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Doyle, Arthur Conan, Sir, 1859-1930

"Uncle Bernac A Memory of the Empire"


'Have you heard anything yet of your charming cousin?'
'Nothing, Sire,' I answered.
'I fear that her efforts will be in vain. I wish her every success, for
we have no reason at all to fear this miserable poet, while the other is
formidable. All the same, an example of some sort must be made.'
The darkness was drawing in, and Constant had appeared with a taper to
light the candles, but the Emperor ordered him out.
'I like the twilight,' said he. 'No doubt, Monsieur de Laval, after
your long residence in England you find yourself also most at home in a
dim light. I think that the brains of these people must be as dense as
their fogs, to judge by the nonsense which they write in their accursed
papers.' With one of those convulsive gestures which accompanied his
sudden outbursts of passion he seized a sheaf of late London papers from
the table, and ground them into the fire with his heel. 'An editor!' he
cried in the guttural rasping voice which I had heard when I first met
him. 'What is he? A dirty man with a pen in a back office. And he
will talk like one of the great Powers of Europe.


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