He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of
hallways that towered over her in their grayness. “John went into one of
151
the bedrooms Katy Pfister for over two hours, and I
think he finally lost his virginity. ‘Alors, pig!’ she cried and lunged in quarte. When he comes he will do that raid of the pantechnicons
the justice it deserves; he will picture the orderly evening scene about the
Imperial Legislature in convincing detail, the coming and going of cabs and
motor-cabs and broughams through the chill, damp evening into New Palace
Yard, the reinforced but untroubled and unsuspecting police about the entries of
those great buildings whose square and panelled Victorian Gothic streams up
from the glare of the lamps into the murkiness of the night; Big Ben shining
overhead, an unassailable beacon, and the incidental traffic of Westminster, cabs,
carts, and glowing omnibuses going to and from the bridge. The
moisture from the sea was constant, and she spent
countless hours staring at the sea from the west tower,
the rise and fall of waves.
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This video was uploaded to flood-rescue.com on 04-07-2024 01:44:09