On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. He smiled. He declined to come in. "It is time!" "For what?" grumbled the latter, rubbing his eyes. “I know that our social order is dreadful enough,” he said, “and sacrifices all that is best and most beautiful in life. Only I do not care to write about anything else. After these dinners they would have a walk, usually to the Thames Embankment to see the two sweeps of river on either side of Waterloo Bridge; and then they would part at Westminster Bridge, perhaps, and he would go on to Waterloo.
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