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. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. Yes, there was someone there. Not then. Mr. ” She shook her head, snapping out of her reverie. Instead, they lived a Bohemian existence, moving from patron to patron, city to city. Then they would leave and she would go back to being alone. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance.
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