“Mr. Mother and Son. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. Walpole's order to that effect—but not before. I walked London till the soles of my shoes were worn through, and my toes were blistered. ‘But that is easy. ‘But how do you come here?’ ‘Down on a routine patrol, unluckily for you,’ he answered grimly.
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