Anthony Vereker had walked down Bond Street into Piccadilly and had turned into the Green Park. London under the magical, generative touch of early summer was to him the most beautiful and romantic place in the world. As he had gazed at the sumptuous shops in Bond Street and noted the flicker and dazzle and colour of the tarmac in the brilliant sunshine, he had wished that he could see a historical panorama of that street going back year by year into the past on such an enchanting morning. He was feeling in a mood of strange exaltation, a mood which London never failed to rouse in him at this season. This sense of being thrilled was not altogether caused by its beauty but by a thousand resplendent associations—the glamour of its wealth, its social functions and cosmopolitan society, its importance as the centre of all that was worth while in the history of his own race. This sense was sharpened, too, by a strange acknowledgment of the city’s actual unimportance when viewed in the light of even terrestrial vastness and the seething millions of humanity that lived and strove and laughed and wept, were pompously magnificent or meanly ludicrous in a thousand other cities on the earth’s surface.
What do You think about The Ginger Cat Mystery (2016)?
