‘Then the father has a great fight with his terrible conscience,’ said Munday with granite seriousness. ‘Should he make a row with the police […]? Or should he say nothing about it and condone brutality for fear of appearing in the newspapers?

Wo be to you ſcrybꝭ / ãd phariſes ypocritꝭ / for ye make clene the vtter ſide off the cuppe / and off the platter: but with in they are full of brybery and exceſſe.

There was the river: woodland paths skirting in the evening a world of silver and grey, across which bats sketched zigzag flights. Very nice in the dimpsey light, but stuffy in the daytime.

Our ledger has no entry for the human pain caused by war.