“Jonathan Marston. “I suppose,” said William Frederick aloud, “he thinks he’s funny. And the first two words, which are entirely useless and perfectly offensive, cost him an extra half-dollar. The governor is getting extravagant.” He tossed his cigarette into a porcelain urn on the table, lit another, and crossing the room, seated himself in a chair by the window and gazed thoughtfully out at the throng in the street below. The hour was half past three in the afternoon; the street, the Rue Royal...e, Paris. Trim speedy taxicabs, with their air of fussy importance, glided along the farther curb; here and there an old-fashioned cabriolet or hansom dodged helplessly about in the rush of the modern traffic. The pedestrians sauntered, strolled, trotted, paraded—did everything, in short, except walk. The chauffeurs and cab drivers courteously exchanged scurrilous epithets, the sergent de ville at the corner blew his whistle furiously, waving his arms wildly in all directions, and barefooted gamins darted through the crowd, crying late evening editions of the newspapers.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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