A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy. “Miss Pellissier, isn’t it?” he said. A big breakfast is healthier anyway, so they say. He himself had deadened the sound by closing the door. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. “Is this Montague Street, W. Only that I was prevented by one of those soldiers that caught me in the big house. Twice she smiled, but not unkindly.
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