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. It
reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina
had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. This was to pass under the arch,
along the narrow ledge of the starling, and, if possible, attain the eastern
platform, where, protected by the bridge, he would suffer less from the excessive
violence of the gale. “There are a good many Whites in
London. Outside stood a
stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased
mass of spiky bottle-black hair. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. ‘I broke in.
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