. . E. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. “Absolutely,” the doctor answered, “and the sooner the better. The lips were straight and pale, the chin aggressive, the nose indomitable. ” “Can’t we go down into Italy?” “No,” he said; “it won’t run to that now. Ye gods! what a wilderness it is! Every one trying to get the better of every one, every one regardless of every one—it’s one of those days when every one bumps against you—every one pouring coal smoke into the air and making confusion worse confounded, motor omnibuses clattering and smelling, a horse down in the Tottenham Court Road, an old woman at the corner coughing dreadfully—all the painful sights of a great city, and here you come into it to take your chances.
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