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" "A bold resolution," said the woollen-draper. I—well, I lost my temper. And I'll have supper with you. Kneebone, who began to feel sleepy, wound it up, and snuffed the candles. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. Go up and get my daughter so we can have some homemade pie. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere. ” Somewhat irrelevantly he glanced at the next few boxes where the rest of Mrs. Generations had been born and died in between the times she had gotten laid. 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. "But, I should think, after the specimen you've just given of your amiable disposition, no person would be likely to saddle himself with such an incumbrance.
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