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Updated: May 10, 2025
The taxi turned into Berkeley Street, and Eric held out his hand. "Good-bye, Barbara," he said. "Won't you come in for a moment?" "No, thank you." "Eric, you must! There's something I want to say to you! Eric, I beg you to come in." He opened the door without answering and stood on the kerb, ready to help her out. She delayed so long that the driver turned curiously round.
Swinging down Lamb's Conduit Street, the scarlet van rounded the corner by the pillar box in such a way as to graze the kerb and make the little girl who was standing on tiptoe to post a letter look up, half frightened, half curious. She paused with her hand in the mouth of the box; then dropped her letter and ran away.
Keene sings the treble and Cele sings the alto. it is there is a bank where on the wild time grows. at supper tonite i asked what wild time was and aunt Sarah said it must be what father and Gim Melcher used to have. then we all laffed and father told aunt Sarah she was geting so funny that she wood have to wear a kerb bit and a martingail. ennyway it was a good one on father.
A girl on the kerb, continuously springing a rattle in a sort of trance, shrieked with laughter at the nurse. Lines of people with linked arms chanted and surged along, bare-headed, or with hats turned into jokes. A private car, a beautiful little saloon in which a lady was solitary, stopped near me, and the lady beckoned with a smile to a Canadian soldier who was close.
He heard the merry click-clock of the swinging hansoms, then the excited whirring of the motor-buses as they charged full-tilt heavily down the road, their hearts, as it seemed, beating with trepidation; they drew up with a sigh of relief by the kerb, and stood there panting great, nervous, clumsy things. Siegmund was always amused by the headlong, floundering career of the buses.
We must wait until Sir William goes, and, meanwhile, I shall write to Lord Arthur." Half an hour had passed, and quite a number of notes had been dashed off in the fine, bold, park-paling handwriting of the Lady Clara, when the door clashed, and the wheels of the doctor's carriage were heard grating outside against the kerb.
She begged, this blind girl, standing with rent shoes in the sloppy mud. In Sydney, in 1889, in the workingman's paradise, she stood on the kerb, this blind girl, and begged begged from her own people. And in their poverty, their weariness, their brutishness, they pitied her. None mocked, and many paused, and some gave. They never thought of her being an impostor.
They reached the end of the first alley and passed out to the pavement, slippery with trodden mud. There was a little knot gathered there, a human eddy in the centre of the pressing throng. Looking over the heads of the loiterers, he could see in the centre of the eddy, on the kerb, by the light that came from the gateway, a girl whose eyes were closed.
One of them was an aunt of mine, my only relation, who quarrelled with poor father as long as he lived about some silly matter that had neither right nor wrong to it. She left her money to me when she died. I used always to go and see her for decency's sake. I had so much to do before night that I didn't know where to begin. I felt inclined to sit down on the kerb and hold my head in my hands.
"I didn't sleep last night," said I, "my breakfast disagreed with me, and it's raining in the most unpleasant manner." Even while I was speaking he left my side and darted across the road. In some astonishment I watched him for a moment from the kerb, and then made my way slowly to the other side.
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