Bayswater, Lancaster Gate No. 36.
In the room at dusk, the pale yellow light of the setting sun shone through the window glass onto Arthur's face, illuminating his deep black eyes.
Sitting at the desk, Arthur might as well have been shooting from both sides. In his left hand, he held the left-wing and right-wing organs of the Whig Party, "Edinburgh Review" and "The Morning Post," while in his right, he cradled those of the Tory Party, "The Observer" and "The Quarterly Review."
Given the aggressive headlines on the several newspapers, Arthur reasonably believed that if the newspapers were alive, as soon as he let go, the four would likely start fighting immediately.
The Red Devil leaned casually on the windowsill, whistling a tune, "So, Arthur, learned anything? Or rather, when will you send that old fucker into my mouth?"
"Into your mouth?" Arthur set down the newspapers and raised an eyebrow at him, "Why do you think I'll definitely win in my duel with Rowan?"