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Wells, H. G. (Herbert George), 1866-1946

"Tono Bungay"


It seemed that afternoon the most tranquil and idyllic collection of
creeper-sheltered homes you can imagine; thatch still lingered on a
whitewashed cottage or two, pyracanthus, wall-flowers, and daffodils
abounded, and an unsystematic orchard or so was white with blossom
above and gay with bulbs below. I noted a row of straw beehives,
beehive-shaped, beehives of the type long since condemned as inefficient
by all progressive minds, and in the doctor's acre of grass a flock of
two whole sheep was grazing,--no doubt he'd taken them on account. Two
men and one old woman made gestures of abject vassalage, and my uncle
replied with a lordly gesture of his great motoring glove....
"England's full of Bits like this," said my uncle, leaning over the
front seat and looking back with great satisfaction. The black glare of
his goggles rested for a time on the receding turrets of Lady Grove just
peeping over the trees.
"I shall have a flagstaff, I think," he considered. "Then one could show
when one is in residence. The villagers will like to know.


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