We must take the children—of any race—if we would teach knowledge. Bird, the turner, to give him an order this evening. 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. If a certain kink in your sense of honour will not permit you to go to her as a lover, go to her as a comrade. Die, indeed! We’re going to do work; we’re going to unfold about each other; we’re going to have children. And let's see if either of these women, who prate of their love for you, will do as much. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. The truth at once flashed across his mind. “You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said.
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