“I have been training myself to look askance at beautiful things. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. "I was only commenting.
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