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Bircham sends me the very gloomiest subject to write on, and if I'm particularly blue, he asks for a bright, lively article." "Oh! He tells you what to write on?" "Yes, did you think I had the luxury of choosing for myself? Every day, about eleven o'clock a small boy brings me my fate on a slip of paper. Let me dictate this to you. I'm sure you can't read that penciled scribble."
Why, nothing, honest Lawrence nothing in earth, heaven, or hell; and for my part, if I believe there is a devil, it is only because I think there must be some one to catch our aforesaid friend by the back 'when soul and body sever, as the ballad says; for your antecedent will have a consequent RARO ANTECEDENTEM, as Doctor Bircham was wont to say.
This morning he started for the customary run shortly after eleven, with the intention of taking a circular trip through Hunstanton, Burnham, Docking and Bircham, and returning for luncheon. The intention was not fulfilled since, before reaching Hunstanton, the Pirate made his appearance, and approaching as usual from behind, overtook the August motor.
She would study these people, she would note all their little weaknesses and foibles. Mr. Bircham had given her carte blanche for these three weeks; she would write him a deliciously sarcastic article on modern society. The idea fixed her imagination, she laughed to herself at the thought; for, however sad the fact, it is nevertheless true that to ordinary mortals "revenge is sweet."
"Tell him at once that you hero-worship Sir Michael Cunningham, the statesman of the age, the most renowned 'Sly Bacon!" "Tom, do be quiet!" said Erica. "I wish you had never thought of that horrid name." "Horrid! I mean to make my fortune out of it. If you like, you can offer the pun on reasonable terms to Mr. Bircham." "Why, this is Fleet Street!
"My small boy is in raptures over your horse 'just like cocoa!" Leslie gave rather an absent laugh. He was watching Erica, who was still at a little distance talking to Gladys. "May I be introduced to your guest?" he said. "Certainly," said Donovan. "She is the daughter of Mr. Raeburn." Leslie started. "Indeed! I have heard about her from old Bircham, the editor. He can't say enough of her."
She was naturally high-spirited, but when high-spirited people do get depressed, they go down to the very deepest depths; and her interview with Mr. Bircham, by its dry cheerlessness, by its lack of human interest, had chilled her all through.
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