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Updated: June 22, 2025
They had a queer sense of insurmountable insufficiency. Neither was saying what he had wanted to say to the other, but it was not clear to them now what they had to say to one another.... "It's wonderful," said Mr. Britling. Hugh could only manage: "The world has turned right over...." "The job has to be done," said Mr. Britling. "The job has to be done," said Hugh. The pause lengthened.
At times young Heinrich alone stood between Mr. Britling and the belief that Germany and the whole German race was essentially wicked, essentially a canting robber nation. Young Heinrich became a sort of advocate for his people before the tribunal of Mr. Britling's mind.
Britling made the supreme effort of her life to burst the prison of self-consciousness and inhibition in which she was confined. Never before in all her life had she so desired to be spontaneous and unrestrained; never before had she so felt herself hampered by her timidity, her self-criticism, her deeply ingrained habit of never letting herself go. She was rent by reflected distress.
He chattered furiously and bit Mr. Britling twice. Then Mr. Britling was out in the passage with the wriggling lump of warm fur in his hand, and paddling along in the darkness to the door of Herr Heinrich. He opened it softly. A startled white figure sat up in bed sharply. "Billy," said Mr.
Lady Meade and two or three visitors had motored out from Hartleytree to assist, and Manning had come in with his tremendous confirmation of all that the morning papers had foreshadowed. "Have you any news?" asked Mr. Britling. "It's war!" said Mrs. Britling. "They are in Luxemburg," said Manning. "That can only mean that they are coming through Belgium." "Then I was wrong," said Mr.
Britling with a convulsive clutch at his steering wheel set the electric hooter snarling, while one foot released the clutch again and the other, on the accelerator, sought in vain for help. Mr. Direck felt they were going back, back, in spite of all this vocalisation. He clutched at the emergency brake. But he was too late to avoid misfortune.
But now it's a poplar.... And, by Jove, it is a poplar!"... The conversation thus opened by Manning centred for a time upon Colonel Rendezvous. He was presented as a monster of energy and self-discipline; as the determined foe of every form of looseness, slackness, and easy-goingness. "He's done wonderful work for the local Boy Scout movement," said Manning. "It's Kitchenerism," said Britling.
Britling was a large, quiet, thoughtful sort of man, a man who would, as it were, sit in attentive rows like a public meeting and listen. So Mr. Direck had prepared quite a number of pleasant and attractive openings, and now he felt was the moment for some one of these various simple, memorable utterances. But in none of these forecasts had he reckoned with either the spontaneous activities of Mr.
What has become of Charles Kingsley's novels, of the apologues of Maria Edgeworth? "Main Street" is such a story; so was "Mr. Britling Sees It Through"; so probably "A Doll's House." Decay is already at their hearts. Only the student knows how many like tales that preached fierily a text for the times have died in the past. But I am writing of popularity not of permanence.
She rolled over, sat up, and imitated his friendly "cheep." Section 7 Presently she became aware of footsteps rustling through the grass towards her. She looked over her shoulder and discovered Mr. Britling approaching by the field path.
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