Читать книгу The House of Spies онлайн
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The man Jerome rose from the edge of a truckle-bed, and came yawning to the window.
"I wonder when the old philosopher will be able to smuggle us up some breakfast. What's all the talk about, monsieur?"
"Jerome, you are a greedy animal. One seldom has a chance to talk to a genius in this world. That is why I so often talk to myself."
"What's that? A wagon going out of the gate."
The Frenchman had spat upon the window, and was cleaning a peep-hole with his thumb.
"Yes; taking a calf home. Do you like veal, Jerome? I have an idea that the calf yonder will never make good beef!"
V
Parson Goffin and old Christopher Benham had dined together, and sat facing each other on either side of the fire.
Kit Benham was past sixty, and had drunk himself into premature dotage. A pursy, ponderous, florid man, he could do little more than sit in his padded chair, smoke interminable pipes, and drink perpetual beer. He was a gross man, who could hardly speak without uttering all manner of quaint and ingenious oaths. Already his legs were swollen with dropsy, and they were propped on a joint stool as he fumed and pulled at his pipe.