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Tono Bungay by H. G. (Herbert George) Wells
page 78 of 497 (15%)
adorned the end of the counter, then turned about petulantly, stuck his
hands deeply into his pockets and withdrew one to scratch his head. "I
must do SOMETHING," he said. "I can't stand it.

"I must invent something. And shove it.... I could.

"Or a play. There's a deal of money in a play, George. What would you
think of me writing a play eh?... There's all sorts of things to be
done.

"Or the stog-igschange."

He fell into that meditative whistling of his.

"Sac-ramental wine!" he swore, "this isn't the world--it's Cold Mutton
Fat! That's what Wimblehurst is! Cold Mutton Fat!--dead and stiff! And
I'm buried in it up to the arm pits. Nothing ever happens, nobody
wants things to happen 'scept me! Up in London, George, things happen.
America! I wish to Heaven, George, I'd been born American--where things
hum.

"What can one do here? How can one grow? While we're sleepin' here with
our Capital oozing away into Lord Eastry's pockets for rent-men are
up there...." He indicated London as remotely over the top of the
dispensing counter, and then as a scene of great activity by a whirl of
the hand and a wink and a meaning smile at me.

"What sort of things do they do?" I asked.

"Rush about," he said. "Do things! Somethin' glorious. There's cover
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