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Updated: May 25, 2025
He could get the shadow, the sham, the base counterfeit of that meal; but it would do him no good, and money could not buy the reality. To particularize: the average American's simplest and commonest form of breakfast consists of coffee and beefsteak; well, in Europe, coffee is an unknown beverage.
The political and commercial aspects of the polyglot peoples, what they wanted, what they expected, what they needed; racial enmities. The bugaboo of the undesirable alien was no longer bothering official heads in Washington. Stringent immigration laws were in the making. What they wanted to know was an American's point of view, based upon long and intimate associations.
Nevertheless, he said to himself many times before they reached the broad Boulevard Anspach, that never had he taken such "a stroll," and never had he known how little difference there was between a steam and a human propeller. He almost forgot, as they sat at a small, table in front of a cafe, to institute his diplomatic search for the real object of the American's presence in Brussels.
That white face flung up to heaven, clean-shaven and so unnaturally young, like Byron with a Roman nose, those black curls already grizzled he had seen the thousand public portraits of Sir Claude Champion. The wild red figure reeled an instant against the sundial; the next it had rolled down the steep bank and lay at the American's feet, faintly moving one arm.
Upon the evening of the young American's arrival, his schoolmates kept their distance, regarding him with shy curiosity, but by the recess hour next day this timidity had worn off, and they crowded about him with the pointed questions and out-spoken criticisms which constitute the breaking in of a new scholar.
"I should see him on business and be civil to him afterwards." Sir Robert received the American's levity with his usual seriousness. "No, they must come here for Christmas. His daughter is ?" "Araminta Eulalie Sharpe," said Bradley, in defiant memory of Lady Canterbridge. Sir Robert winced audibly. "I shall rely on you, my dear boy, to help me make it pleasant for them," he said.
I waited and I waited a long time. I looked out sideways at the window, and there I see the American's big wideawake hat hanging up just inside the other window, same as last time. So I think they are a long time settling the price, and I wait some more. But it is such a very long time, and I begin to feel uneasy.
There is something at the bottom of it all, and that something I must know." "I am Leopold!" cried the king. "Don't you recognize me, Prince Peter? Look at me! Maenck must know me. It was I who wrote and signed the American's pardon at the point of the American's revolver. He forced me to exchange clothing with him, and then he brought me here to this room and left me."
It makes an American's enjoyment of England an emotion more searching than anything Continental. I had seen the coffee-room of the Red Lion years ago, at home at Saragossa Illinois in books, in visions, in dreams, in Dickens, in Smollett, in Boswell.
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