The Woman Without a Name [antikvár]

^Á^ten. t The house still appeared strange and perhaps, she thought, it would always be so. Far from the pulsing life of the great city, with its rattling carriages and bustling crowds, with the cries in the streets and the whirling dust of the alleys, she was set down now íq the darkness of mountains, in the silence of a single great lonely house; she could not accustom herself to the transition. The disparity was like something in one of Mr. Disraeli's novels—The Two Nations: she recalled the subtitle dimly, and her father on his feet, waving the volume, shouting down some antagonist in the coolness of the saloon-bar: 9