The Mission of Mr. Eustace Greyne

Nonfiction, Religion & Spirituality, New Age, History, Fiction & Literature
Cover of the book The Mission of Mr. Eustace Greyne by Robert Smythe Hichens, Library of Alexandria
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Author: Robert Smythe Hichens ISBN: 9781465551122
Publisher: Library of Alexandria Publication: March 8, 2015
Imprint: Language: English
Author: Robert Smythe Hichens
ISBN: 9781465551122
Publisher: Library of Alexandria
Publication: March 8, 2015
Imprint:
Language: English
Mrs. Eustace Greyne (pronounced Green) wrinkled her forehead—that noble, that startling forehead which had been written about in the newspapers of two hemispheres—laid down her American Squeezer pen, and sighed. It was an autumn day, nipping and melancholy, full of the rustle of dying leaves and the faint sound of muffin bells, and Belgrave Square looked sad even to the great female novelist who had written her way into a mansion there. Fog hung about with the policeman on the pavement. The passing motor cars were like shadows. Their stertorous pantings sounded to Mrs. Greyne's ears like the asthma of dying monsters. She sighed again, and murmured in a deep contralto voice: "It must be so." Then she got up, crossed the heavy Persian carpet which had been bought with the proceeds of a short story in her earlier days, and placed her forefinger upon an electric bell. Like lightning a powdered giant came. "Has Mr. Greyne gone out?" "No, ma'am." "Where is he
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Mrs. Eustace Greyne (pronounced Green) wrinkled her forehead—that noble, that startling forehead which had been written about in the newspapers of two hemispheres—laid down her American Squeezer pen, and sighed. It was an autumn day, nipping and melancholy, full of the rustle of dying leaves and the faint sound of muffin bells, and Belgrave Square looked sad even to the great female novelist who had written her way into a mansion there. Fog hung about with the policeman on the pavement. The passing motor cars were like shadows. Their stertorous pantings sounded to Mrs. Greyne's ears like the asthma of dying monsters. She sighed again, and murmured in a deep contralto voice: "It must be so." Then she got up, crossed the heavy Persian carpet which had been bought with the proceeds of a short story in her earlier days, and placed her forefinger upon an electric bell. Like lightning a powdered giant came. "Has Mr. Greyne gone out?" "No, ma'am." "Where is he

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