‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. Courtlaw. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. 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. This won’t do. Blood, they say, won't come out. The both of them puttering about the tidy two-story house, Lucy would serve them both steaming cups of tea in the front parlor.
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