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Chapter 21 — Mr. Bedford at Littlestone

           Thesestrangelyshapedmassesofgoldtheyhadstaggeredunderheldtheirminds.Therethelumpslayinfrontofme,eachworththousandsofpounds,andasimpossibleforanyonetostealasahouseorapieceofland.AsIlookedattheircuriousfacesovermycoffee-cup,IrealisedsomethingoftheenormouswildernessofexplanationsintowhichIshouldhavetowandertorendermyselfcomprehensibleagain.

           “Youdon’treallymean—”begantheyoungestyoungman,inthetoneofonewhospeakstoanobstinatechild.

           “Justpassmethattoast-rack,”Isaid,andshuthimupcompletely.

           “Butlookhere,Isay,”beganoneoftheothers.“We’renotgoingtobelievethat,youknow.”

           “Ah,well,”saidI,andshruggedmyshoulders.

           “Hedoesn’twanttotellus,”saidtheyoungestyoungmaninastageaside;andthen,withanappearanceofgreatsang-froid,“Youdon’tmindifItakeacigarette?”

           Iwavedhimacordialassent,andproceededwithmybreakfast.Twooftheotherswentandlookedoutofthefartherwindowandtalkedinaudibly.Iwasstruckbyathought.“Thetide,”Isaid,“isrunningout?”

           Therewasapause,adoubtwhoshouldanswerme.

           “It’sneartheebb,”saidthefatlittleman.

           “Well,anyhow,”Isaid,“itwon’tfloatfar.”

           Idecapitatedmythirdegg,andbeganalittlespeech.“Lookhere,”Isaid.“Pleasedon’timagineI’msurlyortellingyouuncivillies,oranythingofthatsort.I’mforcedalmost,tobealittleshortandmysterious.Icanquiteunderstandthisisasqueerasitcanbe,andthatyourimaginationsmustbegoingit.

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