It was easy to discern Gianfrancesco’s mood. 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. Even that he was an interfering person, if he walked through that door this moment, she would fling herself at him and weep all over his chest. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. You are greatly altered. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged.
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