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she saw a plaque to suffragette Emily Davison. Apparently, she had slept there overnight so that she could give her place of residence as the House of Commons on the census of 1911, seven years before women were given the vote.
The question caught Robin totally by surprise. It had a kind of gravity and beauty, like the gleaming jewel of the chapel at the foot of a winding stair.
It was four in the morning, the hopeless hour when shivering insomniacs inhabit a world of hollow shadow, and existence seems frail and strange.
as though a puritan had been engulfed by the body of a jolly squire.
“Tory faithful likes bastards or buffoons”,
Difficile est longum subito deponere amorem, Difficile est, verum hoc qua lubet efficias. It is hard to abruptly shrug off a long-established love Hard, but this, somehow, you must do.
‘Bullets would bounce off their self-regard.
had his dream of patricide been spawned in the shadowy wasteland between sickness and irreducible malevolence?
