BREAKFAST
vis-à-vis; with her complacent prettiness, her tinkling, laboured witticisms. Not worse than Aunt Willoughby's baffled, bearded morosity; than Jervis Bevel's sleek disdain.
He would escape from Mrs. Russel, her advances, her criticisms, her fumbling arguments that crushed you down beneath their heavy gentleness until you felt you were being trampled to death by a cow. By a blind cow, that fumbled its way backwards and forwards across you. . . .
The "girls" delivered their ultimatum in chorus.
"England expects," declaimed Hilary, turning her eyes towards the ceiling, "effery woman to—er—do—er herr dew-ty."
"It's nice to be down early," said Miss Emily earnestly, "with a nice long day stretching out in front of me."
"Breakfast will be at quarter to eight sharp," said Mrs. Russel. "Mr. Rossiter, we really must try not to lose our collar-studs."
All his days and nights were loops, curving out from breakfast time, curving back to it again. Inexorably the loops grew smaller,
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