How did you get there ?" "Dat's what I'm a-gwine ter explain, sar." "I am glad of that.

And how do you propose to do it ?" "Well, I'se thinkin', sar, I must ha' digressed." I take it we digressed a little.
At first, from some reason or other, Hanover strikes you as an uninteresting town, but it grows upon you.

It is in reality two towns; a place of broad, modern, handsome streets and tasteful gardens; side by side with a sixteenth-century town, where old timbered houses overhang the narrow lanes; where through low archways one catches glimpses of galleried courtyards, once often thronged, no doubt, with troops of horse, or blocked with lumbering coach and six, waiting its rich merchant owner, and his fat placid Frau, but where now children and chickens scuttle at their will; while over the carved balconies hang dingy clothes a-drying.
A singularly English atmosphere hovers over Hanover, especially on Sundays, when its shuttered shops and clanging bells give to it the suggestion of a sunnier London.

Nor was this British Sunday atmosphere apparent only to myself, else I might have attributed it to imagination; even George felt it.

Harris and I, returning from a short stroll with our cigars after lunch on the Sunday afternoon, found him peacefully slumbering in the smoke-room's easiest chair.
"After all," said Harris, "there is something about the British Sunday that appeals to the man with English blood in his veins.