Something between a diary and a volume of essays, where recollections of war-time London jostle reflections on "Bookworms," on "Figureheads" and on "Ruskin," all written in a style of distinction and charm.
. "The gas bubbling. The dog next door. Your imagination." Then I listened to the dogs. It was curious, but they all seemed awake and excited.
"What is the noise like?" I asked, surrendering my book on the antiquity of man.
She twisted her mouth in a comical way most seriously, and tried to mimic a deep and solemn note.
"Guns," I said to myself, and went to the front door.
Beyond the vague opposite shadows of some elms lights twinkled in the sky, incontinent sparks, as though glow lamps on an invisible pattern of wires were being switched on and off by an idle child. That was shrapnel. I walked along the empty street a little to get a view between and beyond the villas. I turned to say something to my companion, and saw then my silent neighbours, shadowy groups about me, as though they had not approached but had materialized where they stood. We watched those infernal sparks. A shadow lit its pipe and offered me its match. I heard the guns easily enough now, but they were miles awa
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