” “Pleased to meet you, Doctor Diedermayer. “And that only brings me up to about sixty-five! “A glittering wilderness of time That to the sunset reaches No keel as yet its waves has ploughed Or gritted on its beaches. ” The man hesitated. He wisely refrained from questioning the manager of the Victoria. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me.
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