"O lud! what an exquisite box!" cried Edgeworth Bess. Some automaton within her produced in a quite unfamiliar voice the remark, “They’re playing football. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress. ” He seemed bored. 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. It was the bitterest moment of her life.
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