He goes into his journal:
It is incomprehensible. I was only a short time ago a respectable and a-feared constable in Londbridge. What, oh, gods, have you wrought?
In the last fortnight, the Baroness, has become cross, so easily, at me. I do not understand.
Some rope-boy swung down from a Navy Ship in the late hours yesterday. The world turns on his words: Our Empire is now at war with Muskovy. We shall churn that butter. Muskovy is weak. This is all new (though not unprecedented.)
I wish with honest heart that Nila—I dare say her given name—Miss Tagore were here.
Work in progress. Mistakes and misspellings are present. This is a very rough draft. Copyright 2021 Ion Fyr
Ion Fyr 