Rupert Dale sat at the writing-table before the open windows of his sitting-room in Clanton Street, Westminster. It was a glorious summer morning. The sun had torn aside the grey mantle from the face of London. The roofs and spires of the city shone. The trees rustled their leaves in the warm breeze. The roar of traffic echoed in his ears. Rupert stretched himself, sighed, and leant back in his chair. His table was littered with papers. There were letters, bills, advertisements--principally from tipsters and bookmakers--and the examination papers which had been set him at his third attempt to pass the final examination of the School of Mining Engineers.…
Your support pays for translating these classics into more languages.
Support for $12/month DonateSubscribers read with instant translation, without waiting for the free daily limit.