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"SHORT of murdering the man, I don't think there's anything we can do," said Peter. "Let's kill Uncle Lionel!"
"We'll take a show of hands on that," Paul declared, promptly. "Hand up all in favour of murdering the monster,"
"Darling," murmured Barbara, "one of these days someone is going to take you seriously."
"That hasn't happened in thirty years," observed Roger, dryly. "I don't see why it should start now."
"Poor Punchinello," sighed Paul. "I am the beginning and the end of tragedy, and my public laughs at me."
"But we," Peter told him, "are not your public."
"A prophet has no honour in his own country."
"Have you ever shown any signs of wanting honour in your own country?" demanded Peter. "America loves you, England loves you not."
Paul Briscoe looked at his cousin with his eyebrows raised and his full, bow-shaped lips pursed in a half-smile which did not touch his brown eyes. Barbara, his wife, looked at him a little anxiously, knowing that Peter's gibe had stung. There was no knowing what Paul would do or say when his vanity was piqued.
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