Отрывок из книги
Edith Caroline Rivett
Published by Good Press, 2021
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“Oh, rot! That’s hair-splitting in an attempt to blame yourself, old man. Besides, I don’t believe in theories of accident. I’m a fatalist. Young Anthony had got his ticket, his time was up, and if it hadn’t been faulty brakes on Porlock Hill, it’d have been a train smash or a pneumonia bug. It’s quite true, I was cut up. I liked the beggar, what I saw of him, and considering how our whole family’s been at loggerheads for generations, it was rather refreshing to find a cousin I liked. They all quarrelled like Kilkenny cats. Old Uncle Adam began it—the Old Soldier. He quarrelled with the whole clan and later generations kept it up. We’re a nice crowd!”
He turned away from the fire, adding, “I was damn grateful to you for coming. I loathe funerals. I’ll go and wash it off, soak in a Turkish bath for an hour or two. Good-night, old boy. See you in Paris next week.” He turned to Grenville, adding, “And look here, young fella me lad, I’m always glad to see you here, but don’t go imagining I’ve changed my mind. I haven’t. Cheer ho! Weller’ll let you out.”
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