It conjoined with many of the
social activities for good of one who might have been her twin
sister--Suzanne Feenix--only that Suzanne was twenty years older and
perhaps an inch or two shorter. Dear woman! My remembrance flashes a
kiss to your astral cheek--which in reality I should never have
dared to salute, so great was my awe of Colonel Armstrong's
muscles--as, at any reasonable time before or after the birth of
your last child in June, 1910, you stand in the hall of your sunny,
eighteenth century house, with the gold and green glint of the
Kensington garden behind you: saying with your glad eyes and bonny
mouth "Come to our Suffrage Party? _Such_ a lark! We've got Mrs.
Pankhurst here and the Police daren't raid us; they're so afraid of
'Army.' Of course he's away, but he knows _perfectly well_ what I'm
doing. He's _quite_ given in. Now Michael, you show Sir Harry and
Lady Johnston to the front seats..."
(I looked round for the rather gloomy presence of Michael Rossiter,
but it was his little golden-haired god-son she meant.)
You shall have your general back safe from the wars, with a wound
that gives only honour, a reasonable number of well-earned
decorations, and a reputation for rather better strategy than
Aldershot generally produces; and he shall live out his wholesome
life alongside yours, still dispensing happiness, even under a
Labour Government: till, as Burton used to wind up his Arabian
Nights love stories, "there came to them the Destroyer of delight
and the Sunderer of societies.
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