“Would they make her Queen?” She asked innocently. "I wanted you to know. I was born of one Suzanne Valade and an Englishman, Nicholas Charvill. 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. "Let's try, at all events," returned the Amazon. And I was altogether disgusted when he kissed me. Of course Ruth was not aware that in this same volume there were lyrics known the world over.
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