"Sir Cecil is no more. And son of a pig,’ she grunted, baring her teeth. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. At this moment, the bell began to toll in a peculiar manner, announcing the approach of the corpse. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIxNy44MC4xMTEgLSAyMi0wNy0yMDI0IDA2OjIxOjQ3IC0gMTcyMTE4NjQwNA==
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