edwindvinas/testdataset · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 72

“Ready?” said Barney, stopping Lady Jane with some new, horrible
noises.

“Yes.” Valancy stepped in and sat down. Barney was in his blue shirt
and overalls. But they were clean overalls. He was smoking a
villainous-looking pipe and he was bareheaded. But he had a pair of
oddly smart boots on under his shabby overalls. And he was shaved. They
clattered into Deerwood and through Deerwood and hit the long, wooded
road to the Port.

“Haven’t changed your mind?” said Barney.

“No. Have you?”

“No.”

That was their whole conversation on the fifteen miles. Everything was
more dream-like than ever. Valancy didn’t know whether she felt happy.
Or terrified. Or just plain fool.

Then the lights of Port Lawrence were about them. Valancy felt as if
she were surrounded by the gleaming, hungry eyes of hundreds of great,
stealthy panthers. Barney briefly asked where Mr. Towers lived, and
Valancy as briefly told him. They stopped before the shabby little
house in an unfashionable street. They went in to the small, shabby
parlour. Barney produced his license. So he _had_ got it. Also a ring.
This thing was real. She, Valancy Stirling, was actually on the point
of being married.

They were standing up together before Mr. Towers. Valancy heard Mr.
Towers and Barney saying things. She heard some other person saying
things. She herself was thinking of the way she had once planned to be
married—away back in her early teens when such a thing had not seemed
impossible. White silk and tulle veil and orange-blossoms; no
bridesmaid. But one flower girl, in a frock of cream shadow lace over
pale pink, with a wreath of flowers in her hair, carrying a basket of
roses and lilies-of-the-valley. And the groom, a noble-looking
creature, irreproachably clad in whatever the fashion of the day
decreed. Valancy lifted her eyes and saw herself and Barney in the
little, slanting, distorting mirror over the mantelpiece. She in her
odd, unbridal green hat and dress; Barney in shirt and overalls. But it
was Barney. That was all that mattered. No veil—no flowers—no guests—no
presents—no wedding-cake—but just Barney. For all the rest of her life
there would be Barney.

“Mrs. Snaith, I hope you will be very happy,” Mr. Towers was saying.

He had not seemed surprised at their appearance—not even at Barney’s
overalls. He had seen plenty of queer weddings “up back.” He did not
know Valancy was one of the Deerwood Stirlings—he did not even know
there _were_ Deerwood Stirlings. He did not know Barney Snaith was a
fugitive from justice. Really, he was an incredibly ignorant old man.
Therefore he married them and gave them his blessing very gently and
solemnly and prayed for them that night after they had gone away. His
conscience did not trouble him at all.

“What a nice way to get married!” Barney was saying as he put Lady Jane
in gear. “No fuss and flub-dub. I never supposed it was half so easy.”

“For heaven’s sake,” said Valancy suddenly, “let’s forget we _are_
married and talk as if we weren’t. I can’t stand another drive like the
one we had coming in.”

Barney howled and threw Lady Jane into high with an infernal noise.

“And I thought I was making it easy for you,” he said. “You didn’t seem
to want to talk.”

“I didn’t. But I wanted you to talk. I don’t want you to make love to
me, but I want you to act like an ordinary human being. Tell me about
this island of yours. What sort of a place is it?”

“The jolliest place in the world. You’re going to love it. The first
time I saw it I loved it. Old Tom MacMurray owned it then. He built the
little shack on it, lived there in winter and rented it to Toronto
people in summer. I bought it from him—became by that one simple
transaction a landed proprietor owning a house and an island. There is
something so satisfying in owning a whole island. And isn’t an
uninhabited island a charming idea? I’d wanted to own one ever since
I’d read _Robinson Crusoe_. It seemed too good to be true. And beauty!
Most of the scenery belongs to the government, but they don’t tax you
for looking at it, and the moon belongs to everybody. You won’t find my
shack very tidy. I suppose you’ll want to make it tidy.”

“Yes,” said Valancy honestly. “I _have_ to be tidy. I don’t really
_want_ to be. But untidiness hurts me. Yes, I’ll have to tidy up your
shack.”

“I was prepared for that,” said Barney, with a hollow groan.

“But,” continued Valancy relentingly, “I won’t insist on your wiping
your feet when you come in.”

“No, you’ll only sweep up after me with the air of a martyr,” said
Barney. “Well, anyway, you can’t tidy the lean-to. You can’t even enter
it. The door will be locked and I shall keep the key.”

“Bluebeard’s chamber,” said Valancy. “I shan’t even think of it. I
don’t care how many wives you have hanging up in it. So long as they’re

“Ready?” said Barney, stopping Lady Jane with some new, horrible

noises.

“Yes.” Valancy stepped in and sat down. Barney was in his blue shirt

and overalls. But they were clean overalls. He was smoking a

villainous-looking pipe and he was bareheaded. But he had a pair of

oddly smart boots on under his shabby overalls. And he was shaved. They

clattered into Deerwood and through Deerwood and hit the long, wooded

road to the Port.

“Haven’t changed your mind?” said Barney.

“No. Have you?”

“No.”

That was their whole conversation on the fifteen miles. Everything was

more dream-like than ever. Valancy didn’t know whether she felt happy.

Or terrified. Or just plain fool.

Then the lights of Port Lawrence were about them. Valancy felt as if

she were surrounded by the gleaming, hungry eyes of hundreds of great,

stealthy panthers. Barney briefly asked where Mr. Towers lived, and

Valancy as briefly told him. They stopped before the shabby little

house in an unfashionable street. They went in to the small, shabby

parlour. Barney produced his license. So he _had_ got it. Also a ring.

This thing was real. She, Valancy Stirling, was actually on the point

of being married.

They were standing up together before Mr. Towers. Valancy heard Mr.

Towers and Barney saying things. She heard some other person saying

things. She herself was thinking of the way she had once planned to be

married—away back in her early teens when such a thing had not seemed

impossible. White silk and tulle veil and orange-blossoms; no

bridesmaid. But one flower girl, in a frock of cream shadow lace over

pale pink, with a wreath of flowers in her hair, carrying a basket of

roses and lilies-of-the-valley. And the groom, a noble-looking

creature, irreproachably clad in whatever the fashion of the day

decreed. Valancy lifted her eyes and saw herself and Barney in the

little, slanting, distorting mirror over the mantelpiece. She in her

odd, unbridal green hat and dress; Barney in shirt and overalls. But it

was Barney. That was all that mattered. No veil—no flowers—no guests—no

presents—no wedding-cake—but just Barney. For all the rest of her life

there would be Barney.

“Mrs. Snaith, I hope you will be very happy,” Mr. Towers was saying.

He had not seemed surprised at their appearance—not even at Barney’s

overalls. He had seen plenty of queer weddings “up back.” He did not

know Valancy was one of the Deerwood Stirlings—he did not even know

there _were_ Deerwood Stirlings. He did not know Barney Snaith was a

fugitive from justice. Really, he was an incredibly ignorant old man.

Therefore he married them and gave them his blessing very gently and

solemnly and prayed for them that night after they had gone away. His

conscience did not trouble him at all.

“What a nice way to get married!” Barney was saying as he put Lady Jane

in gear. “No fuss and flub-dub. I never supposed it was half so easy.”

“For heaven’s sake,” said Valancy suddenly, “let’s forget we _are_

married and talk as if we weren’t. I can’t stand another drive like the

one we had coming in.”

Barney howled and threw Lady Jane into high with an infernal noise.

“And I thought I was making it easy for you,” he said. “You didn’t seem

to want to talk.”

“I didn’t. But I wanted you to talk. I don’t want you to make love to

me, but I want you to act like an ordinary human being. Tell me about

this island of yours. What sort of a place is it?”

“The jolliest place in the world. You’re going to love it. The first

time I saw it I loved it. Old Tom MacMurray owned it then. He built the

little shack on it, lived there in winter and rented it to Toronto

people in summer. I bought it from him—became by that one simple

transaction a landed proprietor owning a house and an island. There is

something so satisfying in owning a whole island. And isn’t an

uninhabited island a charming idea? I’d wanted to own one ever since

I’d read _Robinson Crusoe_. It seemed too good to be true. And beauty!

Most of the scenery belongs to the government, but they don’t tax you

for looking at it, and the moon belongs to everybody. You won’t find my

shack very tidy. I suppose you’ll want to make it tidy.”

“Yes,” said Valancy honestly. “I _have_ to be tidy. I don’t really

_want_ to be. But untidiness hurts me. Yes, I’ll have to tidy up your

shack.”

“I was prepared for that,” said Barney, with a hollow groan.

“But,” continued Valancy relentingly, “I won’t insist on your wiping

your feet when you come in.”

“No, you’ll only sweep up after me with the air of a martyr,” said

Barney. “Well, anyway, you can’t tidy the lean-to. You can’t even enter

it. The door will be locked and I shall keep the key.”

“Bluebeard’s chamber,” said Valancy. “I shan’t even think of it. I

don’t care how many wives you have hanging up in it. So long as they’re