A hundred years ago they had beaten
Napoleon (with the assistance of Spain, Austria, Germany and Russia),
and were now resting.
Quarter to one, and neither wife nor daughter; outside there, somewhere
in the fog; and he could not go to them. It was maddening. Molly
might be arrested and Kitty lost. Served him right; he should have put
his foot down. The idea of Molly being allowed to go with those
rattle-pated women! Suffragettes! A "Bah!" exploded with a loud
report. Hereafter he would show who voted in the Killigrew family.
Poor man! He was made of that unhappy mental timber which agrees
thoughtlessly to a proposition for the sake of peace and then regrets
it in the name of war. His wife and daughter twisted him round their
little fingers and then hunted cover when he found out what they had
done.
He went out again to the main entrance and smoked himself headachy. He
hated London. He had always hated it in theory, now he hated it in
fact. He hated tea, buttered muffins, marmalade, jam, toast, cricket,
box hedges three hundred years old, ruins, and the checkless baggage
system, the wet blankets called newspapers.
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