“I have been bearing this—for your sake. It’s all nonsense. She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair. I wouldn't trust a Malay, not if he were reared in the Vatican. Que pasa con ustedes?” He returned in bad Spanish. 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. ‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. “I have just ordered a carriage for her.
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