"If you had offered the money to a German officer," I said, and the interpreter repeated the words—"if you had offered the money to a German officer he—might—have—taken—it."
Slowly a look of comprehension crossed the face of Adolf Hans Pumpenheim. It was like sunrise upon his grey and stubbly countenance, where three days' growth of beard had thriven in the soil of the guard-room. He was not altogether happy, for he had been found guilty and had paid a fine. But in the course of this ceremony, which appeared to him mystical and obscure, he had encountered one familiar idea, one thought within his power of understanding. Rectitude was a stranger to him, but corruption an old friend: He was not abashed; rather, on the contrary, he was cheered and encouraged. I could see that his heart warmed to me in particular, and I believe that but for his respect for the Court he would have paid me the compliment of a wink.
"Let him go," said Blenkin; and the Court adjourned for lunch.
"SETTLED PEACE! I TELL YOU THERE'S NO SUCH THING. I BURIED THE HATCHET WITH MY STEP-MOTHER AFTER TEN YEARS, AND NEXT MORNING SHE WROTE, 'I'M GLAD YOU'VE SEEN THE ERROR OF YOUR WAYS.'"
"At Newcastle, this afternoon, the airmen, had a great reception. The Lord Mayor handed each a book of views of Newcastle and a box of cigarettes."—Pall Mall Gazette.
Who says England is not a land for heroes to live in?