Explore "The Exiles of Faloo" by Barry Pain on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Lord Charles Baringstoke stretched himself in a lounge-chair on the verandah. It was eleven in the morning, and he had the tired meditative feeling of one who has risen too early. The parrot, who had been sitting for some minutes motionless on its perch, swayed backwards and forwards, considering its repertoire. It produced a plausible imitation of the drawing of a cork.
"Yes," said Lord Charles Baringstoke, wearily, "that's rather what I think myself."