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. She had just managed to reach it, grabbing for the handle, when the enemy’s cracked command halted her. Then her white teeth gleamed, and her excuse for remaining any longer before that little marble table was gone. The world into which she was so boldly venturing was going to be wonderful, but never so wonderful as the world within these paper covers. " So saying, he closed the door. I declare I'm almost afraid to go to the door.
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