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Redwood went round, to Bensington about eleven the next morning with the
second editions" of three evening papers in his hand.
"
Bensington looked up from a despondent meditation over the forgotten
pages of the most distracting novel the Brompton Road librarian had been
able to find him. "Anything fresh?" he asked.
"Two men stung near Chartham."
"
They ought to let us smoke out that nest. They really did. It's their
own fault."
"
"
"
It's their own fault, certainly," said Redwood.
Have you heard anything--about buying the farm?"
The House Agent," said Redwood, "is a thing with a big mouth and made
of dense wood. It pretends someone else is after the house--it always
does, you know--and won't understand there's a hurry. 'This is a matter
of life and death,' I said, 'don't you understand?' It drooped its eyes
half shut and said, 'Then why don't you go the other two hundred
pounds?' I'd rather live in a world of solid wasps than give in to the
stonewalling stupidity of that offensive creature. I--"
He paused, feeling that a sentence like that might very easily be
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