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Updated: May 12, 2025
"I thought your wife hailed me, sir," lied the 'bus-conductor. Any allusion to his wife mildly annoyed Mr. Russell. "Not my wife," he said. "Merely a friend." "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir," said the 'bus-conductor, and underlined the "beg" with the ting of her ticket-puncher. She was rather a darling 'bus-conductor, because she was also Jay.
The first woman I met on my last visit to England upset my expectation of finding that war pushed women back into primitive conditions of toil, crushed them under the idea that physical force rules the world, and made them subservient. I chanced upon her as she was acting as ticket-puncher at the Yarmouth station.
When her mind, anticipating the answering ring of the conductor's ticket-puncher, realized the mistake, she raised her head, then twisted back, electrically, as though some current had been passed through her body. Seated on the bench at the other side of the passage-way, was the man whom she had found in King Street outside the premises of Bonsfield & Co.
At the small grille gate stood the wife of the station-guard, Kovacs since the beginning of the war Kovacs himself had been somewhere on the Russian front talking and holding the ticket-puncher, impatiently waiting for the last passenger to pass through. John Bogdan saw her, and his heart began to beat so violently that he involuntarily lingered at each step.
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