London is like a great bird-cage. She, that innocent, gentle and single-hearted, is fluttering in there along with other millions. She can’t get out. She’s at the mercy of any cold-eyed, rapacious brute who will get her into a corner.
Maurice Hewlett (1861–1923), Mrs. Lancelot
That’s a very lyrical assessment indeed.
Cheers, Pete.
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I’ve got dozens of these flowery analogies.
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