Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 14, 2025
"Bad old boy!" He scarcely glanced up. "I'm not coming yet caught by work." "Don't be at it too late." He made no reply. She closed the door softly behind her. Then, out of the wind and rain, came Mr. Zanti. Three days after Peter's visit to Brockett's he was finishing a letter before dressing for dinner.
It was a fine thing, for instance, to observe Foster's scorn and contempt whilst Bentinck-Major explained his little idea about certain little improvements that he, as Chancellor, might naturally suggest, or Ryle's attitude of goodwill to all and sundry as he apologised for certain of Brockett's voluntaries and assured Brandon on one side that "something should be done about it," and agreed with Bentinck-Major on the other that it was indeed agreeable to hear sometimes music a little more advanced and original than one usually found in Cathedrals.
Brockett's boiled egg and hard crackling toast were impossible. Miss Monogue had things to tell him about the book it was wonderful, tremendous ... beyond everything that she had believed possible. But strangely enough, he was scarcely interested. He was pleased of course, but he was weighted with the sense of overhanging catastrophe. The green bulging curtains, the row of black beads about Mrs.
Brockett's great book, "Woman in the Civil War," and I find recorded the names and the work of four hundred and eighty-four women who gave invaluable and honorable special service, some of them even to the sacrifice of life itself; and of all this number, only a half dozen are known in Suffrage annals.
It was about five o'clock now and at seven o'clock they would be closed to all traffic. Then the surging crowds would come sweeping down. Peter, furiously excited, hurried through the grimy deserts of Bloomsbury, to Brockett's. To his singing, beating heart the thin ribbon of the grey street with the faint dim blue of the evening sky was out of place, ill-judged as a setting to his exultations.
His whole life came to him the scenes at Scaw House, Dawson's, the bookshop, Brockett's, Bucket Lane, Chelsea, that last awful scene there ... all the people that he had known passed before him Stephen Brant, his grandfather, his father, his mother, Bobby Galleon, Mr. Zanti, Clare, Cards, Mrs. Brockett, Norah, Henry Galleon, Mrs. Rossiter, dear Mrs. Launce ... these and many more.
Why he had not been to see the old man lately he scarcely knew. Clare, standing in the little hall, waiting for a cab, suggested an alternative. "Peter dear, why don't you go round to Brockett's if you've nothing to do?" "Brockett's!" "Yes. You've never been since we married, and I had a letter from Norah this morning not at all cheerful I'm afraid she's been ill for months.
"I left very early. Miss Monogue came away at the same time. She spoke to me before she said good-night: 'I know that you are an old friend of Peter's. I am so fond of him we all are at Brockett's, it isn't often that we see him I know that you will be his true friend in every sense of the word and help him as he ought to be helped. It is so little that I can do.... "Her voice was sad.
He was still at Brockett's, still silent, shy, awkward, still poring over pages of "Reuben Hallard" and wondering whether any one would ever publish it still spending so many hours in the old musty bookshop with Herr Gottfried's wild mop of hair coming so madly above the little counter.
They'd love to see you." "Brockett's!" He stood astounded. Well, why not? A strange emotion uncomfortable, alien, stirred him. He kissed her and saw her go with a half-distracted gaze. What a world away Brockett's seemed! Old Mrs. Brockett, young Robin Tressiter. They would be glad to see him it was a natural thing enough that he should go what was it that held him back?
Word Of The Day
Others Looking