down by the icy wind that punctuated itself in screams around houses and trees. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. “Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. I didn't think. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them. Looked like them statues of the Holy Mother I see about the place. “Thank you. You think you will. 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. We leave England to-night. Gold-handled, too. It was not a difficult affair.
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