Half an hour passed, but Jack did not make his appearance. 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. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. There you will be, in an inner temple. She was, she guessed, close to the library. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. Wasn’t easy, I can tell you. Annabel had been here then. If I can’t talk anywhere else—I DO want an understanding.
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This video was uploaded to ineel.net on 16-07-2024 01:42:15
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