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"Here!"
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Don Lavington
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by a groan. "My pakeha!"<|quote|>"Here!"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they heard
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heard one heavy blow, followed by a groan. "My pakeha!"<|quote|>"Here!"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they heard the rapid beating of feet,
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but a hoarse, "No, pakeha!" told him of his mistake. He rectified it directly, getting his arm round the neck of the guard, tightening his grasp, and with such good effect, that Ngati wrenched himself free, and directly after Don heard one heavy blow, followed by a groan. "My pakeha!"<|quote|>"Here!"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they heard the rapid beating of feet, shouts below, in the _pah_, and close at hand. Ngati seized Don's hand, and after stooping down, thrust a spear into it. Then, uttering a grunt, he placed another spear in Jem's hand, the spoils of their fallen enemy, and
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leave their New Zealand friend in the lurch; and as the struggle went on, Jem had literally to feel his way to Ngati's help, no easy task in the darkness when two men are struggling. At last he was successful, and got a grip of one of the combatants' throat; but a hoarse, "No, pakeha!" told him of his mistake. He rectified it directly, getting his arm round the neck of the guard, tightening his grasp, and with such good effect, that Ngati wrenched himself free, and directly after Don heard one heavy blow, followed by a groan. "My pakeha!"<|quote|>"Here!"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they heard the rapid beating of feet, shouts below, in the _pah_, and close at hand. Ngati seized Don's hand, and after stooping down, thrust a spear into it. Then, uttering a grunt, he placed another spear in Jem's hand, the spoils of their fallen enemy, and leaving him for a moment, he felt along the fence for his own weapon. He spoke no more, but by means of action made Don understand that he would go first, holding his spear at the trail, he grasping one end, Don the other. Jem was to do likewise, and
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not see, he could tell that Jem had mounted to the top. "Where are you?" whispered Jem. "Look out! Ngati will help you." Jem grasped the situation, and the chief caught his feet, lowering him slowly, when all at once something seemed to spring out of the darkness, knocking Don right over, and seizing Ngati. That it was one of the guards there could be no doubt, for the man raised the alarm, and held on to the prisoner he had made, Jem going down awkwardly in turn. He and Don could have fled at once, but they could not leave their New Zealand friend in the lurch; and as the struggle went on, Jem had literally to feel his way to Ngati's help, no easy task in the darkness when two men are struggling. At last he was successful, and got a grip of one of the combatants' throat; but a hoarse, "No, pakeha!" told him of his mistake. He rectified it directly, getting his arm round the neck of the guard, tightening his grasp, and with such good effect, that Ngati wrenched himself free, and directly after Don heard one heavy blow, followed by a groan. "My pakeha!"<|quote|>"Here!"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they heard the rapid beating of feet, shouts below, in the _pah_, and close at hand. Ngati seized Don's hand, and after stooping down, thrust a spear into it. Then, uttering a grunt, he placed another spear in Jem's hand, the spoils of their fallen enemy, and leaving him for a moment, he felt along the fence for his own weapon. He spoke no more, but by means of action made Don understand that he would go first, holding his spear at the trail, he grasping one end, Don the other. Jem was to do likewise, and thus linked together they would not be separated. All this took time, and during the brief moments that elapsed it was evident that the whole tribe was alarmed, and coming up to the _pah_. "All right, Mas' Don! I understand. It's follow my leader, and old `my pakeha' to lead." Ngati did not hesitate a moment, but went rapidly down the steep descent, straight for the river, apparently right for where some of the yelling tribe were advancing. All at once the New Zealand chief stopped short, turned quickly, and pressed his hands firmly on Don's shoulder; for voices were
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could only make him understand. What a fool of a language his is." Don could not even then help thinking that Ngati might have said the same, but he did not lose a moment. Loosening his hold of the chiefs hand, he whispered,-- "Pakeha. Come." Then giving himself up to the guidance of Jem, his hands were placed upon a rough post, and he began to climb, Jem helping him, somewhat after the fashion in which he had once assisted him to reach the window. Then, almost noiselessly, he reached the top, climbed over with ease by the aid of the lashings, and getting a tight hold of the strong fibrous bands, he lowered himself down to await Jem's coming. Ngati was more intelligent than Don had expected, for directly after he felt two great warm hands placed under to support his bare feet. These were raised and lowered a little; and, seizing the opportunity, he let himself sink down, till Ngati placed his feet upon two broad shoulders, and then Don felt himself seized by the hips, and lifted to the ground. As this went on Don could feel the post he had climbed vibrating, and though he could not see, he could tell that Jem had mounted to the top. "Where are you?" whispered Jem. "Look out! Ngati will help you." Jem grasped the situation, and the chief caught his feet, lowering him slowly, when all at once something seemed to spring out of the darkness, knocking Don right over, and seizing Ngati. That it was one of the guards there could be no doubt, for the man raised the alarm, and held on to the prisoner he had made, Jem going down awkwardly in turn. He and Don could have fled at once, but they could not leave their New Zealand friend in the lurch; and as the struggle went on, Jem had literally to feel his way to Ngati's help, no easy task in the darkness when two men are struggling. At last he was successful, and got a grip of one of the combatants' throat; but a hoarse, "No, pakeha!" told him of his mistake. He rectified it directly, getting his arm round the neck of the guard, tightening his grasp, and with such good effect, that Ngati wrenched himself free, and directly after Don heard one heavy blow, followed by a groan. "My pakeha!"<|quote|>"Here!"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they heard the rapid beating of feet, shouts below, in the _pah_, and close at hand. Ngati seized Don's hand, and after stooping down, thrust a spear into it. Then, uttering a grunt, he placed another spear in Jem's hand, the spoils of their fallen enemy, and leaving him for a moment, he felt along the fence for his own weapon. He spoke no more, but by means of action made Don understand that he would go first, holding his spear at the trail, he grasping one end, Don the other. Jem was to do likewise, and thus linked together they would not be separated. All this took time, and during the brief moments that elapsed it was evident that the whole tribe was alarmed, and coming up to the _pah_. "All right, Mas' Don! I understand. It's follow my leader, and old `my pakeha' to lead." Ngati did not hesitate a moment, but went rapidly down the steep descent, straight for the river, apparently right for where some of the yelling tribe were advancing. All at once the New Zealand chief stopped short, turned quickly, and pressed his hands firmly on Don's shoulder; for voices were heard just in front, and so near, that the lad feared that they must be seen. But he grasped the chief's idea, and lay flat down, Jem following his example; and almost as they crouched to the ground, a group of the enemy ran up so close, that one of them caught his foot against Jem, and fell headlong. Fortunately Jem was too much startled to move, and, muttering angrily, the man sprang up, not--as Don expected--to let drive with a spear at his companion, but attributing his fall to some stone, or the trunk of a tree, he ran on after his companions. Then Ngati rose, uttered a few words, whose import they grasped, and once more they hurried on straight for the river. It was their only chance of escape, unless they made for the sea, and chanced finding a small canoe on the sands. But that was evidently not Ngati's intention. Over the river seemed to be the only way not likely to be watched; and, going straight for it, he only paused again close to its brink, listening to the shouting going on but a very short distance from where they stood. While Don listened, it
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spear driven through the opening between the pales, and that spear would run him through and through. His first idea was to give warning of the danger, but he dared not call, and Jem was apparently beyond hearing of the rustling and panting noise which could still be heard. Directly after Don determined to wrest his arm away, and dart back into the darkness. But the hand which held him still gripped with a force which made this impossible; and in despair and dread he was about to fling himself down, when Jem came gliding up out of the darkness, and touched his cold, wet face. "I've found the post, Mas' Don!" he whispered. Don caught him with his disengaged hand, and placed Jem's against the arm which held him. For a few moments Jem seemed unable to grasp the situation, for nothing was visible. Then he placed his lips once more close to Don's ear. "Wait a moment till I've opened my knife." "No, no," whispered Don in a horrified tone. "It is too dreadful." "Then let's both try together, and wrench your arm away." A peculiar hissing sound came at that moment from the outside of the _pah_, and Don felt his arm jerked. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" "Why, it's Ngati!" whispered Don joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him. The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come," whispered Don. "Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick! I've got it. You climb up first, get over the top, and hang by your hands, and wait till I come. We must both drop together, and then be off. Oh, if we could only make him understand. What a fool of a language his is." Don could not even then help thinking that Ngati might have said the same, but he did not lose a moment. Loosening his hold of the chiefs hand, he whispered,-- "Pakeha. Come." Then giving himself up to the guidance of Jem, his hands were placed upon a rough post, and he began to climb, Jem helping him, somewhat after the fashion in which he had once assisted him to reach the window. Then, almost noiselessly, he reached the top, climbed over with ease by the aid of the lashings, and getting a tight hold of the strong fibrous bands, he lowered himself down to await Jem's coming. Ngati was more intelligent than Don had expected, for directly after he felt two great warm hands placed under to support his bare feet. These were raised and lowered a little; and, seizing the opportunity, he let himself sink down, till Ngati placed his feet upon two broad shoulders, and then Don felt himself seized by the hips, and lifted to the ground. As this went on Don could feel the post he had climbed vibrating, and though he could not see, he could tell that Jem had mounted to the top. "Where are you?" whispered Jem. "Look out! Ngati will help you." Jem grasped the situation, and the chief caught his feet, lowering him slowly, when all at once something seemed to spring out of the darkness, knocking Don right over, and seizing Ngati. That it was one of the guards there could be no doubt, for the man raised the alarm, and held on to the prisoner he had made, Jem going down awkwardly in turn. He and Don could have fled at once, but they could not leave their New Zealand friend in the lurch; and as the struggle went on, Jem had literally to feel his way to Ngati's help, no easy task in the darkness when two men are struggling. At last he was successful, and got a grip of one of the combatants' throat; but a hoarse, "No, pakeha!" told him of his mistake. He rectified it directly, getting his arm round the neck of the guard, tightening his grasp, and with such good effect, that Ngati wrenched himself free, and directly after Don heard one heavy blow, followed by a groan. "My pakeha!"<|quote|>"Here!"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they heard the rapid beating of feet, shouts below, in the _pah_, and close at hand. Ngati seized Don's hand, and after stooping down, thrust a spear into it. Then, uttering a grunt, he placed another spear in Jem's hand, the spoils of their fallen enemy, and leaving him for a moment, he felt along the fence for his own weapon. He spoke no more, but by means of action made Don understand that he would go first, holding his spear at the trail, he grasping one end, Don the other. Jem was to do likewise, and thus linked together they would not be separated. All this took time, and during the brief moments that elapsed it was evident that the whole tribe was alarmed, and coming up to the _pah_. "All right, Mas' Don! I understand. It's follow my leader, and old `my pakeha' to lead." Ngati did not hesitate a moment, but went rapidly down the steep descent, straight for the river, apparently right for where some of the yelling tribe were advancing. All at once the New Zealand chief stopped short, turned quickly, and pressed his hands firmly on Don's shoulder; for voices were heard just in front, and so near, that the lad feared that they must be seen. But he grasped the chief's idea, and lay flat down, Jem following his example; and almost as they crouched to the ground, a group of the enemy ran up so close, that one of them caught his foot against Jem, and fell headlong. Fortunately Jem was too much startled to move, and, muttering angrily, the man sprang up, not--as Don expected--to let drive with a spear at his companion, but attributing his fall to some stone, or the trunk of a tree, he ran on after his companions. Then Ngati rose, uttered a few words, whose import they grasped, and once more they hurried on straight for the river. It was their only chance of escape, unless they made for the sea, and chanced finding a small canoe on the sands. But that was evidently not Ngati's intention. Over the river seemed to be the only way not likely to be watched; and, going straight for it, he only paused again close to its brink, listening to the shouting going on but a very short distance from where they stood. While Don listened, it sounded to him as if the Maoris were literally hunting them down, the men spreading out like a pack of dogs, and covering every inch of ground so closely that, unless they escaped from where they were, capture was absolutely certain. As they stood panting there, Ngati caught Don's hand, and tightened it round the spear, following this up by the same action with Jem. "He means we are to hold tight, Jem." "Is he going to take us across this tumbling river, Mas' Don?" "It seems so." "Then I shall hold tight." Before them they could faintly make out the foaming water, and though the distance was not above twenty or thirty yards, the water ran roaring over great stones in so fierce a torrent, that Don felt his heart sink, and shrank from the venture. But on the other side of the torrent was freedom from a death so horrible that the boy shuddered at the thought, and without hesitation he tightened his hold on the spear, and followed the great Maori as he stepped boldly into the rushing stream. It was a new sensation to Don as he moved on with the water over his waist, and pressing so hard against him, that but for the support of the spear-shaft, he must have been swept away. Sturdy even as Jem was, he, too, had a terribly hard task to keep his footing; for his short, broad figure offered a great deal of surface to the swift current, while the rugged stony bed of the river varied in depth at every step. They had a tower of strength, though, in Ngati, who, in spite of the wounds he had received, seemed as vigorous as ever; and though Don twice lost his footing, he clung tightly to the spear, and soon fought his way back to a perpendicular position. But even towers of strength are sometimes undermined and give way. It was so here. They were about half-way across the river, whose white foam gave them sufficient light to enable them to see their way, when, just as Ngati came opposite to a huge block of lava, over which the water poured in tremendous volume, he stepped down into a hole of great depth, and, in spite of his vast strength and efforts to recover himself, he was whirled here and there for a few moments by the power
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relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come," whispered Don. "Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick! I've got it. You climb up first, get over the top, and hang by your hands, and wait till I come. We must both drop together, and then be off. Oh, if we could only make him understand. What a fool of a language his is." Don could not even then help thinking that Ngati might have said the same, but he did not lose a moment. Loosening his hold of the chiefs hand, he whispered,-- "Pakeha. Come." Then giving himself up to the guidance of Jem, his hands were placed upon a rough post, and he began to climb, Jem helping him, somewhat after the fashion in which he had once assisted him to reach the window. Then, almost noiselessly, he reached the top, climbed over with ease by the aid of the lashings, and getting a tight hold of the strong fibrous bands, he lowered himself down to await Jem's coming. Ngati was more intelligent than Don had expected, for directly after he felt two great warm hands placed under to support his bare feet. These were raised and lowered a little; and, seizing the opportunity, he let himself sink down, till Ngati placed his feet upon two broad shoulders, and then Don felt himself seized by the hips, and lifted to the ground. As this went on Don could feel the post he had climbed vibrating, and though he could not see, he could tell that Jem had mounted to the top. "Where are you?" whispered Jem. "Look out! Ngati will help you." Jem grasped the situation, and the chief caught his feet, lowering him slowly, when all at once something seemed to spring out of the darkness, knocking Don right over, and seizing Ngati. That it was one of the guards there could be no doubt, for the man raised the alarm, and held on to the prisoner he had made, Jem going down awkwardly in turn. He and Don could have fled at once, but they could not leave their New Zealand friend in the lurch; and as the struggle went on, Jem had literally to feel his way to Ngati's help, no easy task in the darkness when two men are struggling. At last he was successful, and got a grip of one of the combatants' throat; but a hoarse, "No, pakeha!" told him of his mistake. He rectified it directly, getting his arm round the neck of the guard, tightening his grasp, and with such good effect, that Ngati wrenched himself free, and directly after Don heard one heavy blow, followed by a groan. "My pakeha!"<|quote|>"Here!"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they heard the rapid beating of feet, shouts below, in the _pah_, and close at hand. Ngati seized Don's hand, and after stooping down, thrust a spear into it. Then, uttering a grunt, he placed another spear in Jem's hand, the spoils of their fallen enemy, and leaving him for a moment, he felt along the fence for his own weapon. He spoke no more, but by means of action made Don understand that he would go first, holding his spear at the trail, he grasping one end, Don the other. Jem was to do likewise, and thus linked together they would not be separated. All this took time, and during the brief moments that elapsed it was evident that the whole tribe was alarmed, and coming up to the _pah_. "All right, Mas' Don! I understand. It's follow my leader, and old `my pakeha' to lead." Ngati did not hesitate a moment, but went rapidly down the steep descent, straight for the river, apparently right for where some of the yelling tribe were advancing. All at once the New Zealand chief stopped short, turned quickly, and pressed his hands firmly on Don's shoulder; for voices were heard just in front, and so near, that the lad feared that they must be seen. But he grasped the chief's idea, and lay flat down, Jem following his example; and almost as they crouched to the ground, a group of the enemy ran up so close, that one of them caught his foot against Jem, and fell headlong. Fortunately Jem was too much startled to move, and, muttering angrily, the man sprang up, not--as Don expected--to let drive with a spear at his companion, but attributing his fall to some stone, or the trunk of a tree, he ran on after his companions. Then Ngati rose, uttered a few words, whose import they grasped, and once more they hurried on straight for the river. It was their only chance of escape, unless they made for the sea, and chanced finding a small canoe on the sands. But that was evidently not Ngati's intention. Over the river seemed to be the only way not likely to be watched; and, going straight for it, he only paused again close to its brink, listening to the shouting going on but a very short distance from where they stood. While Don listened, it sounded to him as if the Maoris were literally hunting them down, the men spreading out like a pack of dogs, and covering every inch of ground so closely that, unless they escaped from
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Don Lavington
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"Serve him right!"
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Bill Sikes
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tear the boy to pieces."<|quote|>"Serve him right!"</|quote|>cried Sikes, struggling to disengage
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"Keep back the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces."<|quote|>"Serve him right!"</|quote|>cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp.
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room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof. "Keep back the dog, Bill!" cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. "Keep back the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces."<|quote|>"Serve him right!"</|quote|>cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall." "I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that," screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, "the child shan't be torn down by the dog,
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prosecute, and so get him lagged. He's safe enough." Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof. "Keep back the dog, Bill!" cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. "Keep back the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces."<|quote|>"Serve him right!"</|quote|>cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall." "I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that," screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, "the child shan't be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first." "Shan't he!" said Sikes, setting his teeth. "I'll soon do that, if you don't keep off." The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them. "What's the
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desperation. "The boy's right," remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. "You're right, Oliver, you're right; they _will_ think you have stolen 'em. Ha! ha!" chuckled the Jew, rubbing his hands, "it couldn't have happened better, if we had chosen our time!" "Of course it couldn't," replied Sikes; "I know'd that, directly I see him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It's all right enough. They're soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn't have taken him in at all; and they'll ask no questions after him, fear they should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He's safe enough." Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof. "Keep back the dog, Bill!" cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. "Keep back the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces."<|quote|>"Serve him right!"</|quote|>cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall." "I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that," screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, "the child shan't be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first." "Shan't he!" said Sikes, setting his teeth. "I'll soon do that, if you don't keep off." The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them. "What's the matter here!" said Fagin, looking round. "The girl's gone mad, I think," replied Sikes, savagely. "No, she hasn't," said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle; "no, she hasn't, Fagin; don't think it." "Then keep quiet, will you?" said the Jew, with a threatening look. "No, I won't do that, neither," replied Nancy, speaking very loud. "Come! What do you think of that?" Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs of that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel tolerably certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any conversation with her,
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"and not half enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you're fond of reading. If you ain't, sell 'em." "They're very pretty," said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; "beautiful writing, isn't is, Oliver?" At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first. "They belong to the old gentleman," said Oliver, wringing his hands; "to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He'll think I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!" With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew's feet; and beat his hands together, in perfect desperation. "The boy's right," remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. "You're right, Oliver, you're right; they _will_ think you have stolen 'em. Ha! ha!" chuckled the Jew, rubbing his hands, "it couldn't have happened better, if we had chosen our time!" "Of course it couldn't," replied Sikes; "I know'd that, directly I see him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It's all right enough. They're soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn't have taken him in at all; and they'll ask no questions after him, fear they should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He's safe enough." Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof. "Keep back the dog, Bill!" cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. "Keep back the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces."<|quote|>"Serve him right!"</|quote|>cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall." "I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that," screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, "the child shan't be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first." "Shan't he!" said Sikes, setting his teeth. "I'll soon do that, if you don't keep off." The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them. "What's the matter here!" said Fagin, looking round. "The girl's gone mad, I think," replied Sikes, savagely. "No, she hasn't," said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle; "no, she hasn't, Fagin; don't think it." "Then keep quiet, will you?" said the Jew, with a threatening look. "No, I won't do that, neither," replied Nancy, speaking very loud. "Come! What do you think of that?" Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs of that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel tolerably certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any conversation with her, at present. With the view of diverting the attention of the company, he turned to Oliver. "So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?" said the Jew, taking up a jagged and knotted club which lay in a corner of the fireplace; "eh?" Oliver made no reply. But he watched the Jew's motions, and breathed quickly. "Wanted to get assistance; called for the police; did you?" sneered the Jew, catching the boy by the arm. "We'll cure you of that, my young master." The Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver's shoulders with the club; and was raising it for a second, when the girl, rushing forward, wrested it from his hand. She flung it into the fire, with a force that brought some of the glowing coals whirling out into the room. "I won't stand by and see it done, Fagin," cried the girl. "You've got the boy, and what more would you have? Let him be let him be or I shall put that mark on some of you, that will bring me to the gallows before my time." The girl stamped her foot violently on the floor as she vented this threat; and with her
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stick from the Dodger; and, advancing to Oliver, viewed him round and round; while the Jew, taking off his nightcap, made a great number of low bows to the bewildered boy. The Artful, meantime, who was of a rather saturnine disposition, and seldom gave way to merriment when it interfered with business, rifled Oliver's pockets with steady assiduity. "Look at his togs, Fagin!" said Charley, putting the light so close to his new jacket as nearly to set him on fire. "Look at his togs! Superfine cloth, and the heavy swell cut! Oh, my eye, what a game! And his books, too! Nothing but a gentleman, Fagin!" "Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear," said the Jew, bowing with mock humility. "The Artful shall give you another suit, my dear, for fear you should spoil that Sunday one. Why didn't you write, my dear, and say you were coming? We'd have got something warm for supper." At his, Master Bates roared again: so loud, that Fagin himself relaxed, and even the Dodger smiled; but as the Artful drew forth the five-pound note at that instant, it is doubtful whether the sally of the discovery awakened his merriment. "Hallo, what's that?" inquired Sikes, stepping forward as the Jew seized the note. "That's mine, Fagin." "No, no, my dear," said the Jew. "Mine, Bill, mine. You shall have the books." "If that ain't mine!" said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat with a determined air; "mine and Nancy's that is; I'll take the boy back again." The Jew started. Oliver started too, though from a very different cause; for he hoped that the dispute might really end in his being taken back. "Come! Hand over, will you?" said Sikes. "This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?" inquired the Jew. "Fair, or not fair," retorted Sikes, "hand over, I tell you! Do you think Nancy and me has got nothing else to do with our precious time but to spend it in scouting arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as gets grabbed through you? Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton, give it here!" With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the note from between the Jew's finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face, folded it up small, and tied it in his neckerchief. "That's for our share of the trouble," said Sikes; "and not half enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you're fond of reading. If you ain't, sell 'em." "They're very pretty," said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; "beautiful writing, isn't is, Oliver?" At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first. "They belong to the old gentleman," said Oliver, wringing his hands; "to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He'll think I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!" With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew's feet; and beat his hands together, in perfect desperation. "The boy's right," remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. "You're right, Oliver, you're right; they _will_ think you have stolen 'em. Ha! ha!" chuckled the Jew, rubbing his hands, "it couldn't have happened better, if we had chosen our time!" "Of course it couldn't," replied Sikes; "I know'd that, directly I see him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It's all right enough. They're soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn't have taken him in at all; and they'll ask no questions after him, fear they should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He's safe enough." Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof. "Keep back the dog, Bill!" cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. "Keep back the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces."<|quote|>"Serve him right!"</|quote|>cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall." "I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that," screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, "the child shan't be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first." "Shan't he!" said Sikes, setting his teeth. "I'll soon do that, if you don't keep off." The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them. "What's the matter here!" said Fagin, looking round. "The girl's gone mad, I think," replied Sikes, savagely. "No, she hasn't," said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle; "no, she hasn't, Fagin; don't think it." "Then keep quiet, will you?" said the Jew, with a threatening look. "No, I won't do that, neither," replied Nancy, speaking very loud. "Come! What do you think of that?" Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs of that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel tolerably certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any conversation with her, at present. With the view of diverting the attention of the company, he turned to Oliver. "So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?" said the Jew, taking up a jagged and knotted club which lay in a corner of the fireplace; "eh?" Oliver made no reply. But he watched the Jew's motions, and breathed quickly. "Wanted to get assistance; called for the police; did you?" sneered the Jew, catching the boy by the arm. "We'll cure you of that, my young master." The Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver's shoulders with the club; and was raising it for a second, when the girl, rushing forward, wrested it from his hand. She flung it into the fire, with a force that brought some of the glowing coals whirling out into the room. "I won't stand by and see it done, Fagin," cried the girl. "You've got the boy, and what more would you have? Let him be let him be or I shall put that mark on some of you, that will bring me to the gallows before my time." The girl stamped her foot violently on the floor as she vented this threat; and with her lips compressed, and her hands clenched, looked alternately at the Jew and the other robber: her face quite colourless from the passion of rage into which she had gradually worked herself. "Why, Nancy!" said the Jew, in a soothing tone; after a pause, during which he and Mr. Sikes had stared at one another in a disconcerted manner; "you, you're more clever than ever to-night. Ha! ha! my dear, you are acting beautifully." "Am I!" said the girl. "Take care I don't overdo it. You will be the worse for it, Fagin, if I do; and so I tell you in good time to keep clear of me." There is something about a roused woman: especially if she add to all her other strong passions, the fierce impulses of recklessness and despair; which few men like to provoke. The Jew saw that it would be hopeless to affect any further mistake regarding the reality of Miss Nancy's rage; and, shrinking involuntarily back a few paces, cast a glance, half imploring and half cowardly, at Sikes: as if to hint that he was the fittest person to pursue the dialogue. Mr. Sikes, thus mutely appealed to; and possibly feeling his personal pride and influence interested in the immediate reduction of Miss Nancy to reason; gave utterance to about a couple of score of curses and threats, the rapid production of which reflected great credit on the fertility of his invention. As they produced no visible effect on the object against whom they were discharged, however, he resorted to more tangible arguments. "What do you mean by this?" said Sikes; backing the inquiry with a very common imprecation concerning the most beautiful of human features: which, if it were heard above, only once out of every fifty thousand times that it is uttered below, would render blindness as common a disorder as measles: "what do you mean by it? Burn my body! Do you know who you are, and what you are?" "Oh, yes, I know all about it," replied the girl, laughing hysterically; and shaking her head from side to side, with a poor assumption of indifference. "Well, then, keep quiet," rejoined Sikes, with a growl like that he was accustomed to use when addressing his dog, "or I'll quiet you for a good long time to come." The girl laughed again: even less composedly than before; and, darting a hasty
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"No, no, my dear," said the Jew. "Mine, Bill, mine. You shall have the books." "If that ain't mine!" said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat with a determined air; "mine and Nancy's that is; I'll take the boy back again." The Jew started. Oliver started too, though from a very different cause; for he hoped that the dispute might really end in his being taken back. "Come! Hand over, will you?" said Sikes. "This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?" inquired the Jew. "Fair, or not fair," retorted Sikes, "hand over, I tell you! Do you think Nancy and me has got nothing else to do with our precious time but to spend it in scouting arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as gets grabbed through you? Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton, give it here!" With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the note from between the Jew's finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face, folded it up small, and tied it in his neckerchief. "That's for our share of the trouble," said Sikes; "and not half enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you're fond of reading. If you ain't, sell 'em." "They're very pretty," said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; "beautiful writing, isn't is, Oliver?" At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first. "They belong to the old gentleman," said Oliver, wringing his hands; "to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He'll think I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!" With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew's feet; and beat his hands together, in perfect desperation. "The boy's right," remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. "You're right, Oliver, you're right; they _will_ think you have stolen 'em. Ha! ha!" chuckled the Jew, rubbing his hands, "it couldn't have happened better, if we had chosen our time!" "Of course it couldn't," replied Sikes; "I know'd that, directly I see him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It's all right enough. They're soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn't have taken him in at all; and they'll ask no questions after him, fear they should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He's safe enough." Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof. "Keep back the dog, Bill!" cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. "Keep back the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces."<|quote|>"Serve him right!"</|quote|>cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall." "I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that," screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, "the child shan't be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first." "Shan't he!" said Sikes, setting his teeth. "I'll soon do that, if you don't keep off." The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them. "What's the matter here!" said Fagin, looking round. "The girl's gone mad, I think," replied Sikes, savagely. "No, she hasn't," said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle; "no, she hasn't, Fagin; don't think it." "Then keep quiet, will you?" said the Jew, with a threatening look. "No, I won't do that, neither," replied Nancy, speaking very loud. "Come! What do you think of that?" Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs of that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel tolerably certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any conversation with her, at present. With the view of diverting the attention of the company, he turned to Oliver. "So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?" said the Jew, taking up a jagged and knotted club which lay in a corner of the fireplace; "eh?" Oliver made no reply. But he watched the Jew's motions, and breathed quickly. "Wanted to get assistance; called for the police; did you?" sneered the Jew, catching the boy by the arm. "We'll cure you of that, my young master." The Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver's shoulders with the club; and was raising it for a second, when the girl, rushing forward, wrested it from his hand. She flung it into the fire, with a force that brought some of the glowing coals whirling out into the room. "I won't stand by and see it done, Fagin," cried the girl. "You've got the boy, and what more would you have? Let him be let him be or I shall put that mark on some of you, that will bring me to the gallows before my time." The girl stamped her foot violently on the floor as she vented this threat; and with her lips compressed, and her hands clenched, looked alternately at the Jew and the other robber: her face quite colourless from the passion of rage into which she had gradually worked herself. "Why, Nancy!" said the Jew, in a soothing tone; after a pause, during
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Oliver Twist
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"why will she never believe it of him?"
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Thomas Gradgrind
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her." "Pray," said Mr. Gradgrind,<|quote|>"why will she never believe it of him?"</|quote|>"Because those two were one.
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has cut away and left her." "Pray," said Mr. Gradgrind,<|quote|>"why will she never believe it of him?"</|quote|>"Because those two were one. Because they were never asunder.
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an errand not an hour ago, and then was seen to slip out himself, with his hat over his eyes, and a bundle tied up in a handkerchief under his arm. She will never believe it of him, but he has cut away and left her." "Pray," said Mr. Gradgrind,<|quote|>"why will she never believe it of him?"</|quote|>"Because those two were one. Because they were never asunder. Because, up to this time, he seemed to dote upon her," said Childers, taking a step or two to look into the empty trunk. Both Mr. Childers and Master Kidderminster walked in a curious manner; with their legs wider apart
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will you, if you please?" said Childers. "Because this isn't a strong building, and too much of you might bring it down!" Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to foot again, he turned from him, as from a man finally disposed of, to Mr. Gradgrind. "Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand not an hour ago, and then was seen to slip out himself, with his hat over his eyes, and a bundle tied up in a handkerchief under his arm. She will never believe it of him, but he has cut away and left her." "Pray," said Mr. Gradgrind,<|quote|>"why will she never believe it of him?"</|quote|>"Because those two were one. Because they were never asunder. Because, up to this time, he seemed to dote upon her," said Childers, taking a step or two to look into the empty trunk. Both Mr. Childers and Master Kidderminster walked in a curious manner; with their legs wider apart than the general run of men, and with a very knowing assumption of being stiff in the knees. This walk was common to all the male members of Sleary's company, and was understood to express, that they were always on horseback. "Poor Sissy! He had better have apprenticed her," said
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or whether in French," retorted Mr. E. W. B. Childers, facing about. "I am telling your friend what's the fact; if you don't like to hear it, you can avail yourself of the open air. You give it mouth enough, you do; but give it mouth in your own building at least," remonstrated E. W. B. with stern irony. "Don't give it mouth in this building, till you're called upon. You have got some building of your own I dare say, now?" "Perhaps so," replied Mr. Bounderby, rattling his money and laughing. "Then give it mouth in your own building, will you, if you please?" said Childers. "Because this isn't a strong building, and too much of you might bring it down!" Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to foot again, he turned from him, as from a man finally disposed of, to Mr. Gradgrind. "Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand not an hour ago, and then was seen to slip out himself, with his hat over his eyes, and a bundle tied up in a handkerchief under his arm. She will never believe it of him, but he has cut away and left her." "Pray," said Mr. Gradgrind,<|quote|>"why will she never believe it of him?"</|quote|>"Because those two were one. Because they were never asunder. Because, up to this time, he seemed to dote upon her," said Childers, taking a step or two to look into the empty trunk. Both Mr. Childers and Master Kidderminster walked in a curious manner; with their legs wider apart than the general run of men, and with a very knowing assumption of being stiff in the knees. This walk was common to all the male members of Sleary's company, and was understood to express, that they were always on horseback. "Poor Sissy! He had better have apprenticed her," said Childers, giving his hair another shake, as he looked up from the empty box. "Now, he leaves her without anything to take to." "It is creditable to you, who have never been apprenticed, to express that opinion," returned Mr. Gradgrind, approvingly. "_I_ never apprenticed? I was apprenticed when I was seven year old." "Oh! Indeed?" said Mr. Gradgrind, rather resentfully, as having been defrauded of his good opinion. "I was not aware of its being the custom to apprentice young persons to" "Idleness," Mr. Bounderby put in with a loud laugh. "No, by the Lord Harry! Nor I!" "Her father
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devilish good! Ha! ha! Now, I'll tell you what, young man. I haven't always occupied my present station of life. I know what these things are. You may be astonished to hear it, but my mother ran away from _me_." E. W. B. Childers replied pointedly, that he was not at all astonished to hear it. "Very well," said Bounderby. "I was born in a ditch, and my mother ran away from me. Do I excuse her for it? No. Have I ever excused her for it? Not I. What do I call her for it? I call her probably the very worst woman that ever lived in the world, except my drunken grandmother. There's no family pride about me, there's no imaginative sentimental humbug about me. I call a spade a spade; and I call the mother of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, without any fear or any favour, what I should call her if she had been the mother of Dick Jones of Wapping. So, with this man. He is a runaway rogue and a vagabond, that's what he is, in English." "It's all the same to me what he is or what he is not, whether in English or whether in French," retorted Mr. E. W. B. Childers, facing about. "I am telling your friend what's the fact; if you don't like to hear it, you can avail yourself of the open air. You give it mouth enough, you do; but give it mouth in your own building at least," remonstrated E. W. B. with stern irony. "Don't give it mouth in this building, till you're called upon. You have got some building of your own I dare say, now?" "Perhaps so," replied Mr. Bounderby, rattling his money and laughing. "Then give it mouth in your own building, will you, if you please?" said Childers. "Because this isn't a strong building, and too much of you might bring it down!" Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to foot again, he turned from him, as from a man finally disposed of, to Mr. Gradgrind. "Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand not an hour ago, and then was seen to slip out himself, with his hat over his eyes, and a bundle tied up in a handkerchief under his arm. She will never believe it of him, but he has cut away and left her." "Pray," said Mr. Gradgrind,<|quote|>"why will she never believe it of him?"</|quote|>"Because those two were one. Because they were never asunder. Because, up to this time, he seemed to dote upon her," said Childers, taking a step or two to look into the empty trunk. Both Mr. Childers and Master Kidderminster walked in a curious manner; with their legs wider apart than the general run of men, and with a very knowing assumption of being stiff in the knees. This walk was common to all the male members of Sleary's company, and was understood to express, that they were always on horseback. "Poor Sissy! He had better have apprenticed her," said Childers, giving his hair another shake, as he looked up from the empty box. "Now, he leaves her without anything to take to." "It is creditable to you, who have never been apprenticed, to express that opinion," returned Mr. Gradgrind, approvingly. "_I_ never apprenticed? I was apprenticed when I was seven year old." "Oh! Indeed?" said Mr. Gradgrind, rather resentfully, as having been defrauded of his good opinion. "I was not aware of its being the custom to apprentice young persons to" "Idleness," Mr. Bounderby put in with a loud laugh. "No, by the Lord Harry! Nor I!" "Her father always had it in his head," resumed Childers, feigning unconsciousness of Mr. Bounderby's existence, "that she was to be taught the deuce-and-all of education. How it got into his head, I can't say; I can only say that it never got out. He has been picking up a bit of reading for her, here and a bit of writing for her, there and a bit of ciphering for her, somewhere else these seven years." Mr. E. W. B. Childers took one of his hands out of his pockets, stroked his face and chin, and looked, with a good deal of doubt and a little hope, at Mr. Gradgrind. From the first he had sought to conciliate that gentleman, for the sake of the deserted girl. "When Sissy got into the school here," he pursued, "her father was as pleased as Punch. I couldn't altogether make out why, myself, as we were not stationary here, being but comers and goers anywhere. I suppose, however, he had this move in his mind he was always half-cracked and then considered her provided for. If you should happen to have looked in to-night, for the purpose of telling him that you were going to
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his laugh of laughs. "Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised himself!" "Lower yourself, then," retorted Cupid. "Oh Lord! if you've raised yourself so high as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit." "This is a very obtrusive lad!" said Mr. Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on him. "We'd have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming," retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. "It's a pity you don't have a bespeak, being so particular. You're on the Tight-Jeff, ain't you?" "What does this unmannerly boy mean," asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get out!" said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's only tight-rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?" "Yes, I was." "Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?" "I never saw the man in my life." "I doubt if you ever _will_ see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off." "Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?" "Ay! I mean," said Mr. Childers, with a nod, "that he has cut. He was goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he can't stand it." "Why has he been so very much Goosed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of himself, with great solemnity and reluctance. "His joints are turning stiff, and he is getting used up," said Childers. "He has his points as a Cackler still, but he can't get a living out of _them_." "A Cackler!" Bounderby repeated. "Here we go again!" "A speaker, if the gentleman likes it better," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, superciliously throwing the interpretation over his shoulder, and accompanying it with a shake of his long hair which all shook at once. "Now, it's a remarkable fact, sir, that it cut that man deeper, to know that his daughter knew of his being goosed, than to go through with it." "Good!" interrupted Mr. Bounderby. "This is good, Gradgrind! A man so fond of his daughter, that he runs away from her! This is devilish good! Ha! ha! Now, I'll tell you what, young man. I haven't always occupied my present station of life. I know what these things are. You may be astonished to hear it, but my mother ran away from _me_." E. W. B. Childers replied pointedly, that he was not at all astonished to hear it. "Very well," said Bounderby. "I was born in a ditch, and my mother ran away from me. Do I excuse her for it? No. Have I ever excused her for it? Not I. What do I call her for it? I call her probably the very worst woman that ever lived in the world, except my drunken grandmother. There's no family pride about me, there's no imaginative sentimental humbug about me. I call a spade a spade; and I call the mother of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, without any fear or any favour, what I should call her if she had been the mother of Dick Jones of Wapping. So, with this man. He is a runaway rogue and a vagabond, that's what he is, in English." "It's all the same to me what he is or what he is not, whether in English or whether in French," retorted Mr. E. W. B. Childers, facing about. "I am telling your friend what's the fact; if you don't like to hear it, you can avail yourself of the open air. You give it mouth enough, you do; but give it mouth in your own building at least," remonstrated E. W. B. with stern irony. "Don't give it mouth in this building, till you're called upon. You have got some building of your own I dare say, now?" "Perhaps so," replied Mr. Bounderby, rattling his money and laughing. "Then give it mouth in your own building, will you, if you please?" said Childers. "Because this isn't a strong building, and too much of you might bring it down!" Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to foot again, he turned from him, as from a man finally disposed of, to Mr. Gradgrind. "Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand not an hour ago, and then was seen to slip out himself, with his hat over his eyes, and a bundle tied up in a handkerchief under his arm. She will never believe it of him, but he has cut away and left her." "Pray," said Mr. Gradgrind,<|quote|>"why will she never believe it of him?"</|quote|>"Because those two were one. Because they were never asunder. Because, up to this time, he seemed to dote upon her," said Childers, taking a step or two to look into the empty trunk. Both Mr. Childers and Master Kidderminster walked in a curious manner; with their legs wider apart than the general run of men, and with a very knowing assumption of being stiff in the knees. This walk was common to all the male members of Sleary's company, and was understood to express, that they were always on horseback. "Poor Sissy! He had better have apprenticed her," said Childers, giving his hair another shake, as he looked up from the empty box. "Now, he leaves her without anything to take to." "It is creditable to you, who have never been apprenticed, to express that opinion," returned Mr. Gradgrind, approvingly. "_I_ never apprenticed? I was apprenticed when I was seven year old." "Oh! Indeed?" said Mr. Gradgrind, rather resentfully, as having been defrauded of his good opinion. "I was not aware of its being the custom to apprentice young persons to" "Idleness," Mr. Bounderby put in with a loud laugh. "No, by the Lord Harry! Nor I!" "Her father always had it in his head," resumed Childers, feigning unconsciousness of Mr. Bounderby's existence, "that she was to be taught the deuce-and-all of education. How it got into his head, I can't say; I can only say that it never got out. He has been picking up a bit of reading for her, here and a bit of writing for her, there and a bit of ciphering for her, somewhere else these seven years." Mr. E. W. B. Childers took one of his hands out of his pockets, stroked his face and chin, and looked, with a good deal of doubt and a little hope, at Mr. Gradgrind. From the first he had sought to conciliate that gentleman, for the sake of the deserted girl. "When Sissy got into the school here," he pursued, "her father was as pleased as Punch. I couldn't altogether make out why, myself, as we were not stationary here, being but comers and goers anywhere. I suppose, however, he had this move in his mind he was always half-cracked and then considered her provided for. If you should happen to have looked in to-night, for the purpose of telling him that you were going to do her any little service," said Mr. Childers, stroking his face again, and repeating his look, "it would be very fortunate and well-timed; very fortunate and well-timed." "On the contrary," returned Mr. Gradgrind. "I came to tell him that her connections made her not an object for the school, and that she must not attend any more. Still, if her father really has left her, without any connivance on her part Bounderby, let me have a word with you." Upon this, Mr. Childers politely betook himself, with his equestrian walk, to the landing outside the door, and there stood stroking his face, and softly whistling. While thus engaged, he overheard such phrases in Mr. Bounderby's voice as "No. _I_ say no. I advise you not. I say by no means." While, from Mr. Gradgrind, he heard in his much lower tone the words, "But even as an example to Louisa, of what this pursuit which has been the subject of a vulgar curiosity, leads to and ends in. Think of it, Bounderby, in that point of view." Meanwhile, the various members of Sleary's company gradually gathered together from the upper regions, where they were quartered, and, from standing about, talking in low voices to one another and to Mr. Childers, gradually insinuated themselves and him into the room. There were two or three handsome young women among them, with their two or three husbands, and their two or three mothers, and their eight or nine little children, who did the fairy business when required. The father of one of the families was in the habit of balancing the father of another of the families on the top of a great pole; the father of a third family often made a pyramid of both those fathers, with Master Kidderminster for the apex, and himself for the base; all the fathers could dance upon rolling casks, stand upon bottles, catch knives and balls, twirl hand-basins, ride upon anything, jump over everything, and stick at nothing. All the mothers could (and did) dance, upon the slack wire and the tight-rope, and perform rapid acts on bare-backed steeds; none of them were at all particular in respect of showing their legs; and one of them, alone in a Greek chariot, drove six in hand into every town they came to. They all assumed to be mighty rakish and knowing, they were not very tidy
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humbug about me. I call a spade a spade; and I call the mother of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, without any fear or any favour, what I should call her if she had been the mother of Dick Jones of Wapping. So, with this man. He is a runaway rogue and a vagabond, that's what he is, in English." "It's all the same to me what he is or what he is not, whether in English or whether in French," retorted Mr. E. W. B. Childers, facing about. "I am telling your friend what's the fact; if you don't like to hear it, you can avail yourself of the open air. You give it mouth enough, you do; but give it mouth in your own building at least," remonstrated E. W. B. with stern irony. "Don't give it mouth in this building, till you're called upon. You have got some building of your own I dare say, now?" "Perhaps so," replied Mr. Bounderby, rattling his money and laughing. "Then give it mouth in your own building, will you, if you please?" said Childers. "Because this isn't a strong building, and too much of you might bring it down!" Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to foot again, he turned from him, as from a man finally disposed of, to Mr. Gradgrind. "Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand not an hour ago, and then was seen to slip out himself, with his hat over his eyes, and a bundle tied up in a handkerchief under his arm. She will never believe it of him, but he has cut away and left her." "Pray," said Mr. Gradgrind,<|quote|>"why will she never believe it of him?"</|quote|>"Because those two were one. Because they were never asunder. Because, up to this time, he seemed to dote upon her," said Childers, taking a step or two to look into the empty trunk. Both Mr. Childers and Master Kidderminster walked in a curious manner; with their legs wider apart than the general run of men, and with a very knowing assumption of being stiff in the knees. This walk was common to all the male members of Sleary's company, and was understood to express, that they were always on horseback. "Poor Sissy! He had better have apprenticed her," said Childers, giving his hair another shake, as he looked up from the empty box. "Now, he leaves her without anything to take to." "It is creditable to you, who have never been apprenticed, to express that opinion," returned Mr. Gradgrind, approvingly. "_I_ never apprenticed? I was apprenticed when I was seven year old." "Oh! Indeed?" said Mr. Gradgrind, rather resentfully, as having been defrauded of his good opinion. "I was not aware of its being the custom to apprentice young persons to" "Idleness," Mr. Bounderby put in with a loud laugh. "No, by the Lord Harry! Nor I!" "Her father always had it in his head," resumed Childers, feigning unconsciousness of Mr. Bounderby's existence, "that she was to be taught the deuce-and-all of education. How it got into his head, I can't say; I can only say that it never got out. He has been picking up a bit of reading for her, here and a bit of writing for her, there and a bit of ciphering for her, somewhere else these seven years." Mr. E. W. B. Childers took one of his hands out of his pockets, stroked his face and chin, and looked, with a good deal of doubt and a little hope, at Mr. Gradgrind. From the first he had sought to conciliate that gentleman,
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Hard Times
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said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder;
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No speaker
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affinity or connection whatsoever. "Ugh!"<|quote|>said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder;</|quote|>"a couple of glasses of
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will compounded, there existed no affinity or connection whatsoever. "Ugh!"<|quote|>said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder;</|quote|>"a couple of glasses of port wine would have done
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him any nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?" "He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir," replied Mrs. Bedwin: drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong emphasis on the last word: to intimate that between slops, and broth will compounded, there existed no affinity or connection whatsoever. "Ugh!"<|quote|>said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder;</|quote|>"a couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn't they, Tom White, eh?" "My name is Oliver, sir," replied the little invalid: with a look of great astonishment. "Oliver," said Mr. Brownlow; "Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?" "No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist."
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don't know," said Mr. Brownlow; "I rather think I had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but never mind that. How do you feel, my dear?" "Very happy, sir," replied Oliver. "And very grateful indeed, sir, for your goodness to me." "Good by," said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. "Have you given him any nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?" "He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir," replied Mrs. Bedwin: drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong emphasis on the last word: to intimate that between slops, and broth will compounded, there existed no affinity or connection whatsoever. "Ugh!"<|quote|>said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder;</|quote|>"a couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn't they, Tom White, eh?" "My name is Oliver, sir," replied the little invalid: with a look of great astonishment. "Oliver," said Mr. Brownlow; "Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?" "No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist." "Queer name!" said the old gentleman. "What made you tell the magistrate your name was White?" "I never told him so, sir," returned Oliver in amazement. This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked somewhat sternly in Oliver's face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was
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back into the chair again; and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow's heart, being large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane disposition, forced a supply of tears into his eyes, by some hydraulic process which we are not sufficiently philosophical to be in a condition to explain. "Poor boy, poor boy!" said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. "I'm rather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I'm afraid I have caught cold." "I hope not, sir," said Mrs. Bedwin. "Everything you have had, has been well aired, sir." "I don't know, Bedwin. I don't know," said Mr. Brownlow; "I rather think I had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but never mind that. How do you feel, my dear?" "Very happy, sir," replied Oliver. "And very grateful indeed, sir, for your goodness to me." "Good by," said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. "Have you given him any nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?" "He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir," replied Mrs. Bedwin: drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong emphasis on the last word: to intimate that between slops, and broth will compounded, there existed no affinity or connection whatsoever. "Ugh!"<|quote|>said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder;</|quote|>"a couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn't they, Tom White, eh?" "My name is Oliver, sir," replied the little invalid: with a look of great astonishment. "Oliver," said Mr. Brownlow; "Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?" "No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist." "Queer name!" said the old gentleman. "What made you tell the magistrate your name was White?" "I never told him so, sir," returned Oliver in amazement. This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked somewhat sternly in Oliver's face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments. "Some mistake," said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance between his features and some familiar face came upon him so strongly, that he could not withdraw his gaze. "I hope you are not angry with me, sir?" said Oliver, raising his eyes beseechingly. "No, no," replied the old gentleman. "Why! what's this? Bedwin, look there!" As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver's head, and then to the boy's face. There was its
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see it. There!" said the old lady, suiting the action to the word; "you don't see it now, at all events." Oliver _did_ see it in his mind's eye as distinctly as if he had not altered his position; but he thought it better not to worry the kind old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him; and Mrs. Bedwin, satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of toasted bread into the broth, with all the bustle befitting so solemn a preparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition. He had scarcely swallowed the last spoonful, when there came a soft rap at the door. "Come in," said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow. Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but, he had no sooner raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands behind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long look at Oliver, than his countenance underwent a very great variety of odd contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from sickness, and made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of respect to his benefactor, which terminated in his sinking back into the chair again; and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow's heart, being large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane disposition, forced a supply of tears into his eyes, by some hydraulic process which we are not sufficiently philosophical to be in a condition to explain. "Poor boy, poor boy!" said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. "I'm rather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I'm afraid I have caught cold." "I hope not, sir," said Mrs. Bedwin. "Everything you have had, has been well aired, sir." "I don't know, Bedwin. I don't know," said Mr. Brownlow; "I rather think I had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but never mind that. How do you feel, my dear?" "Very happy, sir," replied Oliver. "And very grateful indeed, sir, for your goodness to me." "Good by," said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. "Have you given him any nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?" "He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir," replied Mrs. Bedwin: drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong emphasis on the last word: to intimate that between slops, and broth will compounded, there existed no affinity or connection whatsoever. "Ugh!"<|quote|>said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder;</|quote|>"a couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn't they, Tom White, eh?" "My name is Oliver, sir," replied the little invalid: with a look of great astonishment. "Oliver," said Mr. Brownlow; "Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?" "No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist." "Queer name!" said the old gentleman. "What made you tell the magistrate your name was White?" "I never told him so, sir," returned Oliver in amazement. This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked somewhat sternly in Oliver's face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments. "Some mistake," said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance between his features and some familiar face came upon him so strongly, that he could not withdraw his gaze. "I hope you are not angry with me, sir?" said Oliver, raising his eyes beseechingly. "No, no," replied the old gentleman. "Why! what's this? Bedwin, look there!" As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver's head, and then to the boy's face. There was its living copy. The eyes, the head, the mouth; every feature was the same. The expression was, for the instant, so precisely alike, that the minutest line seemed copied with startling accuracy! Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not being strong enough to bear the start it gave him, he fainted away. A weakness on his part, which affords the narrative an opportunity of relieving the reader from suspense, in behalf of the two young pupils of the Merry Old Gentleman; and of recording That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates, joined in the hue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver's heels, in consequence of their executing an illegal conveyance of Mr. Brownlow's personal property, as has been already described, they were actuated by a very laudable and becoming regard for themselves; and forasmuch as the freedom of the subject and the liberty of the individual are among the first and proudest boasts of a true-hearted Englishman, so, I need hardly beg the reader to observe, that this action should tend to exalt them in the opinion of all public and patriotic men, in almost as great a degree as this strong proof of their
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to me, ma'am," said Oliver. "Well, never you mind that, my dear," said the old lady; "that's got nothing to do with your broth; and it's full time you had it; for the doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this morning; and we must get up our best looks, because the better we look, the more he'll be pleased." And with this, the old lady applied herself to warming up, in a little saucepan, a basin full of broth: strong enough, Oliver thought, to furnish an ample dinner, when reduced to the regulation strength, for three hundred and fifty paupers, at the lowest computation. "Are you fond of pictures, dear?" inquired the old lady, seeing that Oliver had fixed his eyes, most intently, on a portrait which hung against the wall; just opposite his chair. "I don't quite know, ma'am," said Oliver, without taking his eyes from the canvas; "I have seen so few that I hardly know. What a beautiful, mild face that lady's is!" "Ah!" said the old lady, "painters always make ladies out prettier than they are, or they wouldn't get any custom, child. The man that invented the machine for taking likenesses might have known that would never succeed; it's a deal too honest. A deal," said the old lady, laughing very heartily at her own acuteness. "Is is that a likeness, ma'am?" said Oliver. "Yes," said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth; "that's a portrait." "Whose, ma'am?" asked Oliver. "Why, really, my dear, I don't know," answered the old lady in a good-humoured manner. "It's not a likeness of anybody that you or I know, I expect. It seems to strike your fancy, dear." "It is so pretty," replied Oliver. "Why, sure you're not afraid of it?" said the old lady: observing in great surprise, the look of awe with which the child regarded the painting. "Oh no, no," returned Oliver quickly; "but the eyes look so sorrowful; and where I sit, they seem fixed upon me. It makes my heart beat," added Oliver in a low voice, "as if it was alive, and wanted to speak to me, but couldn't." "Lord save us!" exclaimed the old lady, starting; "don't talk in that way, child. You're weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel your chair round to the other side; and then you won't see it. There!" said the old lady, suiting the action to the word; "you don't see it now, at all events." Oliver _did_ see it in his mind's eye as distinctly as if he had not altered his position; but he thought it better not to worry the kind old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him; and Mrs. Bedwin, satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of toasted bread into the broth, with all the bustle befitting so solemn a preparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition. He had scarcely swallowed the last spoonful, when there came a soft rap at the door. "Come in," said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow. Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but, he had no sooner raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands behind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long look at Oliver, than his countenance underwent a very great variety of odd contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from sickness, and made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of respect to his benefactor, which terminated in his sinking back into the chair again; and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow's heart, being large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane disposition, forced a supply of tears into his eyes, by some hydraulic process which we are not sufficiently philosophical to be in a condition to explain. "Poor boy, poor boy!" said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. "I'm rather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I'm afraid I have caught cold." "I hope not, sir," said Mrs. Bedwin. "Everything you have had, has been well aired, sir." "I don't know, Bedwin. I don't know," said Mr. Brownlow; "I rather think I had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but never mind that. How do you feel, my dear?" "Very happy, sir," replied Oliver. "And very grateful indeed, sir, for your goodness to me." "Good by," said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. "Have you given him any nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?" "He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir," replied Mrs. Bedwin: drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong emphasis on the last word: to intimate that between slops, and broth will compounded, there existed no affinity or connection whatsoever. "Ugh!"<|quote|>said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder;</|quote|>"a couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn't they, Tom White, eh?" "My name is Oliver, sir," replied the little invalid: with a look of great astonishment. "Oliver," said Mr. Brownlow; "Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?" "No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist." "Queer name!" said the old gentleman. "What made you tell the magistrate your name was White?" "I never told him so, sir," returned Oliver in amazement. This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked somewhat sternly in Oliver's face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments. "Some mistake," said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance between his features and some familiar face came upon him so strongly, that he could not withdraw his gaze. "I hope you are not angry with me, sir?" said Oliver, raising his eyes beseechingly. "No, no," replied the old gentleman. "Why! what's this? Bedwin, look there!" As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver's head, and then to the boy's face. There was its living copy. The eyes, the head, the mouth; every feature was the same. The expression was, for the instant, so precisely alike, that the minutest line seemed copied with startling accuracy! Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not being strong enough to bear the start it gave him, he fainted away. A weakness on his part, which affords the narrative an opportunity of relieving the reader from suspense, in behalf of the two young pupils of the Merry Old Gentleman; and of recording That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates, joined in the hue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver's heels, in consequence of their executing an illegal conveyance of Mr. Brownlow's personal property, as has been already described, they were actuated by a very laudable and becoming regard for themselves; and forasmuch as the freedom of the subject and the liberty of the individual are among the first and proudest boasts of a true-hearted Englishman, so, I need hardly beg the reader to observe, that this action should tend to exalt them in the opinion of all public and patriotic men, in almost as great a degree as this strong proof of their anxiety for their own preservation and safety goes to corroborate and confirm the little code of laws which certain profound and sound-judging philosophers have laid down as the main-springs of all Nature's deeds and actions: the said philosophers very wisely reducing the good lady's proceedings to matters of maxim and theory: and, by a very neat and pretty compliment to her exalted wisdom and understanding, putting entirely out of sight any considerations of heart, or generous impulse and feeling. For, these are matters totally beneath a female who is acknowledged by universal admission to be far above the numerous little foibles and weaknesses of her sex. If I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical nature of the conduct of these young gentlemen in their very delicate predicament, I should at once find it in the fact (also recorded in a foregoing part of this narrative), of their quitting the pursuit, when the general attention was fixed upon Oliver; and making immediately for their home by the shortest possible cut. Although I do not mean to assert that it is usually the practice of renowned and learned sages, to shorten the road to any great conclusion (their course indeed being rather to lengthen the distance, by various circumlocutions and discursive staggerings, like unto those in which drunken men under the pressure of a too mighty flow of ideas, are prone to indulge); still, I do mean to say, and do say distinctly, that it is the invariable practice of many mighty philosophers, in carrying out their theories, to evince great wisdom and foresight in providing against every possible contingency which can be supposed at all likely to affect themselves. Thus, to do a great right, you may do a little wrong; and you may take any means which the end to be attained, will justify; the amount of the right, or the amount of the wrong, or indeed the distinction between the two, being left entirely to the philosopher concerned, to be settled and determined by his clear, comprehensive, and impartial view of his own particular case. It was not until the two boys had scoured, with great rapidity, through a most intricate maze of narrow streets and courts, that they ventured to halt beneath a low and dark archway. Having remained silent here, just long enough to recover breath to speak, Master Bates uttered an exclamation of amusement
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then you won't see it. There!" said the old lady, suiting the action to the word; "you don't see it now, at all events." Oliver _did_ see it in his mind's eye as distinctly as if he had not altered his position; but he thought it better not to worry the kind old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him; and Mrs. Bedwin, satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of toasted bread into the broth, with all the bustle befitting so solemn a preparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition. He had scarcely swallowed the last spoonful, when there came a soft rap at the door. "Come in," said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow. Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but, he had no sooner raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands behind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long look at Oliver, than his countenance underwent a very great variety of odd contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from sickness, and made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of respect to his benefactor, which terminated in his sinking back into the chair again; and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow's heart, being large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane disposition, forced a supply of tears into his eyes, by some hydraulic process which we are not sufficiently philosophical to be in a condition to explain. "Poor boy, poor boy!" said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. "I'm rather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I'm afraid I have caught cold." "I hope not, sir," said Mrs. Bedwin. "Everything you have had, has been well aired, sir." "I don't know, Bedwin. I don't know," said Mr. Brownlow; "I rather think I had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but never mind that. How do you feel, my dear?" "Very happy, sir," replied Oliver. "And very grateful indeed, sir, for your goodness to me." "Good by," said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. "Have you given him any nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?" "He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir," replied Mrs. Bedwin: drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong emphasis on the last word: to intimate that between slops, and broth will compounded, there existed no affinity or connection whatsoever. "Ugh!"<|quote|>said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder;</|quote|>"a couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn't they, Tom White, eh?" "My name is Oliver, sir," replied the little invalid: with a look of great astonishment. "Oliver," said Mr. Brownlow; "Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?" "No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist." "Queer name!" said the old gentleman. "What made you tell the magistrate your name was White?" "I never told him so, sir," returned Oliver in amazement. This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked somewhat sternly in Oliver's face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments. "Some mistake," said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance between his features and some familiar face came upon him so strongly, that he could not withdraw his gaze. "I hope you are not angry with me, sir?" said Oliver, raising his eyes beseechingly. "No, no," replied the old gentleman. "Why! what's this? Bedwin, look there!" As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver's head, and then to the boy's face. There was its living copy. The eyes, the head, the mouth; every feature was the same. The expression was, for the instant, so precisely alike, that the minutest line seemed copied with startling accuracy! Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not being strong enough to bear the start it gave him, he fainted away. A weakness on his part, which affords the narrative an opportunity of relieving the reader from suspense, in behalf of the two young pupils of the Merry Old Gentleman; and of recording That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates, joined in the hue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver's heels, in consequence of their executing an illegal conveyance of Mr. Brownlow's personal property, as has been already described, they
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Oliver Twist
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"But he paid her not the smallest attention, till her grandfather's death made her mistress of this fortune."
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Mrs. Gardiner
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know no harm of her."<|quote|>"But he paid her not the smallest attention, till her grandfather's death made her mistress of this fortune."</|quote|>"No--why should he? If it
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of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her."<|quote|>"But he paid her not the smallest attention, till her grandfather's death made her mistress of this fortune."</|quote|>"No--why should he? If it was not allowable for him
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girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is mercenary." "If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know what to think." "She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her."<|quote|>"But he paid her not the smallest attention, till her grandfather's death made her mistress of this fortune."</|quote|>"No--why should he? If it was not allowable for him to gain _my_ affections, because I had no money, what occasion could there be for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally poor?" "But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards
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friend mercenary." "Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is mercenary." "If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know what to think." "She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her."<|quote|>"But he paid her not the smallest attention, till her grandfather's death made her mistress of this fortune."</|quote|>"No--why should he? If it was not allowable for him to gain _my_ affections, because I had no money, what occasion could there be for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally poor?" "But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her, so soon after this event." "A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it, why should _we_?" "_Her_ not objecting, does not justify _him_. It only shews her being deficient in something herself--sense
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that though Jane always struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope, that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch-street, and repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the acquaintance. Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and complimented her on bearing it so well. "But, my dear Elizabeth," she added, "what sort of girl is Miss King? I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary." "Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is mercenary." "If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know what to think." "She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her."<|quote|>"But he paid her not the smallest attention, till her grandfather's death made her mistress of this fortune."</|quote|>"No--why should he? If it was not allowable for him to gain _my_ affections, because I had no money, what occasion could there be for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally poor?" "But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her, so soon after this event." "A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it, why should _we_?" "_Her_ not objecting, does not justify _him_. It only shews her being deficient in something herself--sense or feeling." "Well," cried Elizabeth, "have it as you choose. _He_ shall be mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish." "No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire." "Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not one
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the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but she had known Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were worn out like his information. It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early as to be in Gracechurch-street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls, whose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres. Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first subject was her sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to her minute enquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope, that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch-street, and repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the acquaintance. Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and complimented her on bearing it so well. "But, my dear Elizabeth," she added, "what sort of girl is Miss King? I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary." "Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is mercenary." "If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know what to think." "She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her."<|quote|>"But he paid her not the smallest attention, till her grandfather's death made her mistress of this fortune."</|quote|>"No--why should he? If it was not allowable for him to gain _my_ affections, because I had no money, what occasion could there be for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally poor?" "But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her, so soon after this event." "A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it, why should _we_?" "_Her_ not objecting, does not justify _him_. It only shews her being deficient in something herself--sense or feeling." "Well," cried Elizabeth, "have it as you choose. _He_ shall be mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish." "No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire." "Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all." "Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment." Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer. "We have not quite determined how far it shall carry us," said Mrs. Gardiner, "but perhaps to the Lakes." No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. "My dear, dear aunt," she rapturously cried, "what delight! what felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we shall spend! And when we _do_ return, it shall not be like other travellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of any thing. We _will_ know where we have gone--we _will_ recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains, and rivers, shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor, when we attempt to describe any particular scene,
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beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan, and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was novelty in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have been very sorry for any delay. Every thing, however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled according to Charlotte's first sketch. She was to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement of spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became perfect as plan could be. The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her, and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he told her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter. The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their opinion of her--their opinion of every body--would always coincide, there was a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced, that whether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable and pleasing. Her fellow-travellers the next day, were not of a kind to make her think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a good humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but she had known Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were worn out like his information. It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early as to be in Gracechurch-street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls, whose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres. Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first subject was her sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to her minute enquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope, that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch-street, and repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the acquaintance. Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and complimented her on bearing it so well. "But, my dear Elizabeth," she added, "what sort of girl is Miss King? I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary." "Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is mercenary." "If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know what to think." "She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her."<|quote|>"But he paid her not the smallest attention, till her grandfather's death made her mistress of this fortune."</|quote|>"No--why should he? If it was not allowable for him to gain _my_ affections, because I had no money, what occasion could there be for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally poor?" "But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her, so soon after this event." "A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it, why should _we_?" "_Her_ not objecting, does not justify _him_. It only shews her being deficient in something herself--sense or feeling." "Well," cried Elizabeth, "have it as you choose. _He_ shall be mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish." "No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire." "Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all." "Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment." Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer. "We have not quite determined how far it shall carry us," said Mrs. Gardiner, "but perhaps to the Lakes." No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. "My dear, dear aunt," she rapturously cried, "what delight! what felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we shall spend! And when we _do_ return, it shall not be like other travellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of any thing. We _will_ know where we have gone--we _will_ recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains, and rivers, shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor, when we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarrelling about its relative situation. Let _our_ first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of travellers." CHAPTER V. Every object in the next day's journey was new and interesting to Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state for enjoyment; for she had seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health, and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight. When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view. The paling of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants. At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the road, the house standing in it, the green pales and the laurel hedge, every thing declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate, which led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the liveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with coming, when she found herself so affectionately received. She saw instantly that her cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage; his formal civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his enquiries after all her family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time with ostentatious formality to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife's offers of refreshment. Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But though every thing seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him by any sigh of repentance; and rather looked
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what she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their opinion of her--their opinion of every body--would always coincide, there was a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced, that whether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable and pleasing. Her fellow-travellers the next day, were not of a kind to make her think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a good humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but she had known Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were worn out like his information. It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early as to be in Gracechurch-street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls, whose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres. Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first subject was her sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to her minute enquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope, that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch-street, and repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the acquaintance. Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and complimented her on bearing it so well. "But, my dear Elizabeth," she added, "what sort of girl is Miss King? I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary." "Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is mercenary." "If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know what to think." "She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her."<|quote|>"But he paid her not the smallest attention, till her grandfather's death made her mistress of this fortune."</|quote|>"No--why should he? If it was not allowable for him to gain _my_ affections, because I had no money, what occasion could there be for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally poor?" "But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her, so soon after this event." "A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it, why should _we_?" "_Her_ not objecting, does not justify _him_. It only shews her being deficient in something herself--sense or feeling." "Well," cried Elizabeth, "have it as you choose. _He_ shall be mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish." "No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire." "Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all." "Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment." Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had
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Pride And Prejudice
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"And then the filthy brute must needs try and rob me! He _has_ hidden my books, Kemp. Hidden my books! If I can lay my hands on him!"
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The Invisible Man
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meet me." "That s clear."<|quote|>"And then the filthy brute must needs try and rob me! He _has_ hidden my books, Kemp. Hidden my books! If I can lay my hands on him!"</|quote|>"Best plan to get the
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and things sent over to meet me." "That s clear."<|quote|>"And then the filthy brute must needs try and rob me! He _has_ hidden my books, Kemp. Hidden my books! If I can lay my hands on him!"</|quote|>"Best plan to get the books out of him first."
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to Algiers. It would not be difficult. There a man might always be invisible and yet live. And do things. I was using that tramp as a money box and luggage carrier, until I decided how to get my books and things sent over to meet me." "That s clear."<|quote|>"And then the filthy brute must needs try and rob me! He _has_ hidden my books, Kemp. Hidden my books! If I can lay my hands on him!"</|quote|>"Best plan to get the books out of him first." "But where is he? Do you know?" "He s in the town police station, locked up, by his own request, in the strongest cell in the place." "Cur!" said the Invisible Man. "But that hangs up your plans a little."
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was known, and everyone would be on the lookout for a masked and muffled man. You have a line of steamers from here to France. My idea was to get aboard one and run the risks of the passage. Thence I could go by train into Spain, or else get to Algiers. It would not be difficult. There a man might always be invisible and yet live. And do things. I was using that tramp as a money box and luggage carrier, until I decided how to get my books and things sent over to meet me." "That s clear."<|quote|>"And then the filthy brute must needs try and rob me! He _has_ hidden my books, Kemp. Hidden my books! If I can lay my hands on him!"</|quote|>"Best plan to get the books out of him first." "But where is he? Do you know?" "He s in the town police station, locked up, by his own request, in the strongest cell in the place." "Cur!" said the Invisible Man. "But that hangs up your plans a little." "We must get those books; those books are vital." "Certainly," said Kemp, a little nervously, wondering if he heard footsteps outside. "Certainly we must get those books. But that won t be difficult, if he doesn t know they re for you." "No," said the Invisible Man, and thought. Kemp
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He moved nearer his guest as he spoke in such a manner as to prevent the possibility of a sudden glimpse of the three men who were advancing up the hill road with an intolerable slowness, as it seemed to Kemp. "What were you planning to do when you were heading for Port Burdock? _Had_ you any plan?" "I was going to clear out of the country. But I have altered that plan rather since seeing you. I thought it would be wise, now the weather is hot and invisibility possible, to make for the South. Especially as my secret was known, and everyone would be on the lookout for a masked and muffled man. You have a line of steamers from here to France. My idea was to get aboard one and run the risks of the passage. Thence I could go by train into Spain, or else get to Algiers. It would not be difficult. There a man might always be invisible and yet live. And do things. I was using that tramp as a money box and luggage carrier, until I decided how to get my books and things sent over to meet me." "That s clear."<|quote|>"And then the filthy brute must needs try and rob me! He _has_ hidden my books, Kemp. Hidden my books! If I can lay my hands on him!"</|quote|>"Best plan to get the books out of him first." "But where is he? Do you know?" "He s in the town police station, locked up, by his own request, in the strongest cell in the place." "Cur!" said the Invisible Man. "But that hangs up your plans a little." "We must get those books; those books are vital." "Certainly," said Kemp, a little nervously, wondering if he heard footsteps outside. "Certainly we must get those books. But that won t be difficult, if he doesn t know they re for you." "No," said the Invisible Man, and thought. Kemp tried to think of something to keep the talk going, but the Invisible Man resumed of his own accord. "Blundering into your house, Kemp," he said, "changes all my plans. For you are a man that can understand. In spite of all that has happened, in spite of this publicity, of the loss of my books, of what I have suffered, there still remain great possibilities, huge possibilities" "You have told no one I am here?" he asked abruptly. Kemp hesitated. "That was implied," he said. "No one?" insisted Griffin. "Not a soul." "Ah! Now" The Invisible Man stood up,
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my pasteboard nose." "At the end," said Kemp, "the day before yesterday, when they found you out, you rather to judge by the papers" "I did. Rather. Did I kill that fool of a constable?" "No," said Kemp. "He s expected to recover." "That s his luck, then. I clean lost my temper, the fools! Why couldn t they leave me alone? And that grocer lout?" "There are no deaths expected," said Kemp. "I don t know about that tramp of mine," said the Invisible Man, with an unpleasant laugh. "By Heaven, Kemp, you don t know what rage _is_! ... To have worked for years, to have planned and plotted, and then to get some fumbling purblind idiot messing across your course! ... Every conceivable sort of silly creature that has ever been created has been sent to cross me." "If I have much more of it, I shall go wild I shall start mowing em." "As it is, they ve made things a thousand times more difficult." "No doubt it s exasperating," said Kemp, drily. CHAPTER XXIV. THE PLAN THAT FAILED "But now," said Kemp, with a side glance out of the window, "what are we to do?" He moved nearer his guest as he spoke in such a manner as to prevent the possibility of a sudden glimpse of the three men who were advancing up the hill road with an intolerable slowness, as it seemed to Kemp. "What were you planning to do when you were heading for Port Burdock? _Had_ you any plan?" "I was going to clear out of the country. But I have altered that plan rather since seeing you. I thought it would be wise, now the weather is hot and invisibility possible, to make for the South. Especially as my secret was known, and everyone would be on the lookout for a masked and muffled man. You have a line of steamers from here to France. My idea was to get aboard one and run the risks of the passage. Thence I could go by train into Spain, or else get to Algiers. It would not be difficult. There a man might always be invisible and yet live. And do things. I was using that tramp as a money box and luggage carrier, until I decided how to get my books and things sent over to meet me." "That s clear."<|quote|>"And then the filthy brute must needs try and rob me! He _has_ hidden my books, Kemp. Hidden my books! If I can lay my hands on him!"</|quote|>"Best plan to get the books out of him first." "But where is he? Do you know?" "He s in the town police station, locked up, by his own request, in the strongest cell in the place." "Cur!" said the Invisible Man. "But that hangs up your plans a little." "We must get those books; those books are vital." "Certainly," said Kemp, a little nervously, wondering if he heard footsteps outside. "Certainly we must get those books. But that won t be difficult, if he doesn t know they re for you." "No," said the Invisible Man, and thought. Kemp tried to think of something to keep the talk going, but the Invisible Man resumed of his own accord. "Blundering into your house, Kemp," he said, "changes all my plans. For you are a man that can understand. In spite of all that has happened, in spite of this publicity, of the loss of my books, of what I have suffered, there still remain great possibilities, huge possibilities" "You have told no one I am here?" he asked abruptly. Kemp hesitated. "That was implied," he said. "No one?" insisted Griffin. "Not a soul." "Ah! Now" The Invisible Man stood up, and sticking his arms akimbo began to pace the study. "I made a mistake, Kemp, a huge mistake, in carrying this thing through alone. I have wasted strength, time, opportunities. Alone it is wonderful how little a man can do alone! To rob a little, to hurt a little, and there is the end." "What I want, Kemp, is a goal-keeper, a helper, and a hiding-place, an arrangement whereby I can sleep and eat and rest in peace, and unsuspected. I must have a confederate. With a confederate, with food and rest a thousand things are possible." "Hitherto I have gone on vague lines. We have to consider all that invisibility means, all that it does not mean. It means little advantage for eavesdropping and so forth one makes sounds. It s of little help a little help perhaps in housebreaking and so forth. Once you ve caught me you could easily imprison me. But on the other hand I am hard to catch. This invisibility, in fact, is only good in two cases: It s useful in getting away, it s useful in approaching. It s particularly useful, therefore, in killing. I can walk round a man, whatever weapon
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"but I can imagine it." "I could have smashed the silly devils. At last, faint with the desire for tasteful food, I went into another place and demanded a private room." I am disfigured, "I said." Badly. "They looked at me curiously, but of course it was not their affair and so at last I got my lunch. It was not particularly well served, but it sufficed; and when I had had it, I sat over a cigar, trying to plan my line of action. And outside a snowstorm was beginning." "The more I thought it over, Kemp, the more I realised what a helpless absurdity an Invisible Man was in a cold and dirty climate and a crowded civilised city. Before I made this mad experiment I had dreamt of a thousand advantages. That afternoon it seemed all disappointment. I went over the heads of the things a man reckons desirable. No doubt invisibility made it possible to get them, but it made it impossible to enjoy them when they are got. Ambition what is the good of pride of place when you cannot appear there? What is the good of the love of woman when her name must needs be Delilah? I have no taste for politics, for the blackguardisms of fame, for philanthropy, for sport. What was I to do? And for this I had become a wrapped-up mystery, a swathed and bandaged caricature of a man!" He paused, and his attitude suggested a roving glance at the window. "But how did you get to Iping?" said Kemp, anxious to keep his guest busy talking. "I went there to work. I had one hope. It was a half idea! I have it still. It is a full blown idea now. A way of getting back! Of restoring what I have done. When I choose. When I have done all I mean to do invisibly. And that is what I chiefly want to talk to you about now." "You went straight to Iping?" "Yes. I had simply to get my three volumes of memoranda and my cheque-book, my luggage and underclothing, order a quantity of chemicals to work out this idea of mine I will show you the calculations as soon as I get my books and then I started. Jove! I remember the snowstorm now, and the accursed bother it was to keep the snow from damping my pasteboard nose." "At the end," said Kemp, "the day before yesterday, when they found you out, you rather to judge by the papers" "I did. Rather. Did I kill that fool of a constable?" "No," said Kemp. "He s expected to recover." "That s his luck, then. I clean lost my temper, the fools! Why couldn t they leave me alone? And that grocer lout?" "There are no deaths expected," said Kemp. "I don t know about that tramp of mine," said the Invisible Man, with an unpleasant laugh. "By Heaven, Kemp, you don t know what rage _is_! ... To have worked for years, to have planned and plotted, and then to get some fumbling purblind idiot messing across your course! ... Every conceivable sort of silly creature that has ever been created has been sent to cross me." "If I have much more of it, I shall go wild I shall start mowing em." "As it is, they ve made things a thousand times more difficult." "No doubt it s exasperating," said Kemp, drily. CHAPTER XXIV. THE PLAN THAT FAILED "But now," said Kemp, with a side glance out of the window, "what are we to do?" He moved nearer his guest as he spoke in such a manner as to prevent the possibility of a sudden glimpse of the three men who were advancing up the hill road with an intolerable slowness, as it seemed to Kemp. "What were you planning to do when you were heading for Port Burdock? _Had_ you any plan?" "I was going to clear out of the country. But I have altered that plan rather since seeing you. I thought it would be wise, now the weather is hot and invisibility possible, to make for the South. Especially as my secret was known, and everyone would be on the lookout for a masked and muffled man. You have a line of steamers from here to France. My idea was to get aboard one and run the risks of the passage. Thence I could go by train into Spain, or else get to Algiers. It would not be difficult. There a man might always be invisible and yet live. And do things. I was using that tramp as a money box and luggage carrier, until I decided how to get my books and things sent over to meet me." "That s clear."<|quote|>"And then the filthy brute must needs try and rob me! He _has_ hidden my books, Kemp. Hidden my books! If I can lay my hands on him!"</|quote|>"Best plan to get the books out of him first." "But where is he? Do you know?" "He s in the town police station, locked up, by his own request, in the strongest cell in the place." "Cur!" said the Invisible Man. "But that hangs up your plans a little." "We must get those books; those books are vital." "Certainly," said Kemp, a little nervously, wondering if he heard footsteps outside. "Certainly we must get those books. But that won t be difficult, if he doesn t know they re for you." "No," said the Invisible Man, and thought. Kemp tried to think of something to keep the talk going, but the Invisible Man resumed of his own accord. "Blundering into your house, Kemp," he said, "changes all my plans. For you are a man that can understand. In spite of all that has happened, in spite of this publicity, of the loss of my books, of what I have suffered, there still remain great possibilities, huge possibilities" "You have told no one I am here?" he asked abruptly. Kemp hesitated. "That was implied," he said. "No one?" insisted Griffin. "Not a soul." "Ah! Now" The Invisible Man stood up, and sticking his arms akimbo began to pace the study. "I made a mistake, Kemp, a huge mistake, in carrying this thing through alone. I have wasted strength, time, opportunities. Alone it is wonderful how little a man can do alone! To rob a little, to hurt a little, and there is the end." "What I want, Kemp, is a goal-keeper, a helper, and a hiding-place, an arrangement whereby I can sleep and eat and rest in peace, and unsuspected. I must have a confederate. With a confederate, with food and rest a thousand things are possible." "Hitherto I have gone on vague lines. We have to consider all that invisibility means, all that it does not mean. It means little advantage for eavesdropping and so forth one makes sounds. It s of little help a little help perhaps in housebreaking and so forth. Once you ve caught me you could easily imprison me. But on the other hand I am hard to catch. This invisibility, in fact, is only good in two cases: It s useful in getting away, it s useful in approaching. It s particularly useful, therefore, in killing. I can walk round a man, whatever weapon he has, choose my point, strike as I like. Dodge as I like. Escape as I like." Kemp s hand went to his moustache. Was that a movement downstairs? "And it is killing we must do, Kemp." "It is killing we must do," repeated Kemp. "I m listening to your plan, Griffin, but I m not agreeing, mind. _Why_ killing?" "Not wanton killing, but a judicious slaying. The point is, they know there is an Invisible Man as well as we know there is an Invisible Man. And that Invisible Man, Kemp, must now establish a Reign of Terror. Yes; no doubt it s startling. But I mean it. A Reign of Terror. He must take some town like your Burdock and terrify and dominate it. He must issue his orders. He can do that in a thousand ways scraps of paper thrust under doors would suffice. And all who disobey his orders he must kill, and kill all who would defend them." "Humph!" said Kemp, no longer listening to Griffin but to the sound of his front door opening and closing. "It seems to me, Griffin," he said, to cover his wandering attention, "that your confederate would be in a difficult position." "No one would know he was a confederate," said the Invisible Man, eagerly. And then suddenly, "Hush! What s that downstairs?" "Nothing," said Kemp, and suddenly began to speak loud and fast. "I don t agree to this, Griffin," he said. "Understand me, I don t agree to this. Why dream of playing a game against the race? How can you hope to gain happiness? Don t be a lone wolf. Publish your results; take the world take the nation at least into your confidence. Think what you might do with a million helpers" The Invisible Man interrupted arm extended. "There are footsteps coming upstairs," he said in a low voice. "Nonsense," said Kemp. "Let me see," said the Invisible Man, and advanced, arm extended, to the door. And then things happened very swiftly. Kemp hesitated for a second and then moved to intercept him. The Invisible Man started and stood still. "Traitor!" cried the Voice, and suddenly the dressing-gown opened, and sitting down the Unseen began to disrobe. Kemp made three swift steps to the door, and forthwith the Invisible Man his legs had vanished sprang to his feet with a shout. Kemp flung the door
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I started. Jove! I remember the snowstorm now, and the accursed bother it was to keep the snow from damping my pasteboard nose." "At the end," said Kemp, "the day before yesterday, when they found you out, you rather to judge by the papers" "I did. Rather. Did I kill that fool of a constable?" "No," said Kemp. "He s expected to recover." "That s his luck, then. I clean lost my temper, the fools! Why couldn t they leave me alone? And that grocer lout?" "There are no deaths expected," said Kemp. "I don t know about that tramp of mine," said the Invisible Man, with an unpleasant laugh. "By Heaven, Kemp, you don t know what rage _is_! ... To have worked for years, to have planned and plotted, and then to get some fumbling purblind idiot messing across your course! ... Every conceivable sort of silly creature that has ever been created has been sent to cross me." "If I have much more of it, I shall go wild I shall start mowing em." "As it is, they ve made things a thousand times more difficult." "No doubt it s exasperating," said Kemp, drily. CHAPTER XXIV. THE PLAN THAT FAILED "But now," said Kemp, with a side glance out of the window, "what are we to do?" He moved nearer his guest as he spoke in such a manner as to prevent the possibility of a sudden glimpse of the three men who were advancing up the hill road with an intolerable slowness, as it seemed to Kemp. "What were you planning to do when you were heading for Port Burdock? _Had_ you any plan?" "I was going to clear out of the country. But I have altered that plan rather since seeing you. I thought it would be wise, now the weather is hot and invisibility possible, to make for the South. Especially as my secret was known, and everyone would be on the lookout for a masked and muffled man. You have a line of steamers from here to France. My idea was to get aboard one and run the risks of the passage. Thence I could go by train into Spain, or else get to Algiers. It would not be difficult. There a man might always be invisible and yet live. And do things. I was using that tramp as a money box and luggage carrier, until I decided how to get my books and things sent over to meet me." "That s clear."<|quote|>"And then the filthy brute must needs try and rob me! He _has_ hidden my books, Kemp. Hidden my books! If I can lay my hands on him!"</|quote|>"Best plan to get the books out of him first." "But where is he? Do you know?" "He s in the town police station, locked up, by his own request, in the strongest cell in the place." "Cur!" said the Invisible Man. "But that hangs up your plans a little." "We must get those books; those books are vital." "Certainly," said Kemp, a little nervously, wondering if he heard footsteps outside. "Certainly we must get those books. But that won t be difficult, if he doesn t know they re for you." "No," said the Invisible Man, and thought. Kemp tried to think of something to keep the talk going, but the Invisible Man resumed of his own accord. "Blundering into your house, Kemp," he said, "changes all my plans. For you are a man that can understand. In spite of all that has happened, in spite of this publicity, of the loss of my books, of what I have suffered, there still remain great possibilities, huge possibilities" "You have told no one I am here?" he asked abruptly. Kemp hesitated. "That was implied," he said. "No one?" insisted Griffin. "Not a soul." "Ah! Now" The Invisible Man stood up, and sticking his arms akimbo began to pace the study. "I made a mistake, Kemp, a huge mistake, in carrying this thing through alone. I have wasted strength, time, opportunities. Alone it is wonderful how little a man can do alone! To rob a little, to hurt a little, and there is the end." "What I want, Kemp, is a goal-keeper, a helper, and a hiding-place, an arrangement whereby I can sleep and eat and rest in peace, and unsuspected. I must have a confederate. With a confederate, with food and rest a thousand things are possible." "Hitherto I have gone on vague lines. We have to consider all that invisibility means, all that it does not mean. It means little advantage for eavesdropping and so forth one makes sounds. It s of little help a little help perhaps in housebreaking and so forth. Once you ve caught me you could easily imprison me. But on the other hand I am hard to catch. This invisibility, in fact, is only good in two cases: It s useful in getting away, it s useful in approaching. It s particularly useful, therefore, in killing. I can walk round a man, whatever weapon he has, choose my point, strike as I like. Dodge as I like. Escape as I like." Kemp s hand went to his moustache. Was that a movement downstairs? "And it is killing we must do, Kemp." "It is killing we must do," repeated Kemp. "I m listening to your plan, Griffin, but I m not agreeing, mind. _Why_ killing?" "Not wanton killing, but a judicious slaying. The point is, they know there is an Invisible Man as well as we know there is an Invisible Man. And that Invisible Man, Kemp, must now establish a Reign of Terror. Yes; no doubt it s startling. But I mean it. A Reign of Terror. He must take some town like your Burdock and terrify and dominate it. He must issue his orders. He can do that in a thousand ways scraps of paper thrust under doors would suffice. And all who disobey his orders he must kill, and kill all who would defend them." "Humph!" said Kemp, no longer listening to Griffin but to the sound of his front door opening and closing. "It seems
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The Invisible Man
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What could this unknown regiment that came by chance to-day and would depart at dawn to-morrow mean to them? Afterwards, when the officers were standing in the middle of the square, and, with their hands behind them, discussing the question of billets, all the ladies were gathered together at the examining magistrate's and vying with one another in their criticisms of the regiment. They already knew, goodness knows how, that the colonel was married, but not living with his wife; that the senior officer's wife had a baby born dead every year; that the adjutant was hopelessly in love with some countess, and had even once attempted suicide. They knew everything. When a pock-marked soldier in a red shirt darted past the windows, they knew for certain that it was Lieutenant Rymzov's orderly running about the town, trying to get some English bitter ale on tick for his master. They had only caught a passing glimpse of the officers' backs, but had already decided that there was not one handsome or interesting man among them.... Having talked to their hearts' content, they sent for the Military Commandant and the committee of the club, and instructed them at all costs to make arrangements for a dance. Their wishes were carried out. At nine o'clock in the evening the military band was playing in the street before the club, while in the club itself the officers were dancing with the ladies of K----. The ladies felt as though they were on wings. Intoxicated by the dancing, the music, and the clank of spurs, they threw themselves heart and soul into making the acquaintance of their new partners, and quite forgot their old civilian friends. Their fathers and husbands, forced temporarily into the background, crowded round the meagre refreshment table in the entrance hall. All these government cashiers, secretaries, clerks, and superintendents--stale, sickly-looking, clumsy figures--were perfectly well aware of their inferiority. They did not even enter the ball-room, but contented themselves with watching their wives and daughters in the distance dancing with the accomplished and graceful officers. Among the husbands was Shalikov, the tax-collector--a narrow, spiteful soul, given to drink, with a big, closely cropped head, and thick, protruding lips. He had had a university education; there had been a time when he used to read progressive literature and sing students' songs, but now, as he said of himself, he was a tax-collector and nothing more. He stood leaning against the doorpost, his eyes fixed on his wife, Anna Pavlovna, a little brunette of thirty, with a long nose and a pointed chin. Tightly laced, with her face carefully powdered, she danced without pausing for breath--danced till she was ready to drop exhausted. But though she was exhausted in body, her spirit was inexhaustible.... One could see as she danced that her thoughts were with the past, that faraway past when she used to dance at the
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No speaker
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joyfully. "The regiment is coming!"<|quote|>What could this unknown regiment that came by chance to-day and would depart at dawn to-morrow mean to them? Afterwards, when the officers were standing in the middle of the square, and, with their hands behind them, discussing the question of billets, all the ladies were gathered together at the examining magistrate's and vying with one another in their criticisms of the regiment. They already knew, goodness knows how, that the colonel was married, but not living with his wife; that the senior officer's wife had a baby born dead every year; that the adjutant was hopelessly in love with some countess, and had even once attempted suicide. They knew everything. When a pock-marked soldier in a red shirt darted past the windows, they knew for certain that it was Lieutenant Rymzov's orderly running about the town, trying to get some English bitter ale on tick for his master. They had only caught a passing glimpse of the officers' backs, but had already decided that there was not one handsome or interesting man among them.... Having talked to their hearts' content, they sent for the Military Commandant and the committee of the club, and instructed them at all costs to make arrangements for a dance. Their wishes were carried out. At nine o'clock in the evening the military band was playing in the street before the club, while in the club itself the officers were dancing with the ladies of K----. The ladies felt as though they were on wings. Intoxicated by the dancing, the music, and the clank of spurs, they threw themselves heart and soul into making the acquaintance of their new partners, and quite forgot their old civilian friends. Their fathers and husbands, forced temporarily into the background, crowded round the meagre refreshment table in the entrance hall. All these government cashiers, secretaries, clerks, and superintendents--stale, sickly-looking, clumsy figures--were perfectly well aware of their inferiority. They did not even enter the ball-room, but contented themselves with watching their wives and daughters in the distance dancing with the accomplished and graceful officers. Among the husbands was Shalikov, the tax-collector--a narrow, spiteful soul, given to drink, with a big, closely cropped head, and thick, protruding lips. He had had a university education; there had been a time when he used to read progressive literature and sing students' songs, but now, as he said of himself, he was a tax-collector and nothing more. He stood leaning against the doorpost, his eyes fixed on his wife, Anna Pavlovna, a little brunette of thirty, with a long nose and a pointed chin. Tightly laced, with her face carefully powdered, she danced without pausing for breath--danced till she was ready to drop exhausted. But though she was exhausted in body, her spirit was inexhaustible.... One could see as she danced that her thoughts were with the past, that faraway past when she used to dance at the</|quote|>"College for Young Ladies," dreaming
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band. "The regiment!" they cried joyfully. "The regiment is coming!"<|quote|>What could this unknown regiment that came by chance to-day and would depart at dawn to-morrow mean to them? Afterwards, when the officers were standing in the middle of the square, and, with their hands behind them, discussing the question of billets, all the ladies were gathered together at the examining magistrate's and vying with one another in their criticisms of the regiment. They already knew, goodness knows how, that the colonel was married, but not living with his wife; that the senior officer's wife had a baby born dead every year; that the adjutant was hopelessly in love with some countess, and had even once attempted suicide. They knew everything. When a pock-marked soldier in a red shirt darted past the windows, they knew for certain that it was Lieutenant Rymzov's orderly running about the town, trying to get some English bitter ale on tick for his master. They had only caught a passing glimpse of the officers' backs, but had already decided that there was not one handsome or interesting man among them.... Having talked to their hearts' content, they sent for the Military Commandant and the committee of the club, and instructed them at all costs to make arrangements for a dance. Their wishes were carried out. At nine o'clock in the evening the military band was playing in the street before the club, while in the club itself the officers were dancing with the ladies of K----. The ladies felt as though they were on wings. Intoxicated by the dancing, the music, and the clank of spurs, they threw themselves heart and soul into making the acquaintance of their new partners, and quite forgot their old civilian friends. Their fathers and husbands, forced temporarily into the background, crowded round the meagre refreshment table in the entrance hall. All these government cashiers, secretaries, clerks, and superintendents--stale, sickly-looking, clumsy figures--were perfectly well aware of their inferiority. They did not even enter the ball-room, but contented themselves with watching their wives and daughters in the distance dancing with the accomplished and graceful officers. Among the husbands was Shalikov, the tax-collector--a narrow, spiteful soul, given to drink, with a big, closely cropped head, and thick, protruding lips. He had had a university education; there had been a time when he used to read progressive literature and sing students' songs, but now, as he said of himself, he was a tax-collector and nothing more. He stood leaning against the doorpost, his eyes fixed on his wife, Anna Pavlovna, a little brunette of thirty, with a long nose and a pointed chin. Tightly laced, with her face carefully powdered, she danced without pausing for breath--danced till she was ready to drop exhausted. But though she was exhausted in body, her spirit was inexhaustible.... One could see as she danced that her thoughts were with the past, that faraway past when she used to dance at the</|quote|>"College for Young Ladies," dreaming of a life of luxury
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rushed breathless with excitement to meet the regiment, and listened greedily to the band playing the march. Looking at their pale, ecstatic faces, one might have thought those strains came from some heavenly choir rather than from a military brass band. "The regiment!" they cried joyfully. "The regiment is coming!"<|quote|>What could this unknown regiment that came by chance to-day and would depart at dawn to-morrow mean to them? Afterwards, when the officers were standing in the middle of the square, and, with their hands behind them, discussing the question of billets, all the ladies were gathered together at the examining magistrate's and vying with one another in their criticisms of the regiment. They already knew, goodness knows how, that the colonel was married, but not living with his wife; that the senior officer's wife had a baby born dead every year; that the adjutant was hopelessly in love with some countess, and had even once attempted suicide. They knew everything. When a pock-marked soldier in a red shirt darted past the windows, they knew for certain that it was Lieutenant Rymzov's orderly running about the town, trying to get some English bitter ale on tick for his master. They had only caught a passing glimpse of the officers' backs, but had already decided that there was not one handsome or interesting man among them.... Having talked to their hearts' content, they sent for the Military Commandant and the committee of the club, and instructed them at all costs to make arrangements for a dance. Their wishes were carried out. At nine o'clock in the evening the military band was playing in the street before the club, while in the club itself the officers were dancing with the ladies of K----. The ladies felt as though they were on wings. Intoxicated by the dancing, the music, and the clank of spurs, they threw themselves heart and soul into making the acquaintance of their new partners, and quite forgot their old civilian friends. Their fathers and husbands, forced temporarily into the background, crowded round the meagre refreshment table in the entrance hall. All these government cashiers, secretaries, clerks, and superintendents--stale, sickly-looking, clumsy figures--were perfectly well aware of their inferiority. They did not even enter the ball-room, but contented themselves with watching their wives and daughters in the distance dancing with the accomplished and graceful officers. Among the husbands was Shalikov, the tax-collector--a narrow, spiteful soul, given to drink, with a big, closely cropped head, and thick, protruding lips. He had had a university education; there had been a time when he used to read progressive literature and sing students' songs, but now, as he said of himself, he was a tax-collector and nothing more. He stood leaning against the doorpost, his eyes fixed on his wife, Anna Pavlovna, a little brunette of thirty, with a long nose and a pointed chin. Tightly laced, with her face carefully powdered, she danced without pausing for breath--danced till she was ready to drop exhausted. But though she was exhausted in body, her spirit was inexhaustible.... One could see as she danced that her thoughts were with the past, that faraway past when she used to dance at the</|quote|>"College for Young Ladies," dreaming of a life of luxury and gaiety, and never doubting that her husband was to be a prince or, at the worst, a baron. The tax-collector watched, scowling with spite.... It was not jealousy he was feeling. He was ill-humoured--first, because the room was taken
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put on their best uniforms; the police flit to and fro like mad, while the effect on the ladies is beyond all description. The ladies of K----, hearing the regiment approaching, forsook their pans of boiling jam and ran into the street. Forgetting their morning _deshabille_ and general untidiness, they rushed breathless with excitement to meet the regiment, and listened greedily to the band playing the march. Looking at their pale, ecstatic faces, one might have thought those strains came from some heavenly choir rather than from a military brass band. "The regiment!" they cried joyfully. "The regiment is coming!"<|quote|>What could this unknown regiment that came by chance to-day and would depart at dawn to-morrow mean to them? Afterwards, when the officers were standing in the middle of the square, and, with their hands behind them, discussing the question of billets, all the ladies were gathered together at the examining magistrate's and vying with one another in their criticisms of the regiment. They already knew, goodness knows how, that the colonel was married, but not living with his wife; that the senior officer's wife had a baby born dead every year; that the adjutant was hopelessly in love with some countess, and had even once attempted suicide. They knew everything. When a pock-marked soldier in a red shirt darted past the windows, they knew for certain that it was Lieutenant Rymzov's orderly running about the town, trying to get some English bitter ale on tick for his master. They had only caught a passing glimpse of the officers' backs, but had already decided that there was not one handsome or interesting man among them.... Having talked to their hearts' content, they sent for the Military Commandant and the committee of the club, and instructed them at all costs to make arrangements for a dance. Their wishes were carried out. At nine o'clock in the evening the military band was playing in the street before the club, while in the club itself the officers were dancing with the ladies of K----. The ladies felt as though they were on wings. Intoxicated by the dancing, the music, and the clank of spurs, they threw themselves heart and soul into making the acquaintance of their new partners, and quite forgot their old civilian friends. Their fathers and husbands, forced temporarily into the background, crowded round the meagre refreshment table in the entrance hall. All these government cashiers, secretaries, clerks, and superintendents--stale, sickly-looking, clumsy figures--were perfectly well aware of their inferiority. They did not even enter the ball-room, but contented themselves with watching their wives and daughters in the distance dancing with the accomplished and graceful officers. Among the husbands was Shalikov, the tax-collector--a narrow, spiteful soul, given to drink, with a big, closely cropped head, and thick, protruding lips. He had had a university education; there had been a time when he used to read progressive literature and sing students' songs, but now, as he said of himself, he was a tax-collector and nothing more. He stood leaning against the doorpost, his eyes fixed on his wife, Anna Pavlovna, a little brunette of thirty, with a long nose and a pointed chin. Tightly laced, with her face carefully powdered, she danced without pausing for breath--danced till she was ready to drop exhausted. But though she was exhausted in body, her spirit was inexhaustible.... One could see as she danced that her thoughts were with the past, that faraway past when she used to dance at the</|quote|>"College for Young Ladies," dreaming of a life of luxury and gaiety, and never doubting that her husband was to be a prince or, at the worst, a baron. The tax-collector watched, scowling with spite.... It was not jealousy he was feeling. He was ill-humoured--first, because the room was taken up with dancing and there was nowhere he could play a game of cards; secondly, because he could not endure the sound of wind instruments; and, thirdly, because he fancied the officers treated the civilians somewhat too casually and disdainfully. But what above everything revolted him and moved him to
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THE HUSBAND IN the course of the manoeuvres the N---- cavalry regiment halted for a night at the district town of K----. Such an event as the visit of officers always has the most exciting and inspiring effect on the inhabitants of provincial towns. The shopkeepers dream of getting rid of the rusty sausages and "best brand" sardines that have been lying for ten years on their shelves; the inns and restaurants keep open all night; the Military Commandant, his secretary, and the local garrison put on their best uniforms; the police flit to and fro like mad, while the effect on the ladies is beyond all description. The ladies of K----, hearing the regiment approaching, forsook their pans of boiling jam and ran into the street. Forgetting their morning _deshabille_ and general untidiness, they rushed breathless with excitement to meet the regiment, and listened greedily to the band playing the march. Looking at their pale, ecstatic faces, one might have thought those strains came from some heavenly choir rather than from a military brass band. "The regiment!" they cried joyfully. "The regiment is coming!"<|quote|>What could this unknown regiment that came by chance to-day and would depart at dawn to-morrow mean to them? Afterwards, when the officers were standing in the middle of the square, and, with their hands behind them, discussing the question of billets, all the ladies were gathered together at the examining magistrate's and vying with one another in their criticisms of the regiment. They already knew, goodness knows how, that the colonel was married, but not living with his wife; that the senior officer's wife had a baby born dead every year; that the adjutant was hopelessly in love with some countess, and had even once attempted suicide. They knew everything. When a pock-marked soldier in a red shirt darted past the windows, they knew for certain that it was Lieutenant Rymzov's orderly running about the town, trying to get some English bitter ale on tick for his master. They had only caught a passing glimpse of the officers' backs, but had already decided that there was not one handsome or interesting man among them.... Having talked to their hearts' content, they sent for the Military Commandant and the committee of the club, and instructed them at all costs to make arrangements for a dance. Their wishes were carried out. At nine o'clock in the evening the military band was playing in the street before the club, while in the club itself the officers were dancing with the ladies of K----. The ladies felt as though they were on wings. Intoxicated by the dancing, the music, and the clank of spurs, they threw themselves heart and soul into making the acquaintance of their new partners, and quite forgot their old civilian friends. Their fathers and husbands, forced temporarily into the background, crowded round the meagre refreshment table in the entrance hall. All these government cashiers, secretaries, clerks, and superintendents--stale, sickly-looking, clumsy figures--were perfectly well aware of their inferiority. They did not even enter the ball-room, but contented themselves with watching their wives and daughters in the distance dancing with the accomplished and graceful officers. Among the husbands was Shalikov, the tax-collector--a narrow, spiteful soul, given to drink, with a big, closely cropped head, and thick, protruding lips. He had had a university education; there had been a time when he used to read progressive literature and sing students' songs, but now, as he said of himself, he was a tax-collector and nothing more. He stood leaning against the doorpost, his eyes fixed on his wife, Anna Pavlovna, a little brunette of thirty, with a long nose and a pointed chin. Tightly laced, with her face carefully powdered, she danced without pausing for breath--danced till she was ready to drop exhausted. But though she was exhausted in body, her spirit was inexhaustible.... One could see as she danced that her thoughts were with the past, that faraway past when she used to dance at the</|quote|>"College for Young Ladies," dreaming of a life of luxury and gaiety, and never doubting that her husband was to be a prince or, at the worst, a baron. The tax-collector watched, scowling with spite.... It was not jealousy he was feeling. He was ill-humoured--first, because the room was taken up with dancing and there was nowhere he could play a game of cards; secondly, because he could not endure the sound of wind instruments; and, thirdly, because he fancied the officers treated the civilians somewhat too casually and disdainfully. But what above everything revolted him and moved him to indignation was the expression of happiness on his wife's face. "It makes me sick to look at her!" he muttered. "Going on for forty, and nothing to boast of at any time, and she must powder her face and lace herself up! And frizzing her hair! Flirting and making faces, and fancying she's doing the thing in style! Ugh! you're a pretty figure, upon my soul!" Anna Pavlovna was so lost in the dance that she did not once glance at her husband. "Of course not! Where do we poor country bumpkins come in!" sneered the tax-collector. "We are at
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THE HUSBAND IN the course of the manoeuvres the N---- cavalry regiment halted for a night at the district town of K----. Such an event as the visit of officers always has the most exciting and inspiring effect on the inhabitants of provincial towns. The shopkeepers dream of getting rid of the rusty sausages and "best brand" sardines that have been lying for ten years on their shelves; the inns and restaurants keep open all night; the Military Commandant, his secretary, and the local garrison put on their best uniforms; the police flit to and fro like mad, while the effect on the ladies is beyond all description. The ladies of K----, hearing the regiment approaching, forsook their pans of boiling jam and ran into the street. Forgetting their morning _deshabille_ and general untidiness, they rushed breathless with excitement to meet the regiment, and listened greedily to the band playing the march. Looking at their pale, ecstatic faces, one might have thought those strains came from some heavenly choir rather than from a military brass band. "The regiment!" they cried joyfully. "The regiment is coming!"<|quote|>What could this unknown regiment that came by chance to-day and would depart at dawn to-morrow mean to them? Afterwards, when the officers were standing in the middle of the square, and, with their hands behind them, discussing the question of billets, all the ladies were gathered together at the examining magistrate's and vying with one another in their criticisms of the regiment. They already knew, goodness knows how, that the colonel was married, but not living with his wife; that the senior officer's wife had a baby born dead every year; that the adjutant was hopelessly in love with some countess, and had even once attempted suicide. They knew everything. When a pock-marked soldier in a red shirt darted past the windows, they knew for certain that it was Lieutenant Rymzov's orderly running about the town, trying to get some English bitter ale on tick for his master. They had only caught a passing glimpse of the officers' backs, but had already decided that there was not one handsome or interesting man among them.... Having talked to their hearts' content, they sent for the Military Commandant and the committee of the club, and instructed them at all costs to make arrangements for a dance. Their wishes were carried out. At nine o'clock in the evening the military band was playing in the street before the club, while in the club itself the officers were dancing with the ladies of K----. The ladies felt as though they were on wings. Intoxicated by the dancing, the music, and the clank of spurs, they threw themselves heart and soul into making the acquaintance of their new partners, and quite forgot their old civilian friends. Their fathers and husbands, forced temporarily into the background, crowded round the meagre refreshment table in the entrance hall. All these government cashiers, secretaries, clerks, and superintendents--stale, sickly-looking, clumsy figures--were perfectly well aware of their inferiority. They did not even enter the ball-room, but contented themselves with watching their wives and daughters in the distance dancing with the accomplished and graceful officers. Among the husbands was Shalikov, the tax-collector--a narrow, spiteful soul, given to drink, with a big, closely cropped head, and thick, protruding lips. He had had a university education; there had been a time when he used to read progressive literature and sing students' songs, but now, as he said of himself, he was a tax-collector and nothing more. He stood leaning against the doorpost, his eyes fixed on his wife, Anna Pavlovna, a little brunette of thirty, with a long nose and a pointed chin. Tightly laced, with her face carefully powdered, she danced without pausing for breath--danced till she was ready to drop exhausted. But though she was exhausted in body, her spirit was inexhaustible.... One could see as she danced that her thoughts were with the past, that faraway past when she used to dance at the</|quote|>"College for Young Ladies," dreaming of a life of luxury and gaiety, and never doubting that her husband was to be a prince or, at the worst, a baron. The tax-collector watched, scowling with spite.... It was not jealousy he was feeling. He was ill-humoured--first, because the room was taken up with dancing and there was nowhere he could play a game of cards; secondly, because he could not endure the sound of wind instruments; and, thirdly, because he fancied the officers treated the civilians somewhat too casually and disdainfully. But what above everything revolted him and moved him to indignation was the expression of happiness on his wife's face. "It makes me sick to look at her!" he muttered. "Going on for forty, and nothing to boast of at any time, and she must powder her face and lace herself up! And frizzing her hair! Flirting and making faces, and fancying she's doing the thing in style! Ugh! you're a pretty figure, upon my soul!" Anna Pavlovna was so lost in the dance that she did not once glance at her husband. "Of course not! Where do we poor country bumpkins come in!" sneered the tax-collector. "We are at a discount now.... We're clumsy seals, unpolished provincial bears, and she's the queen of the ball! She has kept enough of her looks to please even officers ... They'd not object to making love to her, I dare say!" During the mazurka the tax-collector's face twitched with spite. A black-haired officer with prominent eyes and Tartar cheekbones danced the mazurka with Anna Pavlovna. Assuming a stern expression, he worked his legs with gravity and feeling, and so crooked his knees that he looked like a jack-a-dandy pulled by strings, while Anna Pavlovna, pale and thrilled, bending her figure languidly and turning her eyes up, tried to look as though she scarcely touched the floor, and evidently felt herself that she was not on earth, not at the local club, but somewhere far, far away--in the clouds. Not only her face but her whole figure was expressive of beatitude.... The tax-collector could endure it no longer; he felt a desire to jeer at that beatitude, to make Anna Pavlovna feel that she had forgotten herself, that life was by no means so delightful as she fancied now in her excitement.... "You wait; I'll teach you to smile so blissfully," he muttered.
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THE HUSBAND IN the course of the manoeuvres the N---- cavalry regiment halted for a night at the district town of K----. Such an event as the visit of officers always has the most exciting and inspiring effect on the inhabitants of provincial towns. The shopkeepers dream of getting rid of the rusty sausages and "best brand" sardines that have been lying for ten years on their shelves; the inns and restaurants keep open all night; the Military Commandant, his secretary, and the local garrison put on their best uniforms; the police flit to and fro like mad, while the effect on the ladies is beyond all description. The ladies of K----, hearing the regiment approaching, forsook their pans of boiling jam and ran into the street. Forgetting their morning _deshabille_ and general untidiness, they rushed breathless with excitement to meet the regiment, and listened greedily to the band playing the march. Looking at their pale, ecstatic faces, one might have thought those strains came from some heavenly choir rather than from a military brass band. "The regiment!" they cried joyfully. "The regiment is coming!"<|quote|>What could this unknown regiment that came by chance to-day and would depart at dawn to-morrow mean to them? Afterwards, when the officers were standing in the middle of the square, and, with their hands behind them, discussing the question of billets, all the ladies were gathered together at the examining magistrate's and vying with one another in their criticisms of the regiment. They already knew, goodness knows how, that the colonel was married, but not living with his wife; that the senior officer's wife had a baby born dead every year; that the adjutant was hopelessly in love with some countess, and had even once attempted suicide. They knew everything. When a pock-marked soldier in a red shirt darted past the windows, they knew for certain that it was Lieutenant Rymzov's orderly running about the town, trying to get some English bitter ale on tick for his master. They had only caught a passing glimpse of the officers' backs, but had already decided that there was not one handsome or interesting man among them.... Having talked to their hearts' content, they sent for the Military Commandant and the committee of the club, and instructed them at all costs to make arrangements for a dance. Their wishes were carried out. At nine o'clock in the evening the military band was playing in the street before the club, while in the club itself the officers were dancing with the ladies of K----. The ladies felt as though they were on wings. Intoxicated by the dancing, the music, and the clank of spurs, they threw themselves heart and soul into making the acquaintance of their new partners, and quite forgot their old civilian friends. Their fathers and husbands, forced temporarily into the background, crowded round the meagre refreshment table in the entrance hall. All these government cashiers, secretaries, clerks, and superintendents--stale, sickly-looking, clumsy figures--were perfectly well aware of their inferiority. They did not even enter the ball-room, but contented themselves with watching their wives and daughters in the distance dancing with the accomplished and graceful officers. Among the husbands was Shalikov, the tax-collector--a narrow, spiteful soul, given to drink, with a big, closely cropped head, and thick, protruding lips. He had had a university education; there had been a time when he used to read progressive literature and sing students' songs, but now, as he said of himself, he was a tax-collector and nothing more. He stood leaning against the doorpost, his eyes fixed on his wife, Anna Pavlovna, a little brunette of thirty, with a long nose and a pointed chin. Tightly laced, with her face carefully powdered, she danced without pausing for breath--danced till she was ready to drop exhausted. But though she was exhausted in body, her spirit was inexhaustible.... One could see as she danced that her thoughts were with the past, that faraway past when she used to dance at the</|quote|>"College for Young Ladies," dreaming of a life of luxury and gaiety, and never doubting that her husband was to be a prince or, at the worst, a baron. The tax-collector watched, scowling with spite.... It was not jealousy he was feeling. He was ill-humoured--first, because the room was taken up with dancing and there was nowhere he could play a game of cards; secondly, because he could not endure the sound of wind instruments; and, thirdly, because he fancied the officers treated the civilians somewhat too casually and disdainfully. But what above everything revolted him and moved him to indignation was the expression of happiness on his wife's face. "It makes me sick to look at her!" he muttered. "Going on for forty, and nothing to boast of at any time, and she must powder her face and lace herself up! And frizzing her hair! Flirting and making faces, and fancying she's doing the thing in style! Ugh! you're a pretty figure, upon my soul!" Anna Pavlovna was so lost in the dance that she did not once glance at her husband. "Of course not! Where do we poor country bumpkins come in!" sneered the tax-collector. "We are at a discount now.... We're clumsy seals, unpolished provincial bears, and she's the queen of the ball! She has kept enough of her looks to please even officers ... They'd not object to making love to her, I dare say!" During the mazurka the tax-collector's face twitched with spite. A black-haired officer with prominent eyes and Tartar cheekbones danced the mazurka with Anna Pavlovna. Assuming a stern expression, he worked his legs with gravity and feeling, and so crooked his knees that he looked like a jack-a-dandy pulled by strings, while Anna Pavlovna, pale and thrilled, bending her figure languidly and turning her eyes up, tried to look as though she scarcely touched the floor, and evidently felt herself that she was not on earth, not at the local club, but somewhere far, far away--in the clouds. Not only her face but her whole figure was expressive of beatitude.... The tax-collector could endure it no longer; he felt a desire to jeer at that beatitude, to make Anna Pavlovna feel that she had forgotten herself, that life was by no means so delightful as she fancied now in her excitement.... "You wait; I'll teach you to smile so blissfully," he muttered. "You are not a boarding-school miss, you are not a girl. An old fright ought to realise she is a fright!" Petty feelings of envy, vexation, wounded vanity, of that small, provincial misanthropy engendered in petty officials by vodka and a sedentary life, swarmed in his heart like mice. Waiting for the end of the mazurka, he went into the hall and walked up to his wife. Anna Pavlovna was sitting with her partner, and, flirting her fan and coquettishly dropping her eyelids, was describing how she used to dance in Petersburg (her lips were pursed up like a rosebud, and she pronounced "at home in Pütürsburg" ). "Anyuta, let us go home," croaked the tax-collector. Seeing her husband standing before her, Anna Pavlovna started as though recalling the fact that she had a husband; then she flushed all over: she felt ashamed that she had such a sickly-looking, ill-humoured, ordinary husband. "Let us go home," repeated the tax-collector. "Why? It's quite early!" "I beg you to come home!" said the tax-collector deliberately, with a spiteful expression. "Why? Has anything happened?" Anna Pavlovna asked in a flutter. "Nothing has happened, but I wish you to go home at once.... I wish it; that's enough, and without further talk, please." Anna Pavlovna was not afraid of her husband, but she felt ashamed on account of her partner, who was looking at her husband with surprise and amusement. She got up and moved a little apart with her husband. "What notion is this?" she began. "Why go home? Why, it's not eleven o'clock." "I wish it, and that's enough. Come along, and that's all about it." "Don't be silly! Go home alone if you want to." "All right; then I shall make a scene." The tax-collector saw the look of beatitude gradually vanish from his wife's face, saw how ashamed and miserable she was--and he felt a little happier. "Why do you want me at once?" asked his wife. "I don't want you, but I wish you to be at home. I wish it, that's all." At first Anna Pavlovna refused to hear of it, then she began entreating her husband to let her stay just another half-hour; then, without knowing why, she began to apologise, to protest--and all in a whisper, with a smile, that the spectators might not suspect that she was having a tiff with her husband. She began
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THE HUSBAND IN the course of the manoeuvres the N---- cavalry regiment halted for a night at the district town of K----. Such an event as the visit of officers always has the most exciting and inspiring effect on the inhabitants of provincial towns. The shopkeepers dream of getting rid of the rusty sausages and "best brand" sardines that have been lying for ten years on their shelves; the inns and restaurants keep open all night; the Military Commandant, his secretary, and the local garrison put on their best uniforms; the police flit to and fro like mad, while the effect on the ladies is beyond all description. The ladies of K----, hearing the regiment approaching, forsook their pans of boiling jam and ran into the street. Forgetting their morning _deshabille_ and general untidiness, they rushed breathless with excitement to meet the regiment, and listened greedily to the band playing the march. Looking at their pale, ecstatic faces, one might have thought those strains came from some heavenly choir rather than from a military brass band. "The regiment!" they cried joyfully. "The regiment is coming!"<|quote|>What could this unknown regiment that came by chance to-day and would depart at dawn to-morrow mean to them? Afterwards, when the officers were standing in the middle of the square, and, with their hands behind them, discussing the question of billets, all the ladies were gathered together at the examining magistrate's and vying with one another in their criticisms of the regiment. They already knew, goodness knows how, that the colonel was married, but not living with his wife; that the senior officer's wife had a baby born dead every year; that the adjutant was hopelessly in love with some countess, and had even once attempted suicide. They knew everything. When a pock-marked soldier in a red shirt darted past the windows, they knew for certain that it was Lieutenant Rymzov's orderly running about the town, trying to get some English bitter ale on tick for his master. They had only caught a passing glimpse of the officers' backs, but had already decided that there was not one handsome or interesting man among them.... Having talked to their hearts' content, they sent for the Military Commandant and the committee of the club, and instructed them at all costs to make arrangements for a dance. Their wishes were carried out. At nine o'clock in the evening the military band was playing in the street before the club, while in the club itself the officers were dancing with the ladies of K----. The ladies felt as though they were on wings. Intoxicated by the dancing, the music, and the clank of spurs, they threw themselves heart and soul into making the acquaintance of their new partners, and quite forgot their old civilian friends. Their fathers and husbands, forced temporarily into the background, crowded round the meagre refreshment table in the entrance hall. All these government cashiers, secretaries, clerks, and superintendents--stale, sickly-looking, clumsy figures--were perfectly well aware of their inferiority. They did not even enter the ball-room, but contented themselves with watching their wives and daughters in the distance dancing with the accomplished and graceful officers. Among the husbands was Shalikov, the tax-collector--a narrow, spiteful soul, given to drink, with a big, closely cropped head, and thick, protruding lips. He had had a university education; there had been a time when he used to read progressive literature and sing students' songs, but now, as he said of himself, he was a tax-collector and nothing more. He stood leaning against the doorpost, his eyes fixed on his wife, Anna Pavlovna, a little brunette of thirty, with a long nose and a pointed chin. Tightly laced, with her face carefully powdered, she danced without pausing for breath--danced till she was ready to drop exhausted. But though she was exhausted in body, her spirit was inexhaustible.... One could see as she danced that her thoughts were with the past, that faraway past when she used to dance at the</|quote|>"College for Young Ladies," dreaming of a life of luxury and gaiety, and never doubting that her husband was to be a prince or, at the worst, a baron. The tax-collector watched, scowling with spite.... It was not jealousy he was feeling. He was ill-humoured--first, because the room was taken up with dancing and there was nowhere he could play a game of cards; secondly, because he could not endure the sound of wind instruments; and, thirdly, because he fancied the officers treated the civilians somewhat too casually and disdainfully. But what above everything revolted him and moved him to indignation was the expression of happiness on his wife's face. "It makes me sick to look at her!" he muttered. "Going on for forty, and nothing to boast of at any time, and she must powder her face and lace herself up! And frizzing her hair! Flirting and making faces, and fancying she's doing the thing in style! Ugh! you're a pretty figure, upon my soul!" Anna Pavlovna was so lost in the dance that she did not once glance at her husband. "Of course not! Where do we poor country bumpkins come in!" sneered the tax-collector. "We are at a discount now.... We're clumsy seals, unpolished provincial bears, and she's the queen of the ball! She has kept enough of her looks to please even officers ... They'd not object to making love to her, I dare say!" During the mazurka the tax-collector's face twitched with spite. A black-haired officer with prominent eyes and Tartar cheekbones danced the mazurka with Anna Pavlovna. Assuming a stern expression, he worked his legs with gravity and feeling, and so crooked his knees that he looked like a jack-a-dandy pulled by strings, while Anna Pavlovna, pale and thrilled, bending her figure languidly and turning her eyes up, tried to look as though she scarcely touched the floor, and evidently felt herself that she was not on earth, not at the local club, but somewhere far, far away--in the clouds. Not only her face but her whole figure was expressive of beatitude.... The tax-collector could endure it no longer; he felt a desire to jeer at that beatitude, to make Anna Pavlovna feel that she had forgotten herself, that life was by no means so delightful as she fancied now in her excitement.... "You wait; I'll teach you to smile so blissfully," he muttered. "You are not a boarding-school miss, you are not a girl. An old fright ought to
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The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (9)
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said the man.
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No speaker
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Quick, tell me!" "Eighteen years,"<|quote|>said the man.</|quote|>"Why do you ask me?
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it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!" "Eighteen years,"<|quote|>said the man.</|quote|>"Why do you ask me? What do years matter?" "Eighteen
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my job first. One minute. That s all." Dorian s arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know what to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. "Stop," he cried. "How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!" "Eighteen years,"<|quote|>said the man.</|quote|>"Why do you ask me? What do years matter?" "Eighteen years," laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his voice. "Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!" James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant. Then he seized Dorian Gray
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James Vane, you are going to die." There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not know what to say or do. "Down on your knees!" growled the man. "I give you one minute to make your peace no more. I go on board to-night for India, and I must do my job first. One minute. That s all." Dorian s arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know what to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. "Stop," he cried. "How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!" "Eighteen years,"<|quote|>said the man.</|quote|>"Why do you ask me? What do years matter?" "Eighteen years," laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his voice. "Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!" James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant. Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway. Dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him the hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face of the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the
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Her death is at your door. I swore I would kill you in return. For years I have sought you. I had no clue, no trace. The two people who could have described you were dead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you. I heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, for to-night you are going to die." Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. "I never knew her," he stammered. "I never heard of her. You are mad." "You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you are going to die." There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not know what to say or do. "Down on your knees!" growled the man. "I give you one minute to make your peace no more. I go on board to-night for India, and I must do my job first. One minute. That s all." Dorian s arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know what to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. "Stop," he cried. "How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!" "Eighteen years,"<|quote|>said the man.</|quote|>"Why do you ask me? What do years matter?" "Eighteen years," laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his voice. "Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!" James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant. Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway. Dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him the hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face of the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the unstained purity of youth. He seemed little more than a lad of twenty summers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been when they had parted so many years ago. It was obvious that this was not the man who had destroyed her life. He loosened his hold and reeled back. "My God! my God!" he cried, "and I would have murdered you!" Dorian Gray drew a long breath. "You have been on the brink of committing a terrible crime, my man," he said, looking at him sternly. "Let this be a warning to you not
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reminding us, are sins of disobedience. When that high spirit, that morning star of evil, fell from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell. Callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for rebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but as he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a short cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself suddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself, he was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his throat. He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the tightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver, and saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head, and the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him. "What do you want?" he gasped. "Keep quiet," said the man. "If you stir, I shoot you." "You are mad. What have I done to you?" "You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane," was the answer, "and Sibyl Vane was my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is at your door. I swore I would kill you in return. For years I have sought you. I had no clue, no trace. The two people who could have described you were dead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you. I heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, for to-night you are going to die." Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. "I never knew her," he stammered. "I never heard of her. You are mad." "You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you are going to die." There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not know what to say or do. "Down on your knees!" growled the man. "I give you one minute to make your peace no more. I go on board to-night for India, and I must do my job first. One minute. That s all." Dorian s arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know what to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. "Stop," he cried. "How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!" "Eighteen years,"<|quote|>said the man.</|quote|>"Why do you ask me? What do years matter?" "Eighteen years," laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his voice. "Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!" James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant. Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway. Dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him the hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face of the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the unstained purity of youth. He seemed little more than a lad of twenty summers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been when they had parted so many years ago. It was obvious that this was not the man who had destroyed her life. He loosened his hold and reeled back. "My God! my God!" he cried, "and I would have murdered you!" Dorian Gray drew a long breath. "You have been on the brink of committing a terrible crime, my man," he said, looking at him sternly. "Let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your own hands." "Forgive me, sir," muttered James Vane. "I was deceived. A chance word I heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track." "You had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get into trouble," said Dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly down the street. James Vane stood on the pavement in horror. He was trembling from head to foot. After a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping along the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him with stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked round with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at the bar. "Why didn t you kill him?" she hissed out, putting haggard face quite close to his. "I knew you were following him when you rushed out from Daly s. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money, and he s as bad as bad." "He is not the man I am looking for," he answered, "and I want no man s money. I want a man s
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Adrian Singleton. "I don t care to go back. What does it matter? I am quite happy here." "You will write to me if you want anything, won t you?" said Dorian, after a pause. "Perhaps." "Good night, then." "Good night," answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping his parched mouth with a handkerchief. Dorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drew the curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the woman who had taken his money. "There goes the devil s bargain!" she hiccoughed, in a hoarse voice. "Curse you!" he answered, "don t call me that." She snapped her fingers. "Prince Charming is what you like to be called, ain t it?" she yelled after him. The drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly round. The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. He rushed out as if in pursuit. Dorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. His meeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered if the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, as Basil Hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. He bit his lip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. Yet, after all, what did it matter to him? One s days were too brief to take the burden of another s errors on one s shoulders. Each man lived his own life and paid his own price for living it. The only pity was one had to pay so often for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, indeed. In her dealings with man, destiny never closed her accounts. There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or for what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre of the body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful impulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will. They move to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice is taken from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, lives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience its charm. For all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of disobedience. When that high spirit, that morning star of evil, fell from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell. Callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for rebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but as he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a short cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself suddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself, he was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his throat. He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the tightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver, and saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head, and the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him. "What do you want?" he gasped. "Keep quiet," said the man. "If you stir, I shoot you." "You are mad. What have I done to you?" "You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane," was the answer, "and Sibyl Vane was my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is at your door. I swore I would kill you in return. For years I have sought you. I had no clue, no trace. The two people who could have described you were dead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you. I heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, for to-night you are going to die." Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. "I never knew her," he stammered. "I never heard of her. You are mad." "You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you are going to die." There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not know what to say or do. "Down on your knees!" growled the man. "I give you one minute to make your peace no more. I go on board to-night for India, and I must do my job first. One minute. That s all." Dorian s arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know what to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. "Stop," he cried. "How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!" "Eighteen years,"<|quote|>said the man.</|quote|>"Why do you ask me? What do years matter?" "Eighteen years," laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his voice. "Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!" James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant. Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway. Dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him the hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face of the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the unstained purity of youth. He seemed little more than a lad of twenty summers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been when they had parted so many years ago. It was obvious that this was not the man who had destroyed her life. He loosened his hold and reeled back. "My God! my God!" he cried, "and I would have murdered you!" Dorian Gray drew a long breath. "You have been on the brink of committing a terrible crime, my man," he said, looking at him sternly. "Let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your own hands." "Forgive me, sir," muttered James Vane. "I was deceived. A chance word I heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track." "You had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get into trouble," said Dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly down the street. James Vane stood on the pavement in horror. He was trembling from head to foot. After a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping along the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him with stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked round with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at the bar. "Why didn t you kill him?" she hissed out, putting haggard face quite close to his. "I knew you were following him when you rushed out from Daly s. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money, and he s as bad as bad." "He is not the man I am looking for," he answered, "and I want no man s money. I want a man s life. The man whose life I want must be nearly forty now. This one is little more than a boy. Thank God, I have not got his blood upon my hands." The woman gave a bitter laugh. "Little more than a boy!" she sneered. "Why, man, it s nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made me what I am." "You lie!" cried James Vane. She raised her hand up to heaven. "Before God I am telling the truth," she cried. "Before God?" "Strike me dumb if it ain t so. He is the worst one that comes here. They say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It s nigh on eighteen years since I met him. He hasn t changed much since then. I have, though," she added, with a sickly leer. "You swear this?" "I swear it," came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. "But don t give me away to him," she whined; "I am afraid of him. Let me have some money for my night s lodging." He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street, but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had vanished also. CHAPTER XVII. A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband, a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at which the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke s description of the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day. "What are you two talking about?" said Lord Henry, strolling over to the table and putting his cup down. "I hope Dorian has told you about my plan for rechristening
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himself suddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself, he was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his throat. He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the tightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver, and saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head, and the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him. "What do you want?" he gasped. "Keep quiet," said the man. "If you stir, I shoot you." "You are mad. What have I done to you?" "You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane," was the answer, "and Sibyl Vane was my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is at your door. I swore I would kill you in return. For years I have sought you. I had no clue, no trace. The two people who could have described you were dead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you. I heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, for to-night you are going to die." Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. "I never knew her," he stammered. "I never heard of her. You are mad." "You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you are going to die." There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not know what to say or do. "Down on your knees!" growled the man. "I give you one minute to make your peace no more. I go on board to-night for India, and I must do my job first. One minute. That s all." Dorian s arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know what to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. "Stop," he cried. "How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!" "Eighteen years,"<|quote|>said the man.</|quote|>"Why do you ask me? What do years matter?" "Eighteen years," laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his voice. "Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!" James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant. Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway. Dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him the hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face of the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the unstained purity of youth. He seemed little more than a lad of twenty summers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been when they had parted so many years ago. It was obvious that this was not the man who had destroyed her life. He loosened his hold and reeled back. "My God! my God!" he cried, "and I would have murdered you!" Dorian Gray drew a long breath. "You have been on the brink of committing a terrible crime, my man," he said, looking at him sternly. "Let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your own hands." "Forgive me, sir," muttered James Vane. "I was deceived. A chance word I heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track." "You had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get into trouble," said Dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly down the street. James Vane stood on the pavement in horror. He was trembling from head to foot. After a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping along the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him with stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked round with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at the bar. "Why didn t you kill him?" she hissed out, putting haggard face quite close to his. "I knew you were following him when you rushed out from Daly s. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money, and he s as bad as bad." "He is not the man I am looking for," he answered, "and I want no man s money. I want a man s life.
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along.
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No speaker
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will speak to him myself."<|quote|>And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along.</|quote|>"Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from
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one will help me. I will speak to him myself."<|quote|>And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along.</|quote|>"Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball?
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no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself."<|quote|>And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along.</|quote|>"Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish,
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heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself."<|quote|>And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along.</|quote|>"Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others
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"Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself."<|quote|>And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along.</|quote|>"Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand. "I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go." Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The
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Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?" Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage. "He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself."<|quote|>And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along.</|quote|>"Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand. "I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go." Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse." "You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--" "you don't mean that you are going to marry that man?" The line was unexpected. She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You are merely ridiculous,"
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"Do you know anything about Miss Lavish's novel?" Miss Bartlett looked surprised, and said that she had not read the book, nor known that it was published; Eleanor was a reticent woman at heart. "There is a scene in it. The hero and heroine make love. Do you know about that?" "Dear--?" "Do you know about it, please?" she repeated. "They are on a hillside, and Florence is in the distance." "My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know nothing about it whatever." "There are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte, Charlotte, how could you have told her? I have thought before speaking; it must be you." "Told her what?" she asked, with growing agitation. "About that dreadful afternoon in February." Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. "Oh, Lucy, dearest girl--she hasn't put that in her book?" Lucy nodded. "Not so that one could recognize it. Yes." "Then never--never--never more shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." "So you did tell?" "I did just happen--when I had tea with her at Rome--in the course of conversation--" "But Charlotte--what about the promise you gave me when we were packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn't even let me tell mother?" "I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence." "Why did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing." Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She had done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence. Lucy stamped with irritation. "Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil's back. Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecil's back as we were walking up the garden." Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets. "What is to be done now? Can you tell me?" "Oh, Lucy--I shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if your prospects--" "I know," said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what you meant by" 'some other source.' "You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?" Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage. "He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself."<|quote|>And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along.</|quote|>"Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand. "I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go." Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse." "You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--" "you don't mean that you are going to marry that man?" The line was unexpected. She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You are merely ridiculous," she said quietly. Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with Vyse. He's only for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He should know no one intimately, least of all a woman." It was a new light on Cecil's character. "Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling tired?" "I can scarcely discuss--" "No, but have you ever? He is the sort who are all right so long as they keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come to people. That's why I'll speak out through all this muddle even now. It's shocking enough to lose you in any case, but generally a man must deny himself joy, and I would have held back if your Cecil had been a different person. I would never have let myself go. But I saw him first in the National Gallery, when he winced because my father mispronounced the names of great painters. Then he brings us here, and we find it is to play some silly trick on a kind neighbour. That is the man all over--playing tricks on people, on the most sacred form of life that he can find. Next, I meet you together, and find him protecting and teaching you and your mother to be shocked, when it was for YOU to settle whether you were shocked or no. Cecil all over again. He daren't let a woman decide. He's the type who's kept Europe back for a thousand years. Every moment of his life he's forming you, telling you what's charming or amusing or ladylike, telling you what a man thinks womanly; and you, you of all women, listen to his voice instead of to your own. So it was at the Rectory, when I met you both again; so it has been the whole of this afternoon. Therefore--not" 'therefore I kissed you,' "because the book made me do that, and I wish to goodness I had more self-control. I'm not ashamed. I don't apologize. But it has frightened you, and you may not have noticed that I love you. Or would you have told me to go, and dealt with a tremendous thing so lightly? But therefore--therefore I settled to fight him." Lucy thought of a very good remark. "You say Mr. Vyse wants me to listen to him, Mr. Emerson. Pardon me for suggesting that you have caught the habit."
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what you meant by" 'some other source.' "You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?" Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage. "He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself."<|quote|>And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along.</|quote|>"Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand. "I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go." Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse." "You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--" "you don't mean that you are going to marry that man?" The line was unexpected. She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You are merely ridiculous," she said quietly. Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with Vyse. He's only for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He should know no one intimately, least of all a woman." It was a new light on Cecil's character. "Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling tired?" "I can scarcely discuss--" "No, but have you ever? He is the sort who are all right so long as they keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come to people. That's why I'll speak out through all this muddle even now. It's shocking enough to lose you in any case, but generally a man must deny himself joy, and I would have held back if your Cecil had been a different person. I would never have let myself go. But I saw him first in the National Gallery, when he winced because my father mispronounced the names
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A Room With A View
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he said.
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No speaker
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in the lobby outside. "Darling,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Is that Mr Last? I've
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He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from
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cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed."
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feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang
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Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall
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parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens
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heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "Oh dear, can I trust you?" "I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my bag." * * * * * "Was that your girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?" "Not exactly." "Far better to make it up. Shall we have some more brandy or go round to Brenda straight away?" "Let's have some more brandy." "Jock, you aren't still feeling low, are you? Doesn't do to feel low. _I'm_ not feeling low. I _was_, but I'm not any more." "No, I'm not feeling low." "Then we'll have some brandy and then go to Brenda's." "All right." Half an hour later they got into Jock's car. "Tell you what, I shouldn't drive if I were you." "Not drive?" "No, I shouldn't drive. They'd say you were drunk." "Who would?" "Anyone you ran over. They'd say you were drunk." "Well, so I am." "Then I shouldn't drive." "Too far to walk." "We'll take a taxi." "Oh, hell, I can drive." "Or let's not go to Brenda's at all." "We'd better go to Brenda's," said Jock. "She's expecting us." "Well, I can't walk all that way. Besides, I don't think she really wanted us to come." "She'll be pleased when she sees us." "Yes, but it's a long way. Let's go some other place." "I'd like to see Brenda," said Jock. "I'm very fond of Brenda." "She's a grand girl." "She's a grand girl." "Well, let's take a taxi to Brenda's." But half-way Jock said, "Don't let's go there. Let's go some other place. Let's go to some low joint." "All the same to me. Tell him to go to some lousy joint." "Go to some lousy joint," said Jock, putting his head through the window. The cab wheeled round and made towards Regent Street. "We can always ring Brenda from the lousy joint." "Yes, I think we ought to do that. She's a grand girl." "Grand girl." The cab turned into Golden Square and then down Sink Street, a dingy little place inhabited for the most part by Asiatics. "D'you
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course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "Oh dear, can I trust you?" "I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye"
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A Handful Of Dust
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The Professor spoke at last very slowly.
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No speaker
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what you think of Sunday."<|quote|>The Professor spoke at last very slowly.</|quote|>"I think something," he said,
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said Syme genially. "Tell us what you think of Sunday."<|quote|>The Professor spoke at last very slowly.</|quote|>"I think something," he said, "that I cannot say clearly.
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at the sun at noonday." "Well, that is a point of view," said Syme thoughtfully. "What do you say, Professor?" The Professor was walking with bent head and trailing stick, and he did not answer at all. "Wake up, Professor!" said Syme genially. "Tell us what you think of Sunday."<|quote|>The Professor spoke at last very slowly.</|quote|>"I think something," he said, "that I cannot say clearly. Or, rather, I think something that I cannot even think clearly. But it is something like this. My early life, as you know, was a bit too large and loose." "Well, when I saw Sunday's face I thought it was
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once innocent and pitiless. They might ignore or slay. How would you like to pass ten mortal hours in a parlour with an absent-minded tiger?" "And what do you think of Sunday, Gogol?" asked Syme. "I don't think of Sunday on principle," said Gogol simply, "any more than I stare at the sun at noonday." "Well, that is a point of view," said Syme thoughtfully. "What do you say, Professor?" The Professor was walking with bent head and trailing stick, and he did not answer at all. "Wake up, Professor!" said Syme genially. "Tell us what you think of Sunday."<|quote|>The Professor spoke at last very slowly.</|quote|>"I think something," he said, "that I cannot say clearly. Or, rather, I think something that I cannot even think clearly. But it is something like this. My early life, as you know, was a bit too large and loose." "Well, when I saw Sunday's face I thought it was too large everybody does, but I also thought it was too loose. The face was so big, that one couldn't focus it or make it a face at all. The eye was so far away from the nose, that it wasn't an eye. The mouth was so much by itself,
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man. We think of a wicked man as vigilant. We can't think of a wicked man who is honestly and sincerely dreamy, because we daren't think of a wicked man alone with himself. An absentminded man means a good-natured man. It means a man who, if he happens to see you, will apologise. But how will you bear an absentminded man who, if he happens to see you, will kill you? That is what tries the nerves, abstraction combined with cruelty. Men have felt it sometimes when they went through wild forests, and felt that the animals there were at once innocent and pitiless. They might ignore or slay. How would you like to pass ten mortal hours in a parlour with an absent-minded tiger?" "And what do you think of Sunday, Gogol?" asked Syme. "I don't think of Sunday on principle," said Gogol simply, "any more than I stare at the sun at noonday." "Well, that is a point of view," said Syme thoughtfully. "What do you say, Professor?" The Professor was walking with bent head and trailing stick, and he did not answer at all. "Wake up, Professor!" said Syme genially. "Tell us what you think of Sunday."<|quote|>The Professor spoke at last very slowly.</|quote|>"I think something," he said, "that I cannot say clearly. Or, rather, I think something that I cannot even think clearly. But it is something like this. My early life, as you know, was a bit too large and loose." "Well, when I saw Sunday's face I thought it was too large everybody does, but I also thought it was too loose. The face was so big, that one couldn't focus it or make it a face at all. The eye was so far away from the nose, that it wasn't an eye. The mouth was so much by itself, that one had to think of it by itself. The whole thing is too hard to explain." He paused for a little, still trailing his stick, and then went on "But put it this way. Walking up a road at night, I have seen a lamp and a lighted window and a cloud make together a most complete and unmistakable face. If anyone in heaven has that face I shall know him again. Yet when I walked a little farther I found that there was no face, that the window was ten yards away, the lamp ten hundred yards, the
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sea lumps and protoplasm. It seemed like the final form of matter, the most shapeless and the most shameful. I could only tell myself, from its shudderings, that it was something at least that such a monster could be miserable. And then it broke upon me that the bestial mountain was shaking with a lonely laughter, and the laughter was at me. Do you ask me to forgive him that? It is no small thing to be laughed at by something at once lower and stronger than oneself." "Surely you fellows are exaggerating wildly," cut in the clear voice of Inspector Ratcliffe. "President Sunday is a terrible fellow for one's intellect, but he is not such a Barnum's freak physically as you make out. He received me in an ordinary office, in a grey check coat, in broad daylight. He talked to me in an ordinary way. But I'll tell you what is a trifle creepy about Sunday. His room is neat, his clothes are neat, everything seems in order; but he's absent-minded. Sometimes his great bright eyes go quite blind. For hours he forgets that you are there. Now absent-mindedness is just a bit too awful in a bad man. We think of a wicked man as vigilant. We can't think of a wicked man who is honestly and sincerely dreamy, because we daren't think of a wicked man alone with himself. An absentminded man means a good-natured man. It means a man who, if he happens to see you, will apologise. But how will you bear an absentminded man who, if he happens to see you, will kill you? That is what tries the nerves, abstraction combined with cruelty. Men have felt it sometimes when they went through wild forests, and felt that the animals there were at once innocent and pitiless. They might ignore or slay. How would you like to pass ten mortal hours in a parlour with an absent-minded tiger?" "And what do you think of Sunday, Gogol?" asked Syme. "I don't think of Sunday on principle," said Gogol simply, "any more than I stare at the sun at noonday." "Well, that is a point of view," said Syme thoughtfully. "What do you say, Professor?" The Professor was walking with bent head and trailing stick, and he did not answer at all. "Wake up, Professor!" said Syme genially. "Tell us what you think of Sunday."<|quote|>The Professor spoke at last very slowly.</|quote|>"I think something," he said, "that I cannot say clearly. Or, rather, I think something that I cannot even think clearly. But it is something like this. My early life, as you know, was a bit too large and loose." "Well, when I saw Sunday's face I thought it was too large everybody does, but I also thought it was too loose. The face was so big, that one couldn't focus it or make it a face at all. The eye was so far away from the nose, that it wasn't an eye. The mouth was so much by itself, that one had to think of it by itself. The whole thing is too hard to explain." He paused for a little, still trailing his stick, and then went on "But put it this way. Walking up a road at night, I have seen a lamp and a lighted window and a cloud make together a most complete and unmistakable face. If anyone in heaven has that face I shall know him again. Yet when I walked a little farther I found that there was no face, that the window was ten yards away, the lamp ten hundred yards, the cloud beyond the world. Well, Sunday's face escaped me; it ran away to right and left, as such chance pictures run away. And so his face has made me, somehow, doubt whether there are any faces. I don't know whether your face, Bull, is a face or a combination in perspective. Perhaps one black disc of your beastly glasses is quite close and another fifty miles away. Oh, the doubts of a materialist are not worth a dump. Sunday has taught me the last and the worst doubts, the doubts of a spiritualist. I am a Buddhist, I suppose; and Buddhism is not a creed, it is a doubt. My poor dear Bull, I do not believe that you really have a face. I have not faith enough to believe in matter." Syme's eyes were still fixed upon the errant orb, which, reddened in the evening light, looked like some rosier and more innocent world. "Have you noticed an odd thing," he said, "about all your descriptions? Each man of you finds Sunday quite different, yet each man of you can only find one thing to compare him to the universe itself. Bull finds him like the earth in spring,
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is shown in violence, supreme strength is shown in levity. It was like the old speculations what would happen if an elephant could leap up in the sky like a grasshopper?" "Our elephant," said Syme, looking upwards, "has leapt into the sky like a grasshopper." "And somehow," concluded Bull, "that's why I can't help liking old Sunday. No, it's not an admiration of force, or any silly thing like that. There is a kind of gaiety in the thing, as if he were bursting with some good news. Haven't you sometimes felt it on a spring day? You know Nature plays tricks, but somehow that day proves they are good-natured tricks. I never read the Bible myself, but that part they laugh at is literal truth," 'Why leap ye, ye high hills?' "The hills do leap at least, they try to.... Why do I like Sunday?... how can I tell you?... because he's such a Bounder." There was a long silence, and then the Secretary said in a curious, strained voice "You do not know Sunday at all. Perhaps it is because you are better than I, and do not know hell. I was a fierce fellow, and a trifle morbid from the first. The man who sits in darkness, and who chose us all, chose me because I had all the crazy look of a conspirator because my smile went crooked, and my eyes were gloomy, even when I smiled. But there must have been something in me that answered to the nerves in all these anarchic men. For when I first saw Sunday he expressed to me, not your airy vitality, but something both gross and sad in the Nature of Things. I found him smoking in a twilight room, a room with brown blind down, infinitely more depressing than the genial darkness in which our master lives. He sat there on a bench, a huge heap of a man, dark and out of shape. He listened to all my words without speaking or even stirring. I poured out my most passionate appeals, and asked my most eloquent questions. Then, after a long silence, the Thing began to shake, and I thought it was shaken by some secret malady. It shook like a loathsome and living jelly. It reminded me of everything I had ever read about the base bodies that are the origin of life the deep sea lumps and protoplasm. It seemed like the final form of matter, the most shapeless and the most shameful. I could only tell myself, from its shudderings, that it was something at least that such a monster could be miserable. And then it broke upon me that the bestial mountain was shaking with a lonely laughter, and the laughter was at me. Do you ask me to forgive him that? It is no small thing to be laughed at by something at once lower and stronger than oneself." "Surely you fellows are exaggerating wildly," cut in the clear voice of Inspector Ratcliffe. "President Sunday is a terrible fellow for one's intellect, but he is not such a Barnum's freak physically as you make out. He received me in an ordinary office, in a grey check coat, in broad daylight. He talked to me in an ordinary way. But I'll tell you what is a trifle creepy about Sunday. His room is neat, his clothes are neat, everything seems in order; but he's absent-minded. Sometimes his great bright eyes go quite blind. For hours he forgets that you are there. Now absent-mindedness is just a bit too awful in a bad man. We think of a wicked man as vigilant. We can't think of a wicked man who is honestly and sincerely dreamy, because we daren't think of a wicked man alone with himself. An absentminded man means a good-natured man. It means a man who, if he happens to see you, will apologise. But how will you bear an absentminded man who, if he happens to see you, will kill you? That is what tries the nerves, abstraction combined with cruelty. Men have felt it sometimes when they went through wild forests, and felt that the animals there were at once innocent and pitiless. They might ignore or slay. How would you like to pass ten mortal hours in a parlour with an absent-minded tiger?" "And what do you think of Sunday, Gogol?" asked Syme. "I don't think of Sunday on principle," said Gogol simply, "any more than I stare at the sun at noonday." "Well, that is a point of view," said Syme thoughtfully. "What do you say, Professor?" The Professor was walking with bent head and trailing stick, and he did not answer at all. "Wake up, Professor!" said Syme genially. "Tell us what you think of Sunday."<|quote|>The Professor spoke at last very slowly.</|quote|>"I think something," he said, "that I cannot say clearly. Or, rather, I think something that I cannot even think clearly. But it is something like this. My early life, as you know, was a bit too large and loose." "Well, when I saw Sunday's face I thought it was too large everybody does, but I also thought it was too loose. The face was so big, that one couldn't focus it or make it a face at all. The eye was so far away from the nose, that it wasn't an eye. The mouth was so much by itself, that one had to think of it by itself. The whole thing is too hard to explain." He paused for a little, still trailing his stick, and then went on "But put it this way. Walking up a road at night, I have seen a lamp and a lighted window and a cloud make together a most complete and unmistakable face. If anyone in heaven has that face I shall know him again. Yet when I walked a little farther I found that there was no face, that the window was ten yards away, the lamp ten hundred yards, the cloud beyond the world. Well, Sunday's face escaped me; it ran away to right and left, as such chance pictures run away. And so his face has made me, somehow, doubt whether there are any faces. I don't know whether your face, Bull, is a face or a combination in perspective. Perhaps one black disc of your beastly glasses is quite close and another fifty miles away. Oh, the doubts of a materialist are not worth a dump. Sunday has taught me the last and the worst doubts, the doubts of a spiritualist. I am a Buddhist, I suppose; and Buddhism is not a creed, it is a doubt. My poor dear Bull, I do not believe that you really have a face. I have not faith enough to believe in matter." Syme's eyes were still fixed upon the errant orb, which, reddened in the evening light, looked like some rosier and more innocent world. "Have you noticed an odd thing," he said, "about all your descriptions? Each man of you finds Sunday quite different, yet each man of you can only find one thing to compare him to the universe itself. Bull finds him like the earth in spring, Gogol like the sun at noonday. The Secretary is reminded of the shapeless protoplasm, and the Inspector of the carelessness of virgin forests. The Professor says he is like a changing landscape. This is queer, but it is queerer still that I also have had my odd notion about the President, and I also find that I think of Sunday as I think of the whole world." "Get on a little faster, Syme," said Bull; "never mind the balloon." "When I first saw Sunday," said Syme slowly, "I only saw his back; and when I saw his back, I knew he was the worst man in the world. His neck and shoulders were brutal, like those of some apish god. His head had a stoop that was hardly human, like the stoop of an ox. In fact, I had at once the revolting fancy that this was not a man at all, but a beast dressed up in men's clothes." "Get on," said Dr. Bull. "And then the queer thing happened. I had seen his back from the street, as he sat in the balcony. Then I entered the hotel, and coming round the other side of him, saw his face in the sunlight. His face frightened me, as it did everyone; but not because it was brutal, not because it was evil. On the contrary, it frightened me because it was so beautiful, because it was so good." "Syme," exclaimed the Secretary, "are you ill?" "It was like the face of some ancient archangel, judging justly after heroic wars. There was laughter in the eyes, and in the mouth honour and sorrow. There was the same white hair, the same great, grey-clad shoulders that I had seen from behind. But when I saw him from behind I was certain he was an animal, and when I saw him in front I knew he was a god." "Pan," said the Professor dreamily, "was a god and an animal." "Then, and again and always," went on Syme like a man talking to himself, "that has been for me the mystery of Sunday, and it is also the mystery of the world. When I see the horrible back, I am sure the noble face is but a mask. When I see the face but for an instant, I know the back is only a jest. Bad is so bad, that we cannot
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creepy about Sunday. His room is neat, his clothes are neat, everything seems in order; but he's absent-minded. Sometimes his great bright eyes go quite blind. For hours he forgets that you are there. Now absent-mindedness is just a bit too awful in a bad man. We think of a wicked man as vigilant. We can't think of a wicked man who is honestly and sincerely dreamy, because we daren't think of a wicked man alone with himself. An absentminded man means a good-natured man. It means a man who, if he happens to see you, will apologise. But how will you bear an absentminded man who, if he happens to see you, will kill you? That is what tries the nerves, abstraction combined with cruelty. Men have felt it sometimes when they went through wild forests, and felt that the animals there were at once innocent and pitiless. They might ignore or slay. How would you like to pass ten mortal hours in a parlour with an absent-minded tiger?" "And what do you think of Sunday, Gogol?" asked Syme. "I don't think of Sunday on principle," said Gogol simply, "any more than I stare at the sun at noonday." "Well, that is a point of view," said Syme thoughtfully. "What do you say, Professor?" The Professor was walking with bent head and trailing stick, and he did not answer at all. "Wake up, Professor!" said Syme genially. "Tell us what you think of Sunday."<|quote|>The Professor spoke at last very slowly.</|quote|>"I think something," he said, "that I cannot say clearly. Or, rather, I think something that I cannot even think clearly. But it is something like this. My early life, as you know, was a bit too large and loose." "Well, when I saw Sunday's face I thought it was too large everybody does, but I also thought it was too loose. The face was so big, that one couldn't focus it or make it a face at all. The eye was so far away from the nose, that it wasn't an eye. The mouth was so much by itself, that one had to think of it by itself. The whole thing is too hard to explain." He paused for a little, still trailing his stick, and then went on "But put it this way. Walking up a road at night, I have seen a lamp and a lighted window and a cloud make together a most complete and unmistakable face. If anyone in heaven has that face I shall know him again. Yet when I walked a little farther I found that there was no face, that the window was ten yards away, the lamp ten hundred yards, the cloud beyond the world. Well, Sunday's face escaped me; it ran away to right and left, as such chance pictures run away. And so his face has made me, somehow, doubt whether there are any faces. I don't know whether your face, Bull, is a face or a combination in
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The Man Who Was Thursday
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said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut;
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No speaker
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better cut off, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut;</|quote|>"and you and me 'll
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I was." "Then we had better cut off, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut;</|quote|>"and you and me 'll be painted like he is
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they'd served me so." "Cutoff?" said Jem. "That's it, mate. I wouldn't ha' minded being a sailor, but not be made one whether I liked or no." "You weren't a sailor, were you?" said Don. "I? No; never mind what I was." "Then we had better cut off, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut;</|quote|>"and you and me 'll be painted like he is in fast colours, and you shall be a chief, and I'll be your head man." "To be sure," said the Englishman; "and you shall have a wife." "Eh?" cried Jem fiercely; "that I just won't. And, Mas' Don, if we
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was awfully knocked about." "And you stood it?" "Stood it?" said Don, laughing. "How could we help it?" "Made you be sailors, eh, whether you would or no?" "That's it," said Jem. "Well, you can do as you like," said the man; "but I know what I should do if they'd served me so." "Cutoff?" said Jem. "That's it, mate. I wouldn't ha' minded being a sailor, but not be made one whether I liked or no." "You weren't a sailor, were you?" said Don. "I? No; never mind what I was." "Then we had better cut off, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut;</|quote|>"and you and me 'll be painted like he is in fast colours, and you shall be a chief, and I'll be your head man." "To be sure," said the Englishman; "and you shall have a wife." "Eh?" cried Jem fiercely; "that I just won't. And, Mas' Don, if we ever do get back, don't you never say a word to my Sally about this here." "No, Jem, not I." "But you'll leave the ship, mate?" "Well, I dunno," said Jem, thoughtfully. "Will that there pattern all over your face and chest wash off?" "Wash off? No." "Not with pearl-ash
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Don, hastily; "we did not ran away; we were pressed." "Pressed?" said the Englishman, pausing in the act of striking a light on one of the thwarts of the boat. "You needn't believe unless you like," said Jem, sourly, "but we were; dragged off just as if we were--well, never mind what. Feel here." He bent forward, took the man's hand, and placed it upon the back of his head. "That's a pretty good scar, isn't it? Reg'lar ridge." "Yes; that was an ugly crack, mate." "Well, that's what I got, and a lot beside. Young Mas' Don here, too, was awfully knocked about." "And you stood it?" "Stood it?" said Don, laughing. "How could we help it?" "Made you be sailors, eh, whether you would or no?" "That's it," said Jem. "Well, you can do as you like," said the man; "but I know what I should do if they'd served me so." "Cutoff?" said Jem. "That's it, mate. I wouldn't ha' minded being a sailor, but not be made one whether I liked or no." "You weren't a sailor, were you?" said Don. "I? No; never mind what I was." "Then we had better cut off, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut;</|quote|>"and you and me 'll be painted like he is in fast colours, and you shall be a chief, and I'll be your head man." "To be sure," said the Englishman; "and you shall have a wife." "Eh?" cried Jem fiercely; "that I just won't. And, Mas' Don, if we ever do get back, don't you never say a word to my Sally about this here." "No, Jem, not I." "But you'll leave the ship, mate?" "Well, I dunno," said Jem, thoughtfully. "Will that there pattern all over your face and chest wash off?" "Wash off? No." "Not with pearl-ash or soda?" "No, not unless you skinned me," said the man, laughing. "Well, that part arn't tempting, is it, Mas' Don?" Don shook his head. "And then about that other part, old chap--cannibalism? I say, that's gammon, isn't it?" "What do you mean?" "Why, you know--the cooking a fellow and eating him. How dull you are!" "Dull? You be here a few years among these people, talking their lingo, and not seeing an Englishman above once in two years, and see if you wouldn't be dull." "But is that true?" "About being cannibals? Yes it's true enough," said the man
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have a talk to some one from the old home. Never was in the west country, I suppose? I'm an Exeter man." "I've been in Exeter often," said Don eagerly; "we're from Bristol." The Englishman waded rapidly into the sea, his Maori companion dashing in on the other side of the boat, and Jem and Don seized their pistols. "Didn't I tell you it was peace?" said the Englishman, angrily. "I only wanted to shake hands." "Ho!" said Jem, suspiciously, as their visitor coolly seated himself on the gunwale of the boat, his follower taking the opposite side, so as to preserve the balance. "Enough to make you think we meant wrong," said the Englishman; "but we don't. Got any tobacco, mate?" "Yes," said Jem, producing his bag. "'Tarn't very good. Say, Mas' Don, if he came to see us in Bristol, we could give him a bit o' real old Charlestown, spun or leaf." "Could you, though?" said the man, filling his pipe. "Yes; my uncle is a large sugar and tobacco merchant," said Don. "Then how came you to be a sailor boy? I know, you young dog; you ran away. Well, I did once." "No, no," said Don, hastily; "we did not ran away; we were pressed." "Pressed?" said the Englishman, pausing in the act of striking a light on one of the thwarts of the boat. "You needn't believe unless you like," said Jem, sourly, "but we were; dragged off just as if we were--well, never mind what. Feel here." He bent forward, took the man's hand, and placed it upon the back of his head. "That's a pretty good scar, isn't it? Reg'lar ridge." "Yes; that was an ugly crack, mate." "Well, that's what I got, and a lot beside. Young Mas' Don here, too, was awfully knocked about." "And you stood it?" "Stood it?" said Don, laughing. "How could we help it?" "Made you be sailors, eh, whether you would or no?" "That's it," said Jem. "Well, you can do as you like," said the man; "but I know what I should do if they'd served me so." "Cutoff?" said Jem. "That's it, mate. I wouldn't ha' minded being a sailor, but not be made one whether I liked or no." "You weren't a sailor, were you?" said Don. "I? No; never mind what I was." "Then we had better cut off, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut;</|quote|>"and you and me 'll be painted like he is in fast colours, and you shall be a chief, and I'll be your head man." "To be sure," said the Englishman; "and you shall have a wife." "Eh?" cried Jem fiercely; "that I just won't. And, Mas' Don, if we ever do get back, don't you never say a word to my Sally about this here." "No, Jem, not I." "But you'll leave the ship, mate?" "Well, I dunno," said Jem, thoughtfully. "Will that there pattern all over your face and chest wash off?" "Wash off? No." "Not with pearl-ash or soda?" "No, not unless you skinned me," said the man, laughing. "Well, that part arn't tempting, is it, Mas' Don?" Don shook his head. "And then about that other part, old chap--cannibalism? I say, that's gammon, isn't it?" "What do you mean?" "Why, you know--the cooking a fellow and eating him. How dull you are!" "Dull? You be here a few years among these people, talking their lingo, and not seeing an Englishman above once in two years, and see if you wouldn't be dull." "But is that true?" "About being cannibals? Yes it's true enough," said the man seriously; "and very horrid it is; but it's only when there's war." He had succeeded in striking a light now, and was smoking placidly enough on the boat's edge, but dreamily thoughtful, as if he were recalling matters that were past. "Has he ever--been at war?" said Don, altering the fashion of his inquiry when it was half uttered. "Often." "And--? You know," said Jem, who felt no delicacy about the matter. The Englishman nodded his head slowly, and sent forth a tremendous puff of smoke, while his companion moved toward Don, and smiled at him, tapping him on the shoulder with his hand, and seeming to nod approval. "Pakeha!" he said, excitedly; "my pakeha; Maori pakeha." "What does he mean by that?" said Don, after he had suffered these attentions patiently for a few minutes. "Means he wants you to be his pakeha." "Yes: my pakeha; Maori pakeha!" cried the chief eagerly. "But what is a pakeha?" "Why, you're a pakeha, I'm a pakeha. They call foreigners pakehas; and he wants to claim you as his." "What, his slave?" cried Don. "No, no; he means his foreign brother. If you become his pakeha, he will be bound to fight
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who have been punished more than they deserved; and you aren't the sort of fellow to go talking like that, and making trouble for a fellow who never did you any harm." "Not I," said Jem; "it's no business of mine." "And he isn't the fellow to make trouble," put in Don. "That he isn't," said the man, smiling. "'Sides I'm a Maori chief now, and I've got a couple of hundred stout fellows who would fight for me. Eh, Ngati?" he said, addressing some words in the savage tongue. "Pah, ha, ha!" roared the great fellow beside him, brandishing his spear; and seizing the greenstone paddle-like weapon, which hung from his neck, in his left hand, as he struck an attitude, turned up his eyes till the whites only were visible, distorted his face hideously, and thrust out his great tongue till it was far below his chin. "Brayvo! Brayvo! Brayvo!" cried Jem, hammering the side of the boat; "brayvo, waxworks! I say, mate, will he always go off like that when you pull the string?" "Yes," said the Englishman, laughing; "and two hundred more like him." "Then it must be a werry pretty sight indeed; eh, Mas' Don?" "Ah, it's all very well to laugh," said the Englishman good-humouredly; "but when they mean mischief, it's heads off and a feast." "Eh?" cried Jem. "They'll kill a man, and cook him and eat him after." "Gammon!" "Gammon, eh?" cried the Englishman; and he turned to his savage companion with a word or two. The savage relapsed into his former quiescent state, uttered a loud grunt, and smacked his lips. "And so you do do that sort of thing?" said Jem, grinning. "You look in pretty good condition, mate." "No!" said the Englishman fiercely. "I've joined them, and married, and I'm a pakeha Maori and a great chief, and I've often fought for them; but I've never forgotten what I am." "No offence meant, old chap," said Jem; and then from behind his hand he whispered to Don,-- "Look out, my lad; they mean the boat." "No, we don't," said the Englishman, contemptuously; "if we did we could have it. Why, I've only to give the word, and a hundred fellows would be out in a canoe before you knew where you were. No, my lad, it's peace; and I'm glad of a chance, though I'm happy enough here, to have a talk to some one from the old home. Never was in the west country, I suppose? I'm an Exeter man." "I've been in Exeter often," said Don eagerly; "we're from Bristol." The Englishman waded rapidly into the sea, his Maori companion dashing in on the other side of the boat, and Jem and Don seized their pistols. "Didn't I tell you it was peace?" said the Englishman, angrily. "I only wanted to shake hands." "Ho!" said Jem, suspiciously, as their visitor coolly seated himself on the gunwale of the boat, his follower taking the opposite side, so as to preserve the balance. "Enough to make you think we meant wrong," said the Englishman; "but we don't. Got any tobacco, mate?" "Yes," said Jem, producing his bag. "'Tarn't very good. Say, Mas' Don, if he came to see us in Bristol, we could give him a bit o' real old Charlestown, spun or leaf." "Could you, though?" said the man, filling his pipe. "Yes; my uncle is a large sugar and tobacco merchant," said Don. "Then how came you to be a sailor boy? I know, you young dog; you ran away. Well, I did once." "No, no," said Don, hastily; "we did not ran away; we were pressed." "Pressed?" said the Englishman, pausing in the act of striking a light on one of the thwarts of the boat. "You needn't believe unless you like," said Jem, sourly, "but we were; dragged off just as if we were--well, never mind what. Feel here." He bent forward, took the man's hand, and placed it upon the back of his head. "That's a pretty good scar, isn't it? Reg'lar ridge." "Yes; that was an ugly crack, mate." "Well, that's what I got, and a lot beside. Young Mas' Don here, too, was awfully knocked about." "And you stood it?" "Stood it?" said Don, laughing. "How could we help it?" "Made you be sailors, eh, whether you would or no?" "That's it," said Jem. "Well, you can do as you like," said the man; "but I know what I should do if they'd served me so." "Cutoff?" said Jem. "That's it, mate. I wouldn't ha' minded being a sailor, but not be made one whether I liked or no." "You weren't a sailor, were you?" said Don. "I? No; never mind what I was." "Then we had better cut off, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut;</|quote|>"and you and me 'll be painted like he is in fast colours, and you shall be a chief, and I'll be your head man." "To be sure," said the Englishman; "and you shall have a wife." "Eh?" cried Jem fiercely; "that I just won't. And, Mas' Don, if we ever do get back, don't you never say a word to my Sally about this here." "No, Jem, not I." "But you'll leave the ship, mate?" "Well, I dunno," said Jem, thoughtfully. "Will that there pattern all over your face and chest wash off?" "Wash off? No." "Not with pearl-ash or soda?" "No, not unless you skinned me," said the man, laughing. "Well, that part arn't tempting, is it, Mas' Don?" Don shook his head. "And then about that other part, old chap--cannibalism? I say, that's gammon, isn't it?" "What do you mean?" "Why, you know--the cooking a fellow and eating him. How dull you are!" "Dull? You be here a few years among these people, talking their lingo, and not seeing an Englishman above once in two years, and see if you wouldn't be dull." "But is that true?" "About being cannibals? Yes it's true enough," said the man seriously; "and very horrid it is; but it's only when there's war." He had succeeded in striking a light now, and was smoking placidly enough on the boat's edge, but dreamily thoughtful, as if he were recalling matters that were past. "Has he ever--been at war?" said Don, altering the fashion of his inquiry when it was half uttered. "Often." "And--? You know," said Jem, who felt no delicacy about the matter. The Englishman nodded his head slowly, and sent forth a tremendous puff of smoke, while his companion moved toward Don, and smiled at him, tapping him on the shoulder with his hand, and seeming to nod approval. "Pakeha!" he said, excitedly; "my pakeha; Maori pakeha." "What does he mean by that?" said Don, after he had suffered these attentions patiently for a few minutes. "Means he wants you to be his pakeha." "Yes: my pakeha; Maori pakeha!" cried the chief eagerly. "But what is a pakeha?" "Why, you're a pakeha, I'm a pakeha. They call foreigners pakehas; and he wants to claim you as his." "What, his slave?" cried Don. "No, no; he means his foreign brother. If you become his pakeha, he will be bound to fight for you. Eh, Ngati?" The savage gave vent to a fierce shout, and went through his former performance, but with more flourish, as if he were slaying numbers of enemies, and his facial distortion was hideous. "Well, when I was a little un, and went to school," said Jem, "I used to get spanks if I put out my tongue. Seems as if it's a fine thing to do out here." "Yes; it's a way they have when they're going to fight," said the Englishman thoughtfully. "S'pose it would mean trouble if I were to set you on to do it; but it wouldn't be at all bad for me if you were both of you to leave the ship and come ashore." "To be cooked?" said Jem. "Bah! Stuff! They'd treat you well. Youngster here's all right; Ngati would make him his pakeha." "My pakeha," cried the chief, patting Don again. "Much powder; much gun." "Pupil of mine," said the Englishman, smiling; "I taught him our lingo." "What does he mean?" said Don; "that he'd give me a big gun and plenty of powder?" The Englishman laughed. "No, no; he wants you to bring plenty of guns and powder ashore with you when you come." "When I come!" said Don, thoughtfully. "I sha'n't persuade you, my lad; but you might do worse. You'd be all right with us; and there are Englishmen here and there beginning to settle." "And how often is there a post goes out for England?" "Post? For England? Letters?" "Yes." "I don't know; I've been here a long time now, and I never had a letter and I never sent one away." "Then how should I be able to send to my Sally." "Dunno," said the man. "There, you think it over. Ngati here will be ready to take care of you, youngster; and matey here shall soon have a chief to take care of him." "I don't know so much about that," said Jem. "I should be ready enough to come ashore, but you've got some precious unpleasant ways out here as wouldn't suit me." "You'd soon get used to them," said the Englishman, drily; "and after leading a rough life, and being bullied by everybody, it isn't half bad to be a chief, and have a big canoe of your own, and make people do as you like." "But then you're a great
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him and eat him after." "Gammon!" "Gammon, eh?" cried the Englishman; and he turned to his savage companion with a word or two. The savage relapsed into his former quiescent state, uttered a loud grunt, and smacked his lips. "And so you do do that sort of thing?" said Jem, grinning. "You look in pretty good condition, mate." "No!" said the Englishman fiercely. "I've joined them, and married, and I'm a pakeha Maori and a great chief, and I've often fought for them; but I've never forgotten what I am." "No offence meant, old chap," said Jem; and then from behind his hand he whispered to Don,-- "Look out, my lad; they mean the boat." "No, we don't," said the Englishman, contemptuously; "if we did we could have it. Why, I've only to give the word, and a hundred fellows would be out in a canoe before you knew where you were. No, my lad, it's peace; and I'm glad of a chance, though I'm happy enough here, to have a talk to some one from the old home. Never was in the west country, I suppose? I'm an Exeter man." "I've been in Exeter often," said Don eagerly; "we're from Bristol." The Englishman waded rapidly into the sea, his Maori companion dashing in on the other side of the boat, and Jem and Don seized their pistols. "Didn't I tell you it was peace?" said the Englishman, angrily. "I only wanted to shake hands." "Ho!" said Jem, suspiciously, as their visitor coolly seated himself on the gunwale of the boat, his follower taking the opposite side, so as to preserve the balance. "Enough to make you think we meant wrong," said the Englishman; "but we don't. Got any tobacco, mate?" "Yes," said Jem, producing his bag. "'Tarn't very good. Say, Mas' Don, if he came to see us in Bristol, we could give him a bit o' real old Charlestown, spun or leaf." "Could you, though?" said the man, filling his pipe. "Yes; my uncle is a large sugar and tobacco merchant," said Don. "Then how came you to be a sailor boy? I know, you young dog; you ran away. Well, I did once." "No, no," said Don, hastily; "we did not ran away; we were pressed." "Pressed?" said the Englishman, pausing in the act of striking a light on one of the thwarts of the boat. "You needn't believe unless you like," said Jem, sourly, "but we were; dragged off just as if we were--well, never mind what. Feel here." He bent forward, took the man's hand, and placed it upon the back of his head. "That's a pretty good scar, isn't it? Reg'lar ridge." "Yes; that was an ugly crack, mate." "Well, that's what I got, and a lot beside. Young Mas' Don here, too, was awfully knocked about." "And you stood it?" "Stood it?" said Don, laughing. "How could we help it?" "Made you be sailors, eh, whether you would or no?" "That's it," said Jem. "Well, you can do as you like," said the man; "but I know what I should do if they'd served me so." "Cutoff?" said Jem. "That's it, mate. I wouldn't ha' minded being a sailor, but not be made one whether I liked or no." "You weren't a sailor, were you?" said Don. "I? No; never mind what I was." "Then we had better cut off, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut;</|quote|>"and you and me 'll be painted like he is in fast colours, and you shall be a chief, and I'll be your head man." "To be sure," said the Englishman; "and you shall have a wife." "Eh?" cried Jem fiercely; "that I just won't. And, Mas' Don, if we ever do get back, don't you never say a word to my Sally about this here." "No, Jem, not I." "But you'll leave the ship, mate?" "Well, I dunno," said Jem, thoughtfully. "Will that there pattern all over your face and chest wash off?" "Wash off? No." "Not with pearl-ash or soda?" "No, not unless you skinned me," said the man, laughing. "Well, that part arn't tempting, is it, Mas' Don?" Don shook his head. "And then about that other part, old chap--cannibalism? I say, that's gammon, isn't it?" "What do you mean?" "Why, you know--the cooking a fellow and eating him. How dull you are!" "Dull? You be here a few years among these people, talking their lingo, and not seeing an Englishman above once in two years, and see if you wouldn't be dull." "But is that true?" "About being cannibals? Yes it's true enough," said the man seriously; "and very horrid it is; but it's only when there's war." He had succeeded in striking a light now, and was smoking placidly enough on the boat's edge, but dreamily thoughtful, as if he were recalling matters that were past. "Has he ever--been at war?" said Don, altering the fashion of his inquiry when it was half uttered. "Often." "And--? You know," said Jem, who felt no delicacy about the matter. The Englishman nodded his head slowly, and sent forth a tremendous puff of smoke, while his companion moved toward Don, and smiled at him, tapping him on the shoulder with his hand, and seeming to nod approval. "Pakeha!" he said, excitedly; "my pakeha; Maori pakeha." "What does he mean by that?" said Don, after he had suffered these attentions patiently for a few minutes. "Means he wants you to be his pakeha." "Yes: my pakeha; Maori pakeha!" cried the chief eagerly. "But what is a pakeha?" "Why, you're a pakeha, I'm a pakeha. They call foreigners pakehas; and he wants to claim you as his." "What, his slave?" cried Don. "No, no; he means his foreign brother. If you become his pakeha, he will be bound to fight for you. Eh, Ngati?" The savage gave vent to a fierce shout, and went through his former performance, but with more flourish, as if he were slaying numbers of enemies, and his facial distortion was hideous. "Well, when I was a little un, and went to school," said Jem, "I used to get spanks if I put out my tongue. Seems as if it's a fine thing to do out here." "Yes; it's a way they have when they're going to fight," said the Englishman thoughtfully. "S'pose it would mean trouble if I were to set you on to do it; but it wouldn't be at all bad for me if you were both of you to leave the ship and come ashore." "To be cooked?" said Jem. "Bah! Stuff! They'd treat you well. Youngster here's all right; Ngati would make him his pakeha." "My pakeha," cried the chief, patting Don again. "Much powder; much gun." "Pupil of mine," said the Englishman, smiling; "I taught him our lingo." "What does he mean?" said Don; "that he'd give me a big gun and plenty of powder?" The Englishman
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Don Lavington
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"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile."
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Emma
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it ought to be called."<|quote|>"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile."</|quote|>"I am afraid," said he,
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"I do not know which it ought to be called."<|quote|>"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile."</|quote|>"I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am
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were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called."<|quote|>"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile."</|quote|>"I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one
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CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called."<|quote|>"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile."</|quote|>"I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she
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an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called."<|quote|>"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile."</|quote|>"I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking
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from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!" "--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--" "Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him." "--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called."<|quote|>"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile."</|quote|>"I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--" "Well!" "--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy,
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it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--" "Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!" "--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--" "Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him." "--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called."<|quote|>"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile."</|quote|>"I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--" "Well!" "--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as
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in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!" "--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--" "Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him." "--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called."<|quote|>"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile."</|quote|>"I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you
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Emma
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"Bournemouth is,"
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Aunt Juley
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another international incident was closed.<|quote|>"Bournemouth is,"</|quote|>resumed their hostess, quoting a
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is so," conceded Frieda; and another international incident was closed.<|quote|>"Bournemouth is,"</|quote|>resumed their hostess, quoting a local rhyme to which she
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it not smell, or may I say stink, ha, ha?" "There always has been mud in Poole Harbour," said Mrs. Munt, with a slight frown. "The rivers bring it down, and a most valuable oyster-fishery depends upon it." "Yes, that is so," conceded Frieda; and another international incident was closed.<|quote|>"Bournemouth is,"</|quote|>resumed their hostess, quoting a local rhyme to which she was much attached--" "Bournemouth is, Poole was, and Swanage is to be the most important town of all and biggest of the three. Now, Frau Liesecke, I have shown you Bournemouth, and I have shown you Poole, so let us
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fresh aquariums stink less than salt? Why, then Victor, my brother-in-law, collected many tadpoles--" "You are not to say stink," interrupted Helen; "at least, you may say it, but you must pretend you are being funny while you say it." "Then smell. And the mud of your Pool down there--does it not smell, or may I say stink, ha, ha?" "There always has been mud in Poole Harbour," said Mrs. Munt, with a slight frown. "The rivers bring it down, and a most valuable oyster-fishery depends upon it." "Yes, that is so," conceded Frieda; and another international incident was closed.<|quote|>"Bournemouth is,"</|quote|>resumed their hostess, quoting a local rhyme to which she was much attached--" "Bournemouth is, Poole was, and Swanage is to be the most important town of all and biggest of the three. Now, Frau Liesecke, I have shown you Bournemouth, and I have shown you Poole, so let us walk backward a little, and look down again at Swanage." "Aunt Juley, wouldn t that be Meg s train?" A tiny puff of smoke had been circling the harbour, and now was bearing southwards towards them over the black and the gold. "Oh, dearest Margaret, I do hope she won
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dry, which led her to praise the absence of muddy foreshore at Friedrich Wilhelms Bad, Rugen, where beech-trees hang over the tideless Baltic, and cows may contemplate the brine. Rather unhealthy Mrs. Munt thought this would be, water being safer when it moved about. "And your English lakes--Vindermere, Grasmere they, then, unhealthy?" "No, Frau Liesecke; but that is because they are fresh water, and different. Salt water ought to have tides, and go up and down a great deal, or else it smells. Look, for instance, at an aquarium." "An aquarium! Oh, MEESIS Munt, you mean to tell me that fresh aquariums stink less than salt? Why, then Victor, my brother-in-law, collected many tadpoles--" "You are not to say stink," interrupted Helen; "at least, you may say it, but you must pretend you are being funny while you say it." "Then smell. And the mud of your Pool down there--does it not smell, or may I say stink, ha, ha?" "There always has been mud in Poole Harbour," said Mrs. Munt, with a slight frown. "The rivers bring it down, and a most valuable oyster-fishery depends upon it." "Yes, that is so," conceded Frieda; and another international incident was closed.<|quote|>"Bournemouth is,"</|quote|>resumed their hostess, quoting a local rhyme to which she was much attached--" "Bournemouth is, Poole was, and Swanage is to be the most important town of all and biggest of the three. Now, Frau Liesecke, I have shown you Bournemouth, and I have shown you Poole, so let us walk backward a little, and look down again at Swanage." "Aunt Juley, wouldn t that be Meg s train?" A tiny puff of smoke had been circling the harbour, and now was bearing southwards towards them over the black and the gold. "Oh, dearest Margaret, I do hope she won t be overtired." "Oh, I do wonder--I do wonder whether she s taken the house." "I hope she hasn t been hasty." "So do I--oh, SO do I." "Will it be as beautiful as Wickham Place?" Frieda asked. "I should think it would. Trust Mr. Wilcox for doing himself proud. All those Ducie Street houses are beautiful in their modern way, and I can t think why he doesn t keep on with it. But it s really for Evie that he went there, and now that Evie s going to be married--" "Ah!" "You ve never seen Miss Wilcox,
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Freshwater it shall never touch, and the island will guard the Island s purity till the end of time. Seen from the west the Wight is beautiful beyond all laws of beauty. It is as if a fragment of England floated forward to greet the foreigner--chalk of our chalk, turf of our turf, epitome of what will follow. And behind the fragment lies Southampton, hostess to the nations, and Portsmouth, a latent fire, and all around it, with double and treble collision of tides, swirls the sea. How many villages appear in this view! How many castles! How many churches, vanished or triumphant! How many ships, railways, and roads! What incredible variety of men working beneath that lucent sky to what final end! The reason fails, like a wave on the Swanage beach; the imagination swells, spreads, and deepens, until it becomes geographic and encircles England. So Frieda Mosebach, now Frau Architect Liesecke, and mother to her husband s baby, was brought up to these heights to be impressed, and, after a prolonged gaze, she said that the hills were more swelling here than in Pomerania, which was true, but did not seem to Mrs. Munt apposite. Poole Harbour was dry, which led her to praise the absence of muddy foreshore at Friedrich Wilhelms Bad, Rugen, where beech-trees hang over the tideless Baltic, and cows may contemplate the brine. Rather unhealthy Mrs. Munt thought this would be, water being safer when it moved about. "And your English lakes--Vindermere, Grasmere they, then, unhealthy?" "No, Frau Liesecke; but that is because they are fresh water, and different. Salt water ought to have tides, and go up and down a great deal, or else it smells. Look, for instance, at an aquarium." "An aquarium! Oh, MEESIS Munt, you mean to tell me that fresh aquariums stink less than salt? Why, then Victor, my brother-in-law, collected many tadpoles--" "You are not to say stink," interrupted Helen; "at least, you may say it, but you must pretend you are being funny while you say it." "Then smell. And the mud of your Pool down there--does it not smell, or may I say stink, ha, ha?" "There always has been mud in Poole Harbour," said Mrs. Munt, with a slight frown. "The rivers bring it down, and a most valuable oyster-fishery depends upon it." "Yes, that is so," conceded Frieda; and another international incident was closed.<|quote|>"Bournemouth is,"</|quote|>resumed their hostess, quoting a local rhyme to which she was much attached--" "Bournemouth is, Poole was, and Swanage is to be the most important town of all and biggest of the three. Now, Frau Liesecke, I have shown you Bournemouth, and I have shown you Poole, so let us walk backward a little, and look down again at Swanage." "Aunt Juley, wouldn t that be Meg s train?" A tiny puff of smoke had been circling the harbour, and now was bearing southwards towards them over the black and the gold. "Oh, dearest Margaret, I do hope she won t be overtired." "Oh, I do wonder--I do wonder whether she s taken the house." "I hope she hasn t been hasty." "So do I--oh, SO do I." "Will it be as beautiful as Wickham Place?" Frieda asked. "I should think it would. Trust Mr. Wilcox for doing himself proud. All those Ducie Street houses are beautiful in their modern way, and I can t think why he doesn t keep on with it. But it s really for Evie that he went there, and now that Evie s going to be married--" "Ah!" "You ve never seen Miss Wilcox, Frieda. How absurdly matrimonial you are!" "But sister to that Paul?" "Yes." "And to that Charles," said Mrs. Munt with feeling. "Oh, Helen, Helen, what a time that was!" Helen laughed. "Meg and I haven t got such tender hearts. If there s a chance of a cheap house, we go for it." "Now look, Frau Liesecke, at my niece s train. You see, it is coming towards us--coming, coming; and, when it gets to Corfe, it will actually go THROUGH the downs, on which we are standing, so that, if we walk over, as I suggested, and look down on Swanage, we shall see it coming on the other side. Shall we?" Frieda assented, and in a few minutes they had crossed the ridge and exchanged the greater view for the lesser. Rather a dull valley lay below, backed by the slope of the coastward downs. They were looking across the Isle of Purbeck and on to Swanage, soon to be the most important town of all, and ugliest of the three. Margaret s train reappeared as promised, and was greeted with approval by her aunt. It came to a standstill in the middle distance, and there it had
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that Mr. Wilcox loved, obsessed her before she came to love him in return. She would come to no decision yet. "Oh, sir, this is so sudden"--that prudish phrase exactly expressed her when her time came. Premonitions are not preparation. She must examine more closely her own nature and his; she must talk it over judicially with Helen. It had been a strange love-scene--the central radiance unacknowledged from first to last. She, in his place, would have said Ich liebe dich, but perhaps it was not his habit to open the heart. He might have done it if she had pressed him--as a matter of duty, perhaps; England expects every man to open his heart once; but the effort would have jarred him, and never, if she could avoid it, should he lose those defences that he had chosen to raise against the world. He must never be bothered with emotional talk, or with a display of sympathy. He was an elderly man now, and it would be futile and impudent to correct him. Mrs. Wilcox strayed in and out, ever a welcome ghost; surveying the scene, thought Margaret, without one hint of bitterness. CHAPTER XIX If one wanted to show a foreigner England, perhaps the wisest course would be to take him to the final section of the Purbeck Hills, and stand him on their summit, a few miles to the east of Corfe. Then system after system of our island would roll together under his feet. Beneath him is the valley of the Frome, and all the wild lands that come tossing down from Dorchester, black and gold, to mirror their gorse in the expanses of Poole. The valley of the Stour is beyond, unaccountable stream, dirty at Blandford, pure at Wimborne--the Stour, sliding out of fat fields, to marry the Avon beneath the tower of Christ church. The valley of the Avon--invisible, but far to the north the trained eye may see Clearbury Ring that guards it, and the imagination may leap beyond that on to Salisbury Plain itself, and beyond the Plain to all the glorious downs of Central England. Nor is Suburbia absent. Bournemouth s ignoble coast cowers to the right, heralding the pine-trees that mean, for all their beauty, red houses, and the Stock Exchange, and extend to the gates of London itself. So tremendous is the City s trail! But the cliffs of Freshwater it shall never touch, and the island will guard the Island s purity till the end of time. Seen from the west the Wight is beautiful beyond all laws of beauty. It is as if a fragment of England floated forward to greet the foreigner--chalk of our chalk, turf of our turf, epitome of what will follow. And behind the fragment lies Southampton, hostess to the nations, and Portsmouth, a latent fire, and all around it, with double and treble collision of tides, swirls the sea. How many villages appear in this view! How many castles! How many churches, vanished or triumphant! How many ships, railways, and roads! What incredible variety of men working beneath that lucent sky to what final end! The reason fails, like a wave on the Swanage beach; the imagination swells, spreads, and deepens, until it becomes geographic and encircles England. So Frieda Mosebach, now Frau Architect Liesecke, and mother to her husband s baby, was brought up to these heights to be impressed, and, after a prolonged gaze, she said that the hills were more swelling here than in Pomerania, which was true, but did not seem to Mrs. Munt apposite. Poole Harbour was dry, which led her to praise the absence of muddy foreshore at Friedrich Wilhelms Bad, Rugen, where beech-trees hang over the tideless Baltic, and cows may contemplate the brine. Rather unhealthy Mrs. Munt thought this would be, water being safer when it moved about. "And your English lakes--Vindermere, Grasmere they, then, unhealthy?" "No, Frau Liesecke; but that is because they are fresh water, and different. Salt water ought to have tides, and go up and down a great deal, or else it smells. Look, for instance, at an aquarium." "An aquarium! Oh, MEESIS Munt, you mean to tell me that fresh aquariums stink less than salt? Why, then Victor, my brother-in-law, collected many tadpoles--" "You are not to say stink," interrupted Helen; "at least, you may say it, but you must pretend you are being funny while you say it." "Then smell. And the mud of your Pool down there--does it not smell, or may I say stink, ha, ha?" "There always has been mud in Poole Harbour," said Mrs. Munt, with a slight frown. "The rivers bring it down, and a most valuable oyster-fishery depends upon it." "Yes, that is so," conceded Frieda; and another international incident was closed.<|quote|>"Bournemouth is,"</|quote|>resumed their hostess, quoting a local rhyme to which she was much attached--" "Bournemouth is, Poole was, and Swanage is to be the most important town of all and biggest of the three. Now, Frau Liesecke, I have shown you Bournemouth, and I have shown you Poole, so let us walk backward a little, and look down again at Swanage." "Aunt Juley, wouldn t that be Meg s train?" A tiny puff of smoke had been circling the harbour, and now was bearing southwards towards them over the black and the gold. "Oh, dearest Margaret, I do hope she won t be overtired." "Oh, I do wonder--I do wonder whether she s taken the house." "I hope she hasn t been hasty." "So do I--oh, SO do I." "Will it be as beautiful as Wickham Place?" Frieda asked. "I should think it would. Trust Mr. Wilcox for doing himself proud. All those Ducie Street houses are beautiful in their modern way, and I can t think why he doesn t keep on with it. But it s really for Evie that he went there, and now that Evie s going to be married--" "Ah!" "You ve never seen Miss Wilcox, Frieda. How absurdly matrimonial you are!" "But sister to that Paul?" "Yes." "And to that Charles," said Mrs. Munt with feeling. "Oh, Helen, Helen, what a time that was!" Helen laughed. "Meg and I haven t got such tender hearts. If there s a chance of a cheap house, we go for it." "Now look, Frau Liesecke, at my niece s train. You see, it is coming towards us--coming, coming; and, when it gets to Corfe, it will actually go THROUGH the downs, on which we are standing, so that, if we walk over, as I suggested, and look down on Swanage, we shall see it coming on the other side. Shall we?" Frieda assented, and in a few minutes they had crossed the ridge and exchanged the greater view for the lesser. Rather a dull valley lay below, backed by the slope of the coastward downs. They were looking across the Isle of Purbeck and on to Swanage, soon to be the most important town of all, and ugliest of the three. Margaret s train reappeared as promised, and was greeted with approval by her aunt. It came to a standstill in the middle distance, and there it had been planned that Tibby should meet her, and drive her, and a tea-basket, up to join them. "You see," continued Helen to her cousin, "the Wilcoxes collect houses as your Victor collects tadpoles. They have, one, Ducie Street; two, Howards End, where my great rumpus was; three, a country seat in Shropshire; four, Charles has a house in Hilton; and five, another near Epsom; and six, Evie will have a house when she marries, and probably a pied-a-terre in the country--which makes seven. Oh yes, and Paul a hut in Africa makes eight. I wish we could get Howards End. That was something like a dear little house! Didn t you think so, Aunt Juley?" "I had too much to do, dear, to look at it," said Mrs. Munt, with a gracious dignity. "I had everything to settle and explain, and Charles Wilcox to keep in his place besides. It isn t likely I should remember much. I just remember having lunch in your bedroom." "Yes, so do I. But, oh dear, dear, how dreadful it all seems! And in the autumn there began that anti-Pauline movement--you, and Frieda, and Meg, and Mrs. Wilcox, all obsessed with the idea that I might yet marry Paul." "You yet may," said Frieda despondently. Helen shook her head. "The Great Wilcox Peril will never return. If I m certain of anything it s of that." "One is certain of nothing but the truth of one s own emotions." The remark fell damply on the conversation. But Helen slipped her arm round her cousin, somehow liking her the better for making it. It was not an original remark, nor had Frieda appropriated it passionately, for she had a patriotic rather than a philosophic mind. Yet it betrayed that interest in the universal which the average Teuton possesses and the average Englishman does not. It was, however illogically, the good, the beautiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the pretty, the adequate. It was a landscape of Bocklin s beside a landscape of Leader s, strident and ill-considered, but quivering into supernatural life. It sharpened idealism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad preparation for what followed. "Look!" cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from generalities over the narrow summit of the down. "Stand where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart coming. I see the pony-cart coming." They stood and saw
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the final section of the Purbeck Hills, and stand him on their summit, a few miles to the east of Corfe. Then system after system of our island would roll together under his feet. Beneath him is the valley of the Frome, and all the wild lands that come tossing down from Dorchester, black and gold, to mirror their gorse in the expanses of Poole. The valley of the Stour is beyond, unaccountable stream, dirty at Blandford, pure at Wimborne--the Stour, sliding out of fat fields, to marry the Avon beneath the tower of Christ church. The valley of the Avon--invisible, but far to the north the trained eye may see Clearbury Ring that guards it, and the imagination may leap beyond that on to Salisbury Plain itself, and beyond the Plain to all the glorious downs of Central England. Nor is Suburbia absent. Bournemouth s ignoble coast cowers to the right, heralding the pine-trees that mean, for all their beauty, red houses, and the Stock Exchange, and extend to the gates of London itself. So tremendous is the City s trail! But the cliffs of Freshwater it shall never touch, and the island will guard the Island s purity till the end of time. Seen from the west the Wight is beautiful beyond all laws of beauty. It is as if a fragment of England floated forward to greet the foreigner--chalk of our chalk, turf of our turf, epitome of what will follow. And behind the fragment lies Southampton, hostess to the nations, and Portsmouth, a latent fire, and all around it, with double and treble collision of tides, swirls the sea. How many villages appear in this view! How many castles! How many churches, vanished or triumphant! How many ships, railways, and roads! What incredible variety of men working beneath that lucent sky to what final end! The reason fails, like a wave on the Swanage beach; the imagination swells, spreads, and deepens, until it becomes geographic and encircles England. So Frieda Mosebach, now Frau Architect Liesecke, and mother to her husband s baby, was brought up to these heights to be impressed, and, after a prolonged gaze, she said that the hills were more swelling here than in Pomerania, which was true, but did not seem to Mrs. Munt apposite. Poole Harbour was dry, which led her to praise the absence of muddy foreshore at Friedrich Wilhelms Bad, Rugen, where beech-trees hang over the tideless Baltic, and cows may contemplate the brine. Rather unhealthy Mrs. Munt thought this would be, water being safer when it moved about. "And your English lakes--Vindermere, Grasmere they, then, unhealthy?" "No, Frau Liesecke; but that is because they are fresh water, and different. Salt water ought to have tides, and go up and down a great deal, or else it smells. Look, for instance, at an aquarium." "An aquarium! Oh, MEESIS Munt, you mean to tell me that fresh aquariums stink less than salt? Why, then Victor, my brother-in-law, collected many tadpoles--" "You are not to say stink," interrupted Helen; "at least, you may say it, but you must pretend you are being funny while you say it." "Then smell. And the mud of your Pool down there--does it not smell, or may I say stink, ha, ha?" "There always has been mud in Poole Harbour," said Mrs. Munt, with a slight frown. "The rivers bring it down, and a most valuable oyster-fishery depends upon it." "Yes, that is so," conceded Frieda; and another international incident was closed.<|quote|>"Bournemouth is,"</|quote|>resumed their hostess, quoting a local rhyme to which she was much attached--" "Bournemouth is, Poole was, and Swanage is to be the most important town of all and biggest of the three. Now, Frau Liesecke, I have shown you Bournemouth, and I have shown you Poole, so let us walk backward a little, and look down again at Swanage." "Aunt Juley, wouldn t that be Meg s train?" A tiny puff of smoke had been circling the harbour, and now was bearing southwards towards them over the black and the gold. "Oh, dearest Margaret, I do hope she won t be overtired." "Oh, I do wonder--I do wonder whether she s taken the house." "I hope she hasn t been hasty." "So do I--oh, SO do I." "Will it be as beautiful as Wickham Place?" Frieda asked. "I should think it would. Trust Mr. Wilcox for doing himself proud. All those Ducie Street houses are beautiful in their modern way, and I can t think why he doesn t keep on with it. But it s really for Evie that he went there, and now that Evie s going to be married--" "Ah!" "You ve never seen Miss Wilcox, Frieda. How absurdly matrimonial you are!" "But sister to that Paul?" "Yes." "And to that Charles," said Mrs. Munt with feeling. "Oh, Helen, Helen, what a time that was!" Helen laughed. "Meg and I haven t got such tender hearts. If there s a chance of a cheap house, we go for it." "Now look, Frau Liesecke, at my niece s train. You see, it is coming towards us--coming, coming; and, when it gets to Corfe, it will actually go THROUGH the downs, on which we are standing, so that, if we walk over, as I suggested, and look down on Swanage, we shall see it coming on the other side. Shall we?" Frieda assented, and in a few minutes they had crossed the ridge and exchanged
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Howards End
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"How was that?"
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Gabriel Syme
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eyes suddenly flashed on him.<|quote|>"How was that?"</|quote|>he asked. "I thought you
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saw me at all!" Syme's eyes suddenly flashed on him.<|quote|>"How was that?"</|quote|>he asked. "I thought you talked to him." "So I
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was that?" asked Syme. "I'll tell you," answered the man in spectacles. "This big pot in the police who sized me up so that he knew how the goggles would go with my hair and socks by God, he never saw me at all!" Syme's eyes suddenly flashed on him.<|quote|>"How was that?"</|quote|>he asked. "I thought you talked to him." "So I did," said Bull brightly; "but we talked in a pitch-dark room like a coalcellar. There, you would never have guessed that." "I could not have conceived it," said Syme gravely. "It is indeed a new idea," said the Professor. Their
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shoulders and short hair, made me look a perfect little devil. As I say, it was simple enough when it was done, like miracles; but that wasn't the really miraculous part of it. There was one really staggering thing about the business, and my head still turns at it." "What was that?" asked Syme. "I'll tell you," answered the man in spectacles. "This big pot in the police who sized me up so that he knew how the goggles would go with my hair and socks by God, he never saw me at all!" Syme's eyes suddenly flashed on him.<|quote|>"How was that?"</|quote|>he asked. "I thought you talked to him." "So I did," said Bull brightly; "but we talked in a pitch-dark room like a coalcellar. There, you would never have guessed that." "I could not have conceived it," said Syme gravely. "It is indeed a new idea," said the Professor. Their new ally was in practical matters a whirlwind. At the inquiry office he asked with businesslike brevity about the trains for Dover. Having got his information, he bundled the company into a cab, and put them and himself inside a railway carriage before they had properly realised the breathless process.
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there the others all talked hopelessly. One asked whether a bushy beard would hide my nice smile; another said that if they blacked my face I might look like a negro anarchist; but this old chap chipped in with a most extraordinary remark." A pair of smoked spectacles will do it,' "he said positively." Look at him now; he looks like an angelic office boy. Put him on a pair of smoked spectacles, and children will scream at the sight of him.' "And so it was, by George! When once my eyes were covered, all the rest, smile and big shoulders and short hair, made me look a perfect little devil. As I say, it was simple enough when it was done, like miracles; but that wasn't the really miraculous part of it. There was one really staggering thing about the business, and my head still turns at it." "What was that?" asked Syme. "I'll tell you," answered the man in spectacles. "This big pot in the police who sized me up so that he knew how the goggles would go with my hair and socks by God, he never saw me at all!" Syme's eyes suddenly flashed on him.<|quote|>"How was that?"</|quote|>he asked. "I thought you talked to him." "So I did," said Bull brightly; "but we talked in a pitch-dark room like a coalcellar. There, you would never have guessed that." "I could not have conceived it," said Syme gravely. "It is indeed a new idea," said the Professor. Their new ally was in practical matters a whirlwind. At the inquiry office he asked with businesslike brevity about the trains for Dover. Having got his information, he bundled the company into a cab, and put them and himself inside a railway carriage before they had properly realised the breathless process. They were already on the Calais boat before conversation flowed freely. "I had already arranged," he explained, "to go to France for my lunch; but I am delighted to have someone to lunch with me. You see, I had to send that beast, the Marquis, over with his bomb, because the President had his eye on me, though God knows how. I'll tell you the story some day. It was perfectly choking. Whenever I tried to slip out of it I saw the President somewhere, smiling out of the bow-window of a club, or taking off his hat to me
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my blue funk! But the worst devil was you and your infernal goggles." The young man laughed delightedly. "Wasn't it a rag?" he said. "Such a simple idea not my own. I haven't got the brains. You see, I wanted to go into the detective service, especially the anti-dynamite business. But for that purpose they wanted someone to dress up as a dynamiter; and they all swore by blazes that I could never look like a dynamiter. They said my very walk was respectable, and that seen from behind I looked like the British Constitution. They said I looked too healthy and too optimistic, and too reliable and benevolent; they called me all sorts of names at Scotland Yard. They said that if I had been a criminal, I might have made my fortune by looking so like an honest man; but as I had the misfortune to be an honest man, there was not even the remotest chance of my assisting them by ever looking like a criminal. But at last I was brought before some old josser who was high up in the force, and who seemed to have no end of a head on his shoulders. And there the others all talked hopelessly. One asked whether a bushy beard would hide my nice smile; another said that if they blacked my face I might look like a negro anarchist; but this old chap chipped in with a most extraordinary remark." A pair of smoked spectacles will do it,' "he said positively." Look at him now; he looks like an angelic office boy. Put him on a pair of smoked spectacles, and children will scream at the sight of him.' "And so it was, by George! When once my eyes were covered, all the rest, smile and big shoulders and short hair, made me look a perfect little devil. As I say, it was simple enough when it was done, like miracles; but that wasn't the really miraculous part of it. There was one really staggering thing about the business, and my head still turns at it." "What was that?" asked Syme. "I'll tell you," answered the man in spectacles. "This big pot in the police who sized me up so that he knew how the goggles would go with my hair and socks by God, he never saw me at all!" Syme's eyes suddenly flashed on him.<|quote|>"How was that?"</|quote|>he asked. "I thought you talked to him." "So I did," said Bull brightly; "but we talked in a pitch-dark room like a coalcellar. There, you would never have guessed that." "I could not have conceived it," said Syme gravely. "It is indeed a new idea," said the Professor. Their new ally was in practical matters a whirlwind. At the inquiry office he asked with businesslike brevity about the trains for Dover. Having got his information, he bundled the company into a cab, and put them and himself inside a railway carriage before they had properly realised the breathless process. They were already on the Calais boat before conversation flowed freely. "I had already arranged," he explained, "to go to France for my lunch; but I am delighted to have someone to lunch with me. You see, I had to send that beast, the Marquis, over with his bomb, because the President had his eye on me, though God knows how. I'll tell you the story some day. It was perfectly choking. Whenever I tried to slip out of it I saw the President somewhere, smiling out of the bow-window of a club, or taking off his hat to me from the top of an omnibus. I tell you, you can say what you like, that fellow sold himself to the devil; he can be in six places at once." "So you sent the Marquis off, I understand," asked the Professor. "Was it long ago? Shall we be in time to catch him?" "Yes," answered the new guide, "I've timed it all. He'll still be at Calais when we arrive." "But when we do catch him at Calais," said the Professor, "what are we going to do?" At this question the countenance of Dr. Bull fell for the first time. He reflected a little, and then said "Theoretically, I suppose, we ought to call the police." "Not I," said Syme. "Theoretically I ought to drown myself first. I promised a poor fellow, who was a real modern pessimist, on my word of honour not to tell the police. I'm no hand at casuistry, but I can't break my word to a modern pessimist. It's like breaking one's word to a child." "I'm in the same boat," said the Professor. "I tried to tell the police and I couldn't, because of some silly oath I took. You see, when I was
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Dr. Bull" "Project be damned!" roared Syme, beside himself. "Look at him! Look at his face, look at his collar, look at his blessed boots! You don't suppose, do you, that that thing's an anarchist?" "Syme!" cried the other in an apprehensive agony. "Why, by God," said Syme, "I'll take the risk of that myself! Dr. Bull, I am a police officer. There's my card," and he flung down the blue card upon the table. The Professor still feared that all was lost; but he was loyal. He pulled out his own official card and put it beside his friend's. Then the third man burst out laughing, and for the first time that morning they heard his voice. "I'm awfully glad you chaps have come so early," he said, with a sort of schoolboy flippancy, "for we can all start for France together. Yes, I'm in the force right enough," and he flicked a blue card towards them lightly as a matter of form. Clapping a brisk bowler on his head and resuming his goblin glasses, the Doctor moved so quickly towards the door, that the others instinctively followed him. Syme seemed a little distrait, and as he passed under the doorway he suddenly struck his stick on the stone passage so that it rang. "But Lord God Almighty," he cried out, "if this is all right, there were more damned detectives than there were damned dynamiters at the damned Council!" "We might have fought easily," said Bull; "we were four against three." The Professor was descending the stairs, but his voice came up from below. "No," said the voice, "we were not four against three we were not so lucky. We were four against One." The others went down the stairs in silence. The young man called Bull, with an innocent courtesy characteristic of him, insisted on going last until they reached the street; but there his own robust rapidity asserted itself unconsciously, and he walked quickly on ahead towards a railway inquiry office, talking to the others over his shoulder. "It is jolly to get some pals," he said. "I've been half dead with the jumps, being quite alone. I nearly flung my arms round Gogol and embraced him, which would have been imprudent. I hope you won't despise me for having been in a blue funk." "All the blue devils in blue hell," said Syme, "contributed to my blue funk! But the worst devil was you and your infernal goggles." The young man laughed delightedly. "Wasn't it a rag?" he said. "Such a simple idea not my own. I haven't got the brains. You see, I wanted to go into the detective service, especially the anti-dynamite business. But for that purpose they wanted someone to dress up as a dynamiter; and they all swore by blazes that I could never look like a dynamiter. They said my very walk was respectable, and that seen from behind I looked like the British Constitution. They said I looked too healthy and too optimistic, and too reliable and benevolent; they called me all sorts of names at Scotland Yard. They said that if I had been a criminal, I might have made my fortune by looking so like an honest man; but as I had the misfortune to be an honest man, there was not even the remotest chance of my assisting them by ever looking like a criminal. But at last I was brought before some old josser who was high up in the force, and who seemed to have no end of a head on his shoulders. And there the others all talked hopelessly. One asked whether a bushy beard would hide my nice smile; another said that if they blacked my face I might look like a negro anarchist; but this old chap chipped in with a most extraordinary remark." A pair of smoked spectacles will do it,' "he said positively." Look at him now; he looks like an angelic office boy. Put him on a pair of smoked spectacles, and children will scream at the sight of him.' "And so it was, by George! When once my eyes were covered, all the rest, smile and big shoulders and short hair, made me look a perfect little devil. As I say, it was simple enough when it was done, like miracles; but that wasn't the really miraculous part of it. There was one really staggering thing about the business, and my head still turns at it." "What was that?" asked Syme. "I'll tell you," answered the man in spectacles. "This big pot in the police who sized me up so that he knew how the goggles would go with my hair and socks by God, he never saw me at all!" Syme's eyes suddenly flashed on him.<|quote|>"How was that?"</|quote|>he asked. "I thought you talked to him." "So I did," said Bull brightly; "but we talked in a pitch-dark room like a coalcellar. There, you would never have guessed that." "I could not have conceived it," said Syme gravely. "It is indeed a new idea," said the Professor. Their new ally was in practical matters a whirlwind. At the inquiry office he asked with businesslike brevity about the trains for Dover. Having got his information, he bundled the company into a cab, and put them and himself inside a railway carriage before they had properly realised the breathless process. They were already on the Calais boat before conversation flowed freely. "I had already arranged," he explained, "to go to France for my lunch; but I am delighted to have someone to lunch with me. You see, I had to send that beast, the Marquis, over with his bomb, because the President had his eye on me, though God knows how. I'll tell you the story some day. It was perfectly choking. Whenever I tried to slip out of it I saw the President somewhere, smiling out of the bow-window of a club, or taking off his hat to me from the top of an omnibus. I tell you, you can say what you like, that fellow sold himself to the devil; he can be in six places at once." "So you sent the Marquis off, I understand," asked the Professor. "Was it long ago? Shall we be in time to catch him?" "Yes," answered the new guide, "I've timed it all. He'll still be at Calais when we arrive." "But when we do catch him at Calais," said the Professor, "what are we going to do?" At this question the countenance of Dr. Bull fell for the first time. He reflected a little, and then said "Theoretically, I suppose, we ought to call the police." "Not I," said Syme. "Theoretically I ought to drown myself first. I promised a poor fellow, who was a real modern pessimist, on my word of honour not to tell the police. I'm no hand at casuistry, but I can't break my word to a modern pessimist. It's like breaking one's word to a child." "I'm in the same boat," said the Professor. "I tried to tell the police and I couldn't, because of some silly oath I took. You see, when I was an actor I was a sort of all-round beast. Perjury or treason is the only crime I haven't committed. If I did that I shouldn't know the difference between right and wrong." "I've been through all that," said Dr. Bull, "and I've made up my mind. I gave my promise to the Secretary you know him, man who smiles upside down. My friends, that man is the most utterly unhappy man that was ever human. It may be his digestion, or his conscience, or his nerves, or his philosophy of the universe, but he's damned, he's in hell! Well, I can't turn on a man like that, and hunt him down. It's like whipping a leper. I may be mad, but that's how I feel; and there's jolly well the end of it." "I don't think you're mad," said Syme. "I knew you would decide like that when first you" "Eh?" said Dr. Bull. "When first you took off your spectacles." Dr. Bull smiled a little, and strolled across the deck to look at the sunlit sea. Then he strolled back again, kicking his heels carelessly, and a companionable silence fell between the three men. "Well," said Syme, "it seems that we have all the same kind of morality or immorality, so we had better face the fact that comes of it." "Yes," assented the Professor, "you're quite right; and we must hurry up, for I can see the Grey Nose standing out from France." "The fact that comes of it," said Syme seriously, "is this, that we three are alone on this planet. Gogol has gone, God knows where; perhaps the President has smashed him like a fly. On the Council we are three men against three, like the Romans who held the bridge. But we are worse off than that, first because they can appeal to their organization and we cannot appeal to ours, and second because" "Because one of those other three men," said the Professor, "is not a man." Syme nodded and was silent for a second or two, then he said "My idea is this. We must do something to keep the Marquis in Calais till tomorrow midday. I have turned over twenty schemes in my head. We cannot denounce him as a dynamiter; that is agreed. We cannot get him detained on some trivial charge, for we should have to appear; he knows us,
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honest man; but as I had the misfortune to be an honest man, there was not even the remotest chance of my assisting them by ever looking like a criminal. But at last I was brought before some old josser who was high up in the force, and who seemed to have no end of a head on his shoulders. And there the others all talked hopelessly. One asked whether a bushy beard would hide my nice smile; another said that if they blacked my face I might look like a negro anarchist; but this old chap chipped in with a most extraordinary remark." A pair of smoked spectacles will do it,' "he said positively." Look at him now; he looks like an angelic office boy. Put him on a pair of smoked spectacles, and children will scream at the sight of him.' "And so it was, by George! When once my eyes were covered, all the rest, smile and big shoulders and short hair, made me look a perfect little devil. As I say, it was simple enough when it was done, like miracles; but that wasn't the really miraculous part of it. There was one really staggering thing about the business, and my head still turns at it." "What was that?" asked Syme. "I'll tell you," answered the man in spectacles. "This big pot in the police who sized me up so that he knew how the goggles would go with my hair and socks by God, he never saw me at all!" Syme's eyes suddenly flashed on him.<|quote|>"How was that?"</|quote|>he asked. "I thought you talked to him." "So I did," said Bull brightly; "but we talked in a pitch-dark room like a coalcellar. There, you would never have guessed that." "I could not have conceived it," said Syme gravely. "It is indeed a new idea," said the Professor. Their new ally was in practical matters a whirlwind. At the inquiry office he asked with businesslike brevity about the trains for Dover. Having got his information, he bundled the company into a cab, and put them and himself inside a railway carriage before they had properly realised the breathless process. They were already on the Calais boat before conversation flowed freely. "I had already arranged," he explained, "to go to France for my lunch; but I am delighted to have someone to lunch with me. You see, I had to send that beast, the Marquis, over with his bomb, because the President had his eye on me, though God knows how. I'll tell you the story some day. It was perfectly choking. Whenever I tried to slip out of it I saw the President somewhere, smiling out of the bow-window of a club, or taking off his hat to me from the top of an omnibus. I tell you, you can say what you like, that fellow sold himself to the devil; he can be in six places at once." "So you sent the Marquis off, I understand," asked the Professor. "Was it long ago? Shall we be in time to catch him?" "Yes," answered the new guide, "I've timed it all. He'll still be at Calais when we arrive." "But when we do catch him at Calais," said the Professor, "what are we going to do?" At this question the countenance of Dr. Bull fell for the first time. He reflected a little, and then said "Theoretically, I suppose, we ought to call the police." "Not I," said Syme. "Theoretically I ought to drown myself first. I promised a poor fellow, who was a real modern pessimist, on my word of honour not to tell the police. I'm no hand at casuistry, but I can't break my word to a modern pessimist. It's like breaking one's word to a child." "I'm in the same boat," said the Professor. "I tried to tell the police and I couldn't, because of some silly oath I took. You see, when I was an actor I was a sort of all-round
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The Man Who Was Thursday
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We shook hands.
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No speaker
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for a while, Mr. Barnes."<|quote|>We shook hands.</|quote|>"It was a wonderful time,"
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I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes."<|quote|>We shook hands.</|quote|>"It was a wonderful time," I said. "I wish you
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drummer shouted and grinned at Brett. "All right," I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to the dressing-room. "Brett wants to go," I said to the count. He nodded. "Does she? That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes."<|quote|>We shook hands.</|quote|>"It was a wonderful time," I said. "I wish you would let me get this." I took a note out of my pocket. "Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous," the count said. Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the count and put her hand on his shoulder to
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had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being something repeated, something I had been through and that now I must go through again. ". . . . . ." the drummer sang softly. "Let's go," said Brett. "You don't mind." ". . . . . ." the drummer shouted and grinned at Brett. "All right," I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to the dressing-room. "Brett wants to go," I said to the count. He nodded. "Does she? That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes."<|quote|>We shook hands.</|quote|>"It was a wonderful time," I said. "I wish you would let me get this." I took a note out of my pocket. "Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous," the count said. Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the count and put her hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up. As we went out the door I looked back and there were three girls at his table. We got into the big car. Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her hotel. "No, don't come up," she said at the hotel. She had rung and
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"Well," the count shrugged his shoulders. "About his future you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of my father." "Come on. Let's dance," Brett said. We danced. It was crowded and close. "Oh, darling," Brett said, "I'm so miserable." I had that feeling of going through something that has all happened before. "You were happy a minute ago." The drummer shouted: "You can't two time--" "It's all gone." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I just feel terribly." ". . . . . ." the drummer chanted. Then turned to his sticks. "Want to go?" I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being something repeated, something I had been through and that now I must go through again. ". . . . . ." the drummer sang softly. "Let's go," said Brett. "You don't mind." ". . . . . ." the drummer shouted and grinned at Brett. "All right," I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to the dressing-room. "Brett wants to go," I said to the count. He nodded. "Does she? That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes."<|quote|>We shook hands.</|quote|>"It was a wonderful time," I said. "I wish you would let me get this." I took a note out of my pocket. "Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous," the count said. Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the count and put her hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up. As we went out the door I looked back and there were three girls at his table. We got into the big car. Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her hotel. "No, don't come up," she said at the hotel. She had rung and the door was unlatched. "Really?" "No. Please." "Good night, Brett," I said. "I'm sorry you feel rotten." "Good night, Jake. Good night, darling. I won't see you again." We kissed standing at the door. She pushed me away. We kissed again. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. She turned quickly and went into the hotel. The chauffeur drove me around to my flat. I gave him twenty francs and he touched his cap and said: "Good night, sir," and drove off. I rang the bell. The door opened and I went up-stairs and went to bed. BOOK II CHAPTER 8 I did
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him." "I'm going to marry him," Brett said. "Funny. I haven't thought about him for a week." "Don't you write him?" "Not I. Never write letters." "I'll bet he writes to you." "Rather. Damned good letters, too." "When are you going to get married?" "How do I know? As soon as we can get the divorce. Michael's trying to get his mother to put up for it." "Could I help you?" "Don't be an ass. Michael's people have loads of money." The music stopped. We walked over to the table. The count stood up. "Very nice," he said. "You looked very, very nice." "Don't you dance, count?" I asked. "No. I'm too old." "Oh, come off it," Brett said. "My dear, I would do it if I would enjoy it. I enjoy to watch you dance." "Splendid," Brett said. "I'll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?" "Let me tell you. I support that boy, but I don't want to have him around." "He is rather hard." "You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around." "Jake's rather the same way." "He gives me the willys." "Well," the count shrugged his shoulders. "About his future you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of my father." "Come on. Let's dance," Brett said. We danced. It was crowded and close. "Oh, darling," Brett said, "I'm so miserable." I had that feeling of going through something that has all happened before. "You were happy a minute ago." The drummer shouted: "You can't two time--" "It's all gone." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I just feel terribly." ". . . . . ." the drummer chanted. Then turned to his sticks. "Want to go?" I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being something repeated, something I had been through and that now I must go through again. ". . . . . ." the drummer sang softly. "Let's go," said Brett. "You don't mind." ". . . . . ." the drummer shouted and grinned at Brett. "All right," I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to the dressing-room. "Brett wants to go," I said to the count. He nodded. "Does she? That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes."<|quote|>We shook hands.</|quote|>"It was a wonderful time," I said. "I wish you would let me get this." I took a note out of my pocket. "Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous," the count said. Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the count and put her hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up. As we went out the door I looked back and there were three girls at his table. We got into the big car. Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her hotel. "No, don't come up," she said at the hotel. She had rung and the door was unlatched. "Really?" "No. Please." "Good night, Brett," I said. "I'm sorry you feel rotten." "Good night, Jake. Good night, darling. I won't see you again." We kissed standing at the door. She pushed me away. We kissed again. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. She turned quickly and went into the hotel. The chauffeur drove me around to my flat. I gave him twenty francs and he touched his cap and said: "Good night, sir," and drove off. I rang the bell. The door opened and I went up-stairs and went to bed. BOOK II CHAPTER 8 I did not see Brett again until she came back from San Sebastian. One card came from her from there. It had a picture of the Concha, and said: "Darling. Very quiet and healthy. Love to all the chaps. BRETT." Nor did I see Robert Cohn again. I heard Frances had left for England and I had a note from Cohn saying he was going out in the country for a couple of weeks, he did not know where, but that he wanted to hold me to the fishing-trip in Spain we had talked about last winter. I could reach him always, he wrote, through his bankers. Brett was gone, I was not bothered by Cohn's troubles, I rather enjoyed not having to play tennis, there was plenty of work to do, I went often to the races, dined with friends, and put in some extra time at the office getting things ahead so I could leave it in charge of my secretary when Bill Gorton and I should shove off to Spain the end of June. Bill Gorton arrived, put up a couple of days at the flat and went off to Vienna. He was very cheerful and said the States
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Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count's values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party. "Where would you like to go?" asked the count after dinner. We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two waiters were standing over against the door. They wanted to go home. "We might go up on the hill," Brett said. "Haven't we had a splendid party?" The count was beaming. He was very happy. "You are very nice people," he said. He was smoking a cigar again. "Why don't you get married, you two?" "We want to lead our own lives," I said. "We have our careers," Brett said. "Come on. Let's get out of this." "Have another brandy," the count said. "Get it on the hill." "No. Have it here where it is quiet." "You and your quiet," said Brett. "What is it men feel about quiet?" "We like it," said the count. "Like you like noise, my dear." "All right," said Brett. "Let's have one." "Sommelier!" the count called. "Yes, sir." "What is the oldest brandy you have?" "Eighteen eleven, sir." "Bring us a bottle." "I say. Don't be ostentatious. Call him off, Jake." "Listen, my dear. I get more value for my money in old brandy than in any other antiquities." "Got many antiquities?" "I got a houseful." Finally we went up to Montmartre. Inside Zelli's it was crowded, smoky, and noisy. The music hit you as you went in. Brett and I danced. It was so crowded we could barely move. The nigger drummer waved at Brett. We were caught in the jam, dancing in one place in front of him. "Hahre you?" "Great." "Thaats good." He was all teeth and lips. "He's a great friend of mine," Brett said. "Damn good drummer." The music stopped and we started toward the table where the count sat. Then the music started again and we danced. I looked at the count. He was sitting at the table smoking a cigar. The music stopped again. "Let's go over." Brett started toward the table. The music started and again we danced, tight in the crowd. "You are a rotten dancer, Jake. Michael's the best dancer I know." "He's splendid." "He's got his points." "I like him," I said. "I'm damned fond of him." "I'm going to marry him," Brett said. "Funny. I haven't thought about him for a week." "Don't you write him?" "Not I. Never write letters." "I'll bet he writes to you." "Rather. Damned good letters, too." "When are you going to get married?" "How do I know? As soon as we can get the divorce. Michael's trying to get his mother to put up for it." "Could I help you?" "Don't be an ass. Michael's people have loads of money." The music stopped. We walked over to the table. The count stood up. "Very nice," he said. "You looked very, very nice." "Don't you dance, count?" I asked. "No. I'm too old." "Oh, come off it," Brett said. "My dear, I would do it if I would enjoy it. I enjoy to watch you dance." "Splendid," Brett said. "I'll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?" "Let me tell you. I support that boy, but I don't want to have him around." "He is rather hard." "You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around." "Jake's rather the same way." "He gives me the willys." "Well," the count shrugged his shoulders. "About his future you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of my father." "Come on. Let's dance," Brett said. We danced. It was crowded and close. "Oh, darling," Brett said, "I'm so miserable." I had that feeling of going through something that has all happened before. "You were happy a minute ago." The drummer shouted: "You can't two time--" "It's all gone." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I just feel terribly." ". . . . . ." the drummer chanted. Then turned to his sticks. "Want to go?" I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being something repeated, something I had been through and that now I must go through again. ". . . . . ." the drummer sang softly. "Let's go," said Brett. "You don't mind." ". . . . . ." the drummer shouted and grinned at Brett. "All right," I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to the dressing-room. "Brett wants to go," I said to the count. He nodded. "Does she? That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes."<|quote|>We shook hands.</|quote|>"It was a wonderful time," I said. "I wish you would let me get this." I took a note out of my pocket. "Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous," the count said. Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the count and put her hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up. As we went out the door I looked back and there were three girls at his table. We got into the big car. Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her hotel. "No, don't come up," she said at the hotel. She had rung and the door was unlatched. "Really?" "No. Please." "Good night, Brett," I said. "I'm sorry you feel rotten." "Good night, Jake. Good night, darling. I won't see you again." We kissed standing at the door. She pushed me away. We kissed again. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. She turned quickly and went into the hotel. The chauffeur drove me around to my flat. I gave him twenty francs and he touched his cap and said: "Good night, sir," and drove off. I rang the bell. The door opened and I went up-stairs and went to bed. BOOK II CHAPTER 8 I did not see Brett again until she came back from San Sebastian. One card came from her from there. It had a picture of the Concha, and said: "Darling. Very quiet and healthy. Love to all the chaps. BRETT." Nor did I see Robert Cohn again. I heard Frances had left for England and I had a note from Cohn saying he was going out in the country for a couple of weeks, he did not know where, but that he wanted to hold me to the fishing-trip in Spain we had talked about last winter. I could reach him always, he wrote, through his bankers. Brett was gone, I was not bothered by Cohn's troubles, I rather enjoyed not having to play tennis, there was plenty of work to do, I went often to the races, dined with friends, and put in some extra time at the office getting things ahead so I could leave it in charge of my secretary when Bill Gorton and I should shove off to Spain the end of June. Bill Gorton arrived, put up a couple of days at the flat and went off to Vienna. He was very cheerful and said the States were wonderful. New York was wonderful. There had been a grand theatrical season and a whole crop of great young light heavyweights. Any one of them was a good prospect to grow up, put on weight and trim Dempsey. Bill was very happy. He had made a lot of money on his last book, and was going to make a lot more. We had a good time while he was in Paris, and then he went off to Vienna. He was coming back in three weeks and we would leave for Spain to get in some fishing and go to the fiesta at Pamplona. He wrote that Vienna was wonderful. Then a card from Budapest: "Jake, Budapest is wonderful." Then I got a wire: "Back on Monday." Monday evening he turned up at the flat. I heard his taxi stop and went to the window and called to him; he waved and started up-stairs carrying his bags. I met him on the stairs, and took one of the bags. "Well," I said, "I hear you had a wonderful trip." "Wonderful," he said. "Budapest is absolutely wonderful." "How about Vienna?" "Not so good, Jake. Not so good. It seemed better than it was." "How do you mean?" I was getting glasses and a siphon. "Tight, Jake. I was tight." "That's strange. Better have a drink." Bill rubbed his forehead. "Remarkable thing," he said. "Don't know how it happened. Suddenly it happened." "Last long?" "Four days, Jake. Lasted just four days." "Where did you go?" "Don't remember. Wrote you a post-card. Remember that perfectly." "Do anything else?" "Not so sure. Possible." "Go on. Tell me about it." "Can't remember. Tell you anything I could remember." "Go on. Take that drink and remember." "Might remember a little," Bill said. "Remember something about a prize-fight. Enormous Vienna prize-fight. Had a nigger in it. Remember the nigger perfectly." "Go on." "Wonderful nigger. Looked like Tiger Flowers, only four times as big. All of a sudden everybody started to throw things. Not me. Nigger'd just knocked local boy down. Nigger put up his glove. Wanted to make a speech. Awful noble-looking nigger. Started to make a speech. Then local white boy hit him. Then he knocked white boy cold. Then everybody commenced to throw chairs. Nigger went home with us in our car. Couldn't get his clothes. Wore my coat. Remember the whole thing now. Big
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you. I support that boy, but I don't want to have him around." "He is rather hard." "You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around." "Jake's rather the same way." "He gives me the willys." "Well," the count shrugged his shoulders. "About his future you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of my father." "Come on. Let's dance," Brett said. We danced. It was crowded and close. "Oh, darling," Brett said, "I'm so miserable." I had that feeling of going through something that has all happened before. "You were happy a minute ago." The drummer shouted: "You can't two time--" "It's all gone." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I just feel terribly." ". . . . . ." the drummer chanted. Then turned to his sticks. "Want to go?" I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being something repeated, something I had been through and that now I must go through again. ". . . . . ." the drummer sang softly. "Let's go," said Brett. "You don't mind." ". . . . . ." the drummer shouted and grinned at Brett. "All right," I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to the dressing-room. "Brett wants to go," I said to the count. He nodded. "Does she? That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes."<|quote|>We shook hands.</|quote|>"It was a wonderful time," I said. "I wish you would let me get this." I took a note out of my pocket. "Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous," the count said. Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the count and put her hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up. As we went out the door I looked back and there were three girls at his table. We got into the big car. Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her hotel. "No, don't come up," she said at the hotel. She had rung and the door was unlatched. "Really?" "No. Please." "Good night, Brett," I said. "I'm sorry you feel rotten." "Good night, Jake. Good night, darling. I won't see you again." We kissed standing at the door. She pushed me away. We kissed again. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. She turned quickly and went into the hotel. The chauffeur drove me around to my flat. I gave him twenty francs and he touched his cap and said: "Good night, sir," and drove off. I rang the bell. The door opened and I went up-stairs and went to bed. BOOK II CHAPTER 8 I did not see Brett again until she came back from San Sebastian. One card came from her from there. It had a picture of the Concha, and said: "Darling. Very quiet and healthy. Love to all the chaps. BRETT." Nor did I see Robert Cohn again. I heard Frances had left for England and I had a note from Cohn saying he was going out in the country for a couple of weeks, he did not know where, but that he wanted to hold me to the fishing-trip in Spain we had talked about last winter.
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The Sun Also Rises
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We all listen. The front is restless.
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No speaker
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"There'll be a bombardment to-night."<|quote|>We all listen. The front is restless.</|quote|>"The Tommies are firing already,"
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of the front. Kat listens: "There'll be a bombardment to-night."<|quote|>We all listen. The front is restless.</|quote|>"The Tommies are firing already," says Kropp. The shelling can
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Kat explains to them: "That was a twelve-inch. You hear the explosion first and afterwards comes the sound of the gun." But the hollow sound of the firing does not reach us. It is swallowed up in the general murmur of the front. Kat listens: "There'll be a bombardment to-night."<|quote|>We all listen. The front is restless.</|quote|>"The Tommies are firing already," says Kropp. The shelling can be heard distinctly. It is the English batteries to the right of our section. They are beginning an hour too soon. According to us they start punctually at ten o'clock. "What's got them?" says Müller, "their clocks must be fast."
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not, indeed, in the front-line, but only in the reserves, yet in every face can be read: This is the Front, now we are within its embrace. It is not fear. Men who have been up as often as we have become thick skinned. Only the young recruits are agitated. Kat explains to them: "That was a twelve-inch. You hear the explosion first and afterwards comes the sound of the gun." But the hollow sound of the firing does not reach us. It is swallowed up in the general murmur of the front. Kat listens: "There'll be a bombardment to-night."<|quote|>We all listen. The front is restless.</|quote|>"The Tommies are firing already," says Kropp. The shelling can be heard distinctly. It is the English batteries to the right of our section. They are beginning an hour too soon. According to us they start punctually at ten o'clock. "What's got them?" says Müller, "their clocks must be fast." "There'll be a bombardment, I tell you, I can feel it in my bones." Kat shrugs his shoulders. Three shells land beside us. The burst of flame shoots across the fog, the fragments howl and drone. We shiver and are glad to think that we shall be back in the
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He knows all about every leg of goose within a radius of fifteen miles. The lorries arrive at the artillery lines. The gun-emplacements are camouflaged with bushes against aerial observation, and look like a kind of military Feast of the Tabernacles. These branches might seem gay and cheerful were not cannon embowered there. The air becomes acrid with the smoke of the guns and the fog. The fumes of powder taste bitter on the tongue. The roar of the guns makes our lorry stagger, the reverberation rolls raging away to the rear, everything quakes. Our faces change imperceptibly. We are not, indeed, in the front-line, but only in the reserves, yet in every face can be read: This is the Front, now we are within its embrace. It is not fear. Men who have been up as often as we have become thick skinned. Only the young recruits are agitated. Kat explains to them: "That was a twelve-inch. You hear the explosion first and afterwards comes the sound of the gun." But the hollow sound of the firing does not reach us. It is swallowed up in the general murmur of the front. Kat listens: "There'll be a bombardment to-night."<|quote|>We all listen. The front is restless.</|quote|>"The Tommies are firing already," says Kropp. The shelling can be heard distinctly. It is the English batteries to the right of our section. They are beginning an hour too soon. According to us they start punctually at ten o'clock. "What's got them?" says Müller, "their clocks must be fast." "There'll be a bombardment, I tell you, I can feel it in my bones." Kat shrugs his shoulders. Three shells land beside us. The burst of flame shoots across the fog, the fragments howl and drone. We shiver and are glad to think that we shall be back in the huts early in the morning. Our faces are neither paler nor more flushed than usual; they are not more tense nor more flabby--and yet they are changed. We feel that in our blood a contact has shot home. That is no figure of speech; it is fact. It is the front, the consciousness of the front, that makes this contact. The moment that the first shells whistle over and the air is rent with the explosions there is suddenly in our veins, in our hands, in our eyes a tense waiting, a watching, a heightened alertness, a strange sharpening of
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room to sit. But we do not expect that. Müller is in a good mood for once; he is wearing his new boots. The engines drone, the lorries bump and rattle. The roads are worn and full of holes. We dare not show a light so we lurch along and are often almost pitched out. That does not worry us, however. It can happen if it likes; a broken arm is better than a hole in the guts, and many a man would be thankful enough for such a chance of finding his way home again. Beside us stream the munition-columns in long files. They are making the pace, they overtake us going forward. We joke with them and they answer back. A wall becomes visible, it belongs to a house which lies on the side of the road. I suddenly prick up my ears. Am I deceived? Again I hear distinctly the cackle of geese. A glance at Katczinsky--a glance from him to me; we understand one another. "Kat, I hear some aspirants for the frying-pan over there." He nods. "It will be attended to when we come back. I have their number." Of course Kat has their number. He knows all about every leg of goose within a radius of fifteen miles. The lorries arrive at the artillery lines. The gun-emplacements are camouflaged with bushes against aerial observation, and look like a kind of military Feast of the Tabernacles. These branches might seem gay and cheerful were not cannon embowered there. The air becomes acrid with the smoke of the guns and the fog. The fumes of powder taste bitter on the tongue. The roar of the guns makes our lorry stagger, the reverberation rolls raging away to the rear, everything quakes. Our faces change imperceptibly. We are not, indeed, in the front-line, but only in the reserves, yet in every face can be read: This is the Front, now we are within its embrace. It is not fear. Men who have been up as often as we have become thick skinned. Only the young recruits are agitated. Kat explains to them: "That was a twelve-inch. You hear the explosion first and afterwards comes the sound of the gun." But the hollow sound of the firing does not reach us. It is swallowed up in the general murmur of the front. Kat listens: "There'll be a bombardment to-night."<|quote|>We all listen. The front is restless.</|quote|>"The Tommies are firing already," says Kropp. The shelling can be heard distinctly. It is the English batteries to the right of our section. They are beginning an hour too soon. According to us they start punctually at ten o'clock. "What's got them?" says Müller, "their clocks must be fast." "There'll be a bombardment, I tell you, I can feel it in my bones." Kat shrugs his shoulders. Three shells land beside us. The burst of flame shoots across the fog, the fragments howl and drone. We shiver and are glad to think that we shall be back in the huts early in the morning. Our faces are neither paler nor more flushed than usual; they are not more tense nor more flabby--and yet they are changed. We feel that in our blood a contact has shot home. That is no figure of speech; it is fact. It is the front, the consciousness of the front, that makes this contact. The moment that the first shells whistle over and the air is rent with the explosions there is suddenly in our veins, in our hands, in our eyes a tense waiting, a watching, a heightened alertness, a strange sharpening of the senses. The body with one bound is in full readiness. It often seems to me as though it were the vibrating, shuddering air that with a noiseless leap springs upon us; or as though the front itself emitted an electric current which awakened unknown nerve-centres. Every time it is the same. We start out for the front plain soldiers, either cheerful or gloomy: then come the first gun-emplacements and every word of our speech has a new ring. When Kat stands in front of the hut and says: "There'll be a bombardment," that is merely his own opinion; but if he says it here, then the sentence has the sharpness of a bayonet in the moonlight, it cuts clean through the thought, it thrusts nearer and speaks to this unknown thing that is awakened in us, a dark meaning-- "There'll be a bombardment." Perhaps it is our inner and most secret life that shivers and falls on guard. * * To me the front is a mysterious whirlpool. Though I am in still water far away from its centre, I feel the whirl of the vortex sucking me slowly, irresistibly, inescapably into itself. From the earth, from the air,
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had brought a cushion. Haie squatted down, laid the cushion on his knees, felt where Himmelstoss's head was and pressed it down on the pillow. Immediately his voice was muffled. Haie let him get a gasp of air every so often, when he would give a mighty yell that was immediately hushed. Tjaden unbuttoned Himmelstoss's braces and pulled down his trousers, holding the whip meantime in his teeth. Then he stood up and set to work. It was a wonderful picture: Himmelstoss on the ground; Haie bending over him with a fiendish grin and his mouth open with blood-lust, Himmelstoss's head on his knees; then the convulsed, striped drawers, the knock knees, executing at every blow most original movements in the lowered breeches, and towering over them like a woodcutter the indefatigable Tjaden. In the end we had to drag him away to get our turn. Finally Haie stood Himmelstoss on his feet again and gave one last personal remonstrance. As he stretched out his right arm preparatory to giving him a box on the ear he looked as if he were going to reach down a star. Himmelstoss staggered. Haie stood him up again, made ready and fetched him a second, well-aimed beauty with the left hand. Himmelstoss yelled and fell down on all fours cursing. His striped postman's backside gleamed in the moonlight. We disappeared at full speed. Haie looked round once again and said wrathfully, satisfied and rather mysteriously: "Revenge is black-pudding." Himmelstoss ought to have been pleased; his saying that we should each educate one another had borne fruit for himself. We had become successful students of his method. He never discovered whom he had to thank for the business. At any rate he scored a bed-cover out of it; for when we returned a few hours later to look for it, it was no longer to be found. That evening's work made us more or less content to leave next morning. And an old buffer was pleased to describe us as "young heroes." CHAPTER IV We have to go up on wiring fatigue. The motor lorries roll up after dark. We climb in. It is a warm evening and the twilight seems like a canopy under whose shelter we feel drawn together. Even the stingy Tjaden gives me a cigarette and then a light. We stand jammed in together, shoulder to shoulder, there is no room to sit. But we do not expect that. Müller is in a good mood for once; he is wearing his new boots. The engines drone, the lorries bump and rattle. The roads are worn and full of holes. We dare not show a light so we lurch along and are often almost pitched out. That does not worry us, however. It can happen if it likes; a broken arm is better than a hole in the guts, and many a man would be thankful enough for such a chance of finding his way home again. Beside us stream the munition-columns in long files. They are making the pace, they overtake us going forward. We joke with them and they answer back. A wall becomes visible, it belongs to a house which lies on the side of the road. I suddenly prick up my ears. Am I deceived? Again I hear distinctly the cackle of geese. A glance at Katczinsky--a glance from him to me; we understand one another. "Kat, I hear some aspirants for the frying-pan over there." He nods. "It will be attended to when we come back. I have their number." Of course Kat has their number. He knows all about every leg of goose within a radius of fifteen miles. The lorries arrive at the artillery lines. The gun-emplacements are camouflaged with bushes against aerial observation, and look like a kind of military Feast of the Tabernacles. These branches might seem gay and cheerful were not cannon embowered there. The air becomes acrid with the smoke of the guns and the fog. The fumes of powder taste bitter on the tongue. The roar of the guns makes our lorry stagger, the reverberation rolls raging away to the rear, everything quakes. Our faces change imperceptibly. We are not, indeed, in the front-line, but only in the reserves, yet in every face can be read: This is the Front, now we are within its embrace. It is not fear. Men who have been up as often as we have become thick skinned. Only the young recruits are agitated. Kat explains to them: "That was a twelve-inch. You hear the explosion first and afterwards comes the sound of the gun." But the hollow sound of the firing does not reach us. It is swallowed up in the general murmur of the front. Kat listens: "There'll be a bombardment to-night."<|quote|>We all listen. The front is restless.</|quote|>"The Tommies are firing already," says Kropp. The shelling can be heard distinctly. It is the English batteries to the right of our section. They are beginning an hour too soon. According to us they start punctually at ten o'clock. "What's got them?" says Müller, "their clocks must be fast." "There'll be a bombardment, I tell you, I can feel it in my bones." Kat shrugs his shoulders. Three shells land beside us. The burst of flame shoots across the fog, the fragments howl and drone. We shiver and are glad to think that we shall be back in the huts early in the morning. Our faces are neither paler nor more flushed than usual; they are not more tense nor more flabby--and yet they are changed. We feel that in our blood a contact has shot home. That is no figure of speech; it is fact. It is the front, the consciousness of the front, that makes this contact. The moment that the first shells whistle over and the air is rent with the explosions there is suddenly in our veins, in our hands, in our eyes a tense waiting, a watching, a heightened alertness, a strange sharpening of the senses. The body with one bound is in full readiness. It often seems to me as though it were the vibrating, shuddering air that with a noiseless leap springs upon us; or as though the front itself emitted an electric current which awakened unknown nerve-centres. Every time it is the same. We start out for the front plain soldiers, either cheerful or gloomy: then come the first gun-emplacements and every word of our speech has a new ring. When Kat stands in front of the hut and says: "There'll be a bombardment," that is merely his own opinion; but if he says it here, then the sentence has the sharpness of a bayonet in the moonlight, it cuts clean through the thought, it thrusts nearer and speaks to this unknown thing that is awakened in us, a dark meaning-- "There'll be a bombardment." Perhaps it is our inner and most secret life that shivers and falls on guard. * * To me the front is a mysterious whirlpool. Though I am in still water far away from its centre, I feel the whirl of the vortex sucking me slowly, irresistibly, inescapably into itself. From the earth, from the air, sustaining forces pour into us--mostly from the earth. To no man does the earth mean so much as to the soldier. When he presses himself down upon her long and powerfully, when he buries his face and his limbs deep in her from the fear of death by shell-fire, then she is his only friend, his brother, his mother; he stifles his terror and his cries in her silence and her security; she shelters him and gives him a new lease of ten seconds of life, receives him again and often for ever. Earth!--Earth!--Earth! Earth with thy folds, and hollows and holes, into which a man may fling himself and crouch down! In the spasm of terror, under the hailing of annihilation, in the bellowing death of the explosions, O Earth, thou grantest us the great resisting surge of new-won life. Our being, almost utterly carried away by the fury of the storm, streams back through our hands from thee, and we, thy redeemed ones, bury ourselves in thee, and through the long minutes in a mute agony of hope bite into thee with our lips! At the sound of the first droning of the shells we rush back, in one part of our being, a thousand years. By the animal instinct that is awakened in us we are led and protected. It is not conscious; it is far quicker, much more sure, less fallible, than consciousness. One cannot explain it. A man is walking along without thought or heed;--suddenly he throws himself down on the ground and a storm of fragments flies harmlessly over him;--yet he cannot remember either to have heard the shell coming or to have thought of flinging himself down. But had he not abandoned himself to the impulse he would now be a heap of mangled flesh. It is this other, this second sight in us, that has thrown us to the ground and saved us, without our knowing how. If it were not so, there would not be one man alive from Flanders to the Vosges. We march up, moody or good-tempered soldiers--we reach the zone where the front begins and become on the instant human animals. * * An indigent looking wood receives us. We pass by the soup-kitchens. Under cover of the wood we climb out. The lorries turn back. They are to collect us again in the morning, before dawn. Mist
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room to sit. But we do not expect that. Müller is in a good mood for once; he is wearing his new boots. The engines drone, the lorries bump and rattle. The roads are worn and full of holes. We dare not show a light so we lurch along and are often almost pitched out. That does not worry us, however. It can happen if it likes; a broken arm is better than a hole in the guts, and many a man would be thankful enough for such a chance of finding his way home again. Beside us stream the munition-columns in long files. They are making the pace, they overtake us going forward. We joke with them and they answer back. A wall becomes visible, it belongs to a house which lies on the side of the road. I suddenly prick up my ears. Am I deceived? Again I hear distinctly the cackle of geese. A glance at Katczinsky--a glance from him to me; we understand one another. "Kat, I hear some aspirants for the frying-pan over there." He nods. "It will be attended to when we come back. I have their number." Of course Kat has their number. He knows all about every leg of goose within a radius of fifteen miles. The lorries arrive at the artillery lines. The gun-emplacements are camouflaged with bushes against aerial observation, and look like a kind of military Feast of the Tabernacles. These branches might seem gay and cheerful were not cannon embowered there. The air becomes acrid with the smoke of the guns and the fog. The fumes of powder taste bitter on the tongue. The roar of the guns makes our lorry stagger, the reverberation rolls raging away to the rear, everything quakes. Our faces change imperceptibly. We are not, indeed, in the front-line, but only in the reserves, yet in every face can be read: This is the Front, now we are within its embrace. It is not fear. Men who have been up as often as we have become thick skinned. Only the young recruits are agitated. Kat explains to them: "That was a twelve-inch. You hear the explosion first and afterwards comes the sound of the gun." But the hollow sound of the firing does not reach us. It is swallowed up in the general murmur of the front. Kat listens: "There'll be a bombardment to-night."<|quote|>We all listen. The front is restless.</|quote|>"The Tommies are firing already," says Kropp. The shelling can be heard distinctly. It is the English batteries to the right of our section. They are beginning an hour too soon. According to us they start punctually at ten o'clock. "What's got them?" says Müller, "their clocks must be fast." "There'll be a bombardment, I tell you, I can feel it in my bones." Kat shrugs his shoulders. Three shells land beside us. The burst of flame shoots across the fog, the fragments howl and drone. We shiver and are glad to think that we shall be back in the huts early in the morning. Our faces are neither paler nor more flushed than usual; they are not more tense nor more flabby--and yet they are changed. We feel that in our blood a contact has shot home. That is no figure of speech; it is fact. It is the front, the consciousness of the front, that makes this contact. The moment that the first shells whistle over and the air is rent with the explosions there is suddenly in our veins, in our hands, in our eyes a tense waiting, a watching, a heightened alertness, a strange sharpening of the senses. The body with one bound is in full readiness. It often seems to me as though it were the vibrating, shuddering air that with a noiseless leap springs upon us;
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All Quiet on the Western Front
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“Imagine dining with a judge in this toggery!”
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Harold Beecham
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a very simple old customer.”<|quote|>“Imagine dining with a judge in this toggery!”</|quote|>and he glanced down his
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afraid of Judge Fossilt? He’s a very simple old customer.”<|quote|>“Imagine dining with a judge in this toggery!”</|quote|>and he glanced down his great figure at his riding
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as I wasn’t called on the jury, and for a wonder hadn’t so much as a case against a Chinaman. I was going to stay tonight, but can’t if his worship is going to dine here.” “Why? You’re surely not afraid of Judge Fossilt? He’s a very simple old customer.”<|quote|>“Imagine dining with a judge in this toggery!”</|quote|>and he glanced down his great figure at his riding gear. “That doesn’t matter; he’s near-sighted. I’ll get you put at the far end of the table under my wing. Men don’t notice dress. If you weren’t so big uncle or Frank Hawden could oblige you.” “Do you think I
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your uncle at today?” he inquired. “He’s not at anything. He went to Gool-Gool yesterday on the jury. Court finishes up today, and he is going to bring the judge home tonight. That’s why I am dressed so carefully,” I answered. “Good gracious! I never thought of court this time as I wasn’t called on the jury, and for a wonder hadn’t so much as a case against a Chinaman. I was going to stay tonight, but can’t if his worship is going to dine here.” “Why? You’re surely not afraid of Judge Fossilt? He’s a very simple old customer.”<|quote|>“Imagine dining with a judge in this toggery!”</|quote|>and he glanced down his great figure at his riding gear. “That doesn’t matter; he’s near-sighted. I’ll get you put at the far end of the table under my wing. Men don’t notice dress. If you weren’t so big uncle or Frank Hawden could oblige you.” “Do you think I could pass muster?” “Yes; after I brush you down you’ll look as spruce as a brass penny. “I did brush myself,” he answered. “You brush yourself!” I retorted. “There’s a big splash of mud on your shoulder. You couldn’t expect to do anything decently, for you’re only a man, and
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and, by Jove, it will be the last!” he said energetically. “I’ve got myself into a pretty mess.” “What nonsense you talk,” I replied. “If you say another word about it, I’ll write a full account of it and paste it in my scrapbook. But if you don’t worry about it, neither will I. You said nothing very uncomplimentary; in fact, I was quite flattered.” I was perched on the high end of a couch, and he was leaning with big careless ease on the piano. Had grannie seen me, I would have been lectured about unladylike behaviour. “What is your uncle at today?” he inquired. “He’s not at anything. He went to Gool-Gool yesterday on the jury. Court finishes up today, and he is going to bring the judge home tonight. That’s why I am dressed so carefully,” I answered. “Good gracious! I never thought of court this time as I wasn’t called on the jury, and for a wonder hadn’t so much as a case against a Chinaman. I was going to stay tonight, but can’t if his worship is going to dine here.” “Why? You’re surely not afraid of Judge Fossilt? He’s a very simple old customer.”<|quote|>“Imagine dining with a judge in this toggery!”</|quote|>and he glanced down his great figure at his riding gear. “That doesn’t matter; he’s near-sighted. I’ll get you put at the far end of the table under my wing. Men don’t notice dress. If you weren’t so big uncle or Frank Hawden could oblige you.” “Do you think I could pass muster?” “Yes; after I brush you down you’ll look as spruce as a brass penny. “I did brush myself,” he answered. “You brush yourself!” I retorted. “There’s a big splash of mud on your shoulder. You couldn’t expect to do anything decently, for you’re only a man, and men are the uselessest, good-for-nothingest, clumsiest animals in the world. All they’re good for is to smoke and swear.” I fetched a clothes brush. “You’ll have to stand on the table to reach me,” he said, looking down with amused indulgence. “As you are so impertinent you can go dusty,” and I tossed the brush away. The evening was balmy, so I invited him into the garden. He threw his handkerchief over my chest, saying I might catch cold, but I scouted the idea. We wandered into an arbour covered with wistaria, banksia, and Marechal Niel roses, and I made
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that he recognized me again by the dusky red he flushed beneath his sun-darkened skin. No doubt he regretted having called me a filly above all things. He bowed stiffly, but I held out my hand, saying: “Do shake hands. When introduced I always shake hands with anyone I think I’ll like. Besides, I seem to know you well. Just think of all the apples you brought me!” He acceded to my request, holding my hand a deal longer than necessary, and looking at me helplessly. It amused me greatly, for I saw that it was he who did not know how to manage me, and not I that couldn’t manage him. “’Pon my honour, Miss Melvyn, I had no idea it was you, when I said—” Here he boggled completely, which had the effect of reviving my laughter. “You had no right to be dressed like that—deceiving a fellow. It wasn’t fair.” “That’s the best of it. It shows what a larrikin Don Juan sort of character you are. You can’t deceive me now if you pretend to be a virtuous well-behaved member of society.” “That is the first time I’ve ever meddled with any of the kitchen fry, and, by Jove, it will be the last!” he said energetically. “I’ve got myself into a pretty mess.” “What nonsense you talk,” I replied. “If you say another word about it, I’ll write a full account of it and paste it in my scrapbook. But if you don’t worry about it, neither will I. You said nothing very uncomplimentary; in fact, I was quite flattered.” I was perched on the high end of a couch, and he was leaning with big careless ease on the piano. Had grannie seen me, I would have been lectured about unladylike behaviour. “What is your uncle at today?” he inquired. “He’s not at anything. He went to Gool-Gool yesterday on the jury. Court finishes up today, and he is going to bring the judge home tonight. That’s why I am dressed so carefully,” I answered. “Good gracious! I never thought of court this time as I wasn’t called on the jury, and for a wonder hadn’t so much as a case against a Chinaman. I was going to stay tonight, but can’t if his worship is going to dine here.” “Why? You’re surely not afraid of Judge Fossilt? He’s a very simple old customer.”<|quote|>“Imagine dining with a judge in this toggery!”</|quote|>and he glanced down his great figure at his riding gear. “That doesn’t matter; he’s near-sighted. I’ll get you put at the far end of the table under my wing. Men don’t notice dress. If you weren’t so big uncle or Frank Hawden could oblige you.” “Do you think I could pass muster?” “Yes; after I brush you down you’ll look as spruce as a brass penny. “I did brush myself,” he answered. “You brush yourself!” I retorted. “There’s a big splash of mud on your shoulder. You couldn’t expect to do anything decently, for you’re only a man, and men are the uselessest, good-for-nothingest, clumsiest animals in the world. All they’re good for is to smoke and swear.” I fetched a clothes brush. “You’ll have to stand on the table to reach me,” he said, looking down with amused indulgence. “As you are so impertinent you can go dusty,” and I tossed the brush away. The evening was balmy, so I invited him into the garden. He threw his handkerchief over my chest, saying I might catch cold, but I scouted the idea. We wandered into an arbour covered with wistaria, banksia, and Marechal Niel roses, and I made him a buttonhole. A traveller pulled rein in the roadway, and, dismounting, threw his bridle over a paling of the garden fence while he went inside to try and buy a loaf of bread. I jumped up, frightening the horse so that it broke away, pulling off the paling in the bridle-rein. I ran to bring a hammer to repair the damage. Mr Beecham caught the horse while I attempted to drive the nail into the fence. It was a futile attempt. I bruised my fingers. He took the hammer from me, and fixing the paling in its place with a couple of well-aimed blows, said laughingly: “You drive a nail! You couldn’t expect to do anything. You’re only a girl. Girls are the helplessest, uselessest, troublesomest little creatures in the world. All they’re good for is to torment and pester a fellow.” I had to laugh. At this juncture we heard uncle Jay-Jay’s voice, so Mr Beecham went towards the back, whence it proceeded, after he left me at the front door. “Oh, auntie, we got on splendidly! He’s not a bit of trouble. We’re as chummy as though we had been reared together,” I exclaimed. “Did you get
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as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons. “Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice. Dress yourself completely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.” I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full war-paint—blue evening dress, satin slippers, and all. I wore my hair flowing, simply tied with a ribbon. I slipped out into the passage and called aunt Helen. She came. “I’m ready, auntie. Where is he?” “In the dining-room.” “Come into the drawing-room and call him. I will take charge of him till you are at leisure. But, auntie, it will be a long time till dinner—how on earth will I manage him?” “Manage him!” she laughed; “he is not at all an obstreperous character.” We had reached the drawing-room by this, and I looked at myself in the looking-glass while aunt Helen went to summon Harold Augustus Beecham, bachelor, owner of Five-Bob Downs, Wyambeet, Wallerawang West, Quat-Quatta, and a couple more stations in New South Wales, besides an extensive one in Queensland. I noticed as he entered the door that since I had seen him he had washed, combed his stiff black hair, and divested himself of his hat, spurs, and whip—his leggings had perforce to remain, as his nether garment was a pair of closely fitting grey cloth riding-breeches, which clearly defined the shapely contour of his lower limbs. “Harry, this is Sybylla. I’m sure you need no further introduction. Excuse me, I have something on the fire which is likely to burn.” And aunt Helen hurried off leaving us facing each other. He stared down at me with undisguised surprise. I looked up at him and laughed merrily. The fun was all on my side. He was a great big man—rich and important. I was a chit—an insignificant nonentity—yet, despite his sex, size, and importance, I was complete master of that situation, and knew it: thus I laughed. I saw that he recognized me again by the dusky red he flushed beneath his sun-darkened skin. No doubt he regretted having called me a filly above all things. He bowed stiffly, but I held out my hand, saying: “Do shake hands. When introduced I always shake hands with anyone I think I’ll like. Besides, I seem to know you well. Just think of all the apples you brought me!” He acceded to my request, holding my hand a deal longer than necessary, and looking at me helplessly. It amused me greatly, for I saw that it was he who did not know how to manage me, and not I that couldn’t manage him. “’Pon my honour, Miss Melvyn, I had no idea it was you, when I said—” Here he boggled completely, which had the effect of reviving my laughter. “You had no right to be dressed like that—deceiving a fellow. It wasn’t fair.” “That’s the best of it. It shows what a larrikin Don Juan sort of character you are. You can’t deceive me now if you pretend to be a virtuous well-behaved member of society.” “That is the first time I’ve ever meddled with any of the kitchen fry, and, by Jove, it will be the last!” he said energetically. “I’ve got myself into a pretty mess.” “What nonsense you talk,” I replied. “If you say another word about it, I’ll write a full account of it and paste it in my scrapbook. But if you don’t worry about it, neither will I. You said nothing very uncomplimentary; in fact, I was quite flattered.” I was perched on the high end of a couch, and he was leaning with big careless ease on the piano. Had grannie seen me, I would have been lectured about unladylike behaviour. “What is your uncle at today?” he inquired. “He’s not at anything. He went to Gool-Gool yesterday on the jury. Court finishes up today, and he is going to bring the judge home tonight. That’s why I am dressed so carefully,” I answered. “Good gracious! I never thought of court this time as I wasn’t called on the jury, and for a wonder hadn’t so much as a case against a Chinaman. I was going to stay tonight, but can’t if his worship is going to dine here.” “Why? You’re surely not afraid of Judge Fossilt? He’s a very simple old customer.”<|quote|>“Imagine dining with a judge in this toggery!”</|quote|>and he glanced down his great figure at his riding gear. “That doesn’t matter; he’s near-sighted. I’ll get you put at the far end of the table under my wing. Men don’t notice dress. If you weren’t so big uncle or Frank Hawden could oblige you.” “Do you think I could pass muster?” “Yes; after I brush you down you’ll look as spruce as a brass penny. “I did brush myself,” he answered. “You brush yourself!” I retorted. “There’s a big splash of mud on your shoulder. You couldn’t expect to do anything decently, for you’re only a man, and men are the uselessest, good-for-nothingest, clumsiest animals in the world. All they’re good for is to smoke and swear.” I fetched a clothes brush. “You’ll have to stand on the table to reach me,” he said, looking down with amused indulgence. “As you are so impertinent you can go dusty,” and I tossed the brush away. The evening was balmy, so I invited him into the garden. He threw his handkerchief over my chest, saying I might catch cold, but I scouted the idea. We wandered into an arbour covered with wistaria, banksia, and Marechal Niel roses, and I made him a buttonhole. A traveller pulled rein in the roadway, and, dismounting, threw his bridle over a paling of the garden fence while he went inside to try and buy a loaf of bread. I jumped up, frightening the horse so that it broke away, pulling off the paling in the bridle-rein. I ran to bring a hammer to repair the damage. Mr Beecham caught the horse while I attempted to drive the nail into the fence. It was a futile attempt. I bruised my fingers. He took the hammer from me, and fixing the paling in its place with a couple of well-aimed blows, said laughingly: “You drive a nail! You couldn’t expect to do anything. You’re only a girl. Girls are the helplessest, uselessest, troublesomest little creatures in the world. All they’re good for is to torment and pester a fellow.” I had to laugh. At this juncture we heard uncle Jay-Jay’s voice, so Mr Beecham went towards the back, whence it proceeded, after he left me at the front door. “Oh, auntie, we got on splendidly! He’s not a bit of trouble. We’re as chummy as though we had been reared together,” I exclaimed. “Did you get him to talk?” “Oh yes.” “Did you really?” in surprise. When I came to review the matter I was forced to confess that I had done all the talking, and young Beecham the listening; moreover I described him as the quietest man I had ever seen or heard of. The judge did not come home with uncle Jay-Jay as expected so it was not necessary for me to shelter Harold Beecham under my wing. Grannie greeted him cordially as “Harold, my boy” , he was a great favourite with her. She and uncle Julius monopolized him for the evening. There was great talk of trucking sheep, the bad outlook as regarded the season, the state of the grass in the triangle, the Leigh Spring, the Bimbalong, and several other paddocks, and of the condition of the London wool market. It did not interest me, so I dived into a book, only occasionally emerging therefrom to smile at Mr Beecham. He had come to Caddagat for a pair of bullocks which had been fattening in grannie’s home paddock. Uncle gave him a start with them next morning. When they came out on the road I was standing in a bed of violets in a tangled corner of the garden, where roses climbed to kiss the lilacs, and spiraea stooped to rest upon the wallflowers, and where two tall kurrajongs stood like sentries over all. Harold Beecham dismounted, and, leaning over the fence, lingered with me, leaving the bullocks to uncle Jay-Jay. Uncle raved vigorously. Women, he asserted, were the bane of society and the ruination of all men; but he had always considered Harold as too sensible to neglect his business to stand grinning at a pesky youngster in short skirts and a pigtail. Which was the greatest idiot of the two he didn’t know. His grumbling did not affect Harold in the least. “Complimentary to both of us,” he remarked as he leisurely threw himself across his great horse, and smiled his pleasant quiet smile, disclosing two rows of magnificent teeth, untainted by contamination with beer or tobacco. Raising his panama hat with the green fly-veil around it, he cantered off. I wondered as I watched him if anything ever disturbed his serenity, and desired to try. He looked too big and quiet to be ruffled by such emotions as rage, worry, jealousy, or even love. Returning to the house,
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me again by the dusky red he flushed beneath his sun-darkened skin. No doubt he regretted having called me a filly above all things. He bowed stiffly, but I held out my hand, saying: “Do shake hands. When introduced I always shake hands with anyone I think I’ll like. Besides, I seem to know you well. Just think of all the apples you brought me!” He acceded to my request, holding my hand a deal longer than necessary, and looking at me helplessly. It amused me greatly, for I saw that it was he who did not know how to manage me, and not I that couldn’t manage him. “’Pon my honour, Miss Melvyn, I had no idea it was you, when I said—” Here he boggled completely, which had the effect of reviving my laughter. “You had no right to be dressed like that—deceiving a fellow. It wasn’t fair.” “That’s the best of it. It shows what a larrikin Don Juan sort of character you are. You can’t deceive me now if you pretend to be a virtuous well-behaved member of society.” “That is the first time I’ve ever meddled with any of the kitchen fry, and, by Jove, it will be the last!” he said energetically. “I’ve got myself into a pretty mess.” “What nonsense you talk,” I replied. “If you say another word about it, I’ll write a full account of it and paste it in my scrapbook. But if you don’t worry about it, neither will I. You said nothing very uncomplimentary; in fact, I was quite flattered.” I was perched on the high end of a couch, and he was leaning with big careless ease on the piano. Had grannie seen me, I would have been lectured about unladylike behaviour. “What is your uncle at today?” he inquired. “He’s not at anything. He went to Gool-Gool yesterday on the jury. Court finishes up today, and he is going to bring the judge home tonight. That’s why I am dressed so carefully,” I answered. “Good gracious! I never thought of court this time as I wasn’t called on the jury, and for a wonder hadn’t so much as a case against a Chinaman. I was going to stay tonight, but can’t if his worship is going to dine here.” “Why? You’re surely not afraid of Judge Fossilt? He’s a very simple old customer.”<|quote|>“Imagine dining with a judge in this toggery!”</|quote|>and he glanced down his great figure at his riding gear. “That doesn’t matter; he’s near-sighted. I’ll get you put at the far end of the table under my wing. Men don’t notice dress. If you weren’t so big uncle or Frank Hawden could oblige you.” “Do you think I could pass muster?” “Yes; after I brush you down you’ll look as spruce as a brass penny. “I did brush myself,” he answered. “You brush yourself!” I retorted. “There’s a big splash of mud on your shoulder. You couldn’t expect to do anything decently, for you’re only a man, and men are the uselessest, good-for-nothingest, clumsiest animals in the world. All they’re good for is to smoke and swear.” I fetched a clothes brush. “You’ll have to stand on the table to reach me,” he said, looking down with amused indulgence. “As you are so impertinent you can go dusty,” and I tossed the brush away. The evening was balmy, so I invited him into the garden. He threw his handkerchief over my chest, saying I might catch cold, but I scouted the idea. We wandered into an arbour covered with wistaria, banksia, and Marechal Niel roses, and I made him a buttonhole. A traveller pulled rein in the roadway, and, dismounting, threw his bridle over a paling of the garden fence while he went inside to try and buy a
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My Brilliant Career
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"Wonder where they'll take us?"
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Jem Wimble
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as if emitting silver fire.<|quote|>"Wonder where they'll take us?"</|quote|>said Jem, at last. "To
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trees flashed in the moonlight as if emitting silver fire.<|quote|>"Wonder where they'll take us?"</|quote|>said Jem, at last. "To their _pah_, I suppose," replied
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wood." They sat in silence as the moon rose higher, and the long lines of paddles in the different boats looked more weird and strange, while in the distance a mountain top that stood above the long black line of trees flashed in the moonlight as if emitting silver fire.<|quote|>"Wonder where they'll take us?"</|quote|>said Jem, at last. "To their _pah_, I suppose," replied Don, dreamily. "I s'pose they'll give us something to eat when we get there, eh?" "I suppose so, Jem. I don't know, and I feel too miserable even to try and think." "Ah," said Jem; "that's how those poor women
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lad. I say, Mas' Don, arn't you hungry?" "Yes, I suppose so, Jem. Not hungry; but I feel as if I have had no food. I am too miserable to be hungry." "So am I sometimes when my shoulder burns; at other times I feel as if I could eat wood." They sat in silence as the moon rose higher, and the long lines of paddles in the different boats looked more weird and strange, while in the distance a mountain top that stood above the long black line of trees flashed in the moonlight as if emitting silver fire.<|quote|>"Wonder where they'll take us?"</|quote|>said Jem, at last. "To their _pah_, I suppose," replied Don, dreamily. "I s'pose they'll give us something to eat when we get there, eh?" "I suppose so, Jem. I don't know, and I feel too miserable even to try and think." "Ah," said Jem; "that's how those poor women and the wounded prisoners feel, Mas' Don; but they're only copper-coloured blacks, and we're whites. We can't afford to feel as they do. Look here, my lad, how soon do you think you'll be strong enough to try and escape?" "I don't know, Jem." "I say to-morrow." "Shall you be
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and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don." "I wish the wretches could be punished," said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with my pocket knife, and make a hole in the bottom of the canoe." "It would drown the innocent and the guilty, Jem." "Ay, that's so, my lad. I say, Mas' Don, arn't you hungry?" "Yes, I suppose so, Jem. Not hungry; but I feel as if I have had no food. I am too miserable to be hungry." "So am I sometimes when my shoulder burns; at other times I feel as if I could eat wood." They sat in silence as the moon rose higher, and the long lines of paddles in the different boats looked more weird and strange, while in the distance a mountain top that stood above the long black line of trees flashed in the moonlight as if emitting silver fire.<|quote|>"Wonder where they'll take us?"</|quote|>said Jem, at last. "To their _pah_, I suppose," replied Don, dreamily. "I s'pose they'll give us something to eat when we get there, eh?" "I suppose so, Jem. I don't know, and I feel too miserable even to try and think." "Ah," said Jem; "that's how those poor women and the wounded prisoners feel, Mas' Don; but they're only copper-coloured blacks, and we're whites. We can't afford to feel as they do. Look here, my lad, how soon do you think you'll be strong enough to try and escape?" "I don't know, Jem." "I say to-morrow." "Shall you be fit?" Jem was silent for a few minutes. "I'm like you, Mas' Don," he said. "I dunno; but I tell you what, we will not say to-morrow or next day, but make up our minds to go first chance. What do you say to that?" "Anything is better than being in the power of such wretches as these, Jem; so let's do as you say." Jem nodded his head as he sat in the bottom of the canoe in the broad moonlight, and Don watched the soft silver sea, the black velvet-looking shore, and the brilliant stars; and then, just
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largest and leading canoe; and as they sat there in silence, the strangeness of the scene appeared awful. The shore looked almost black, save where the moon illumined the mountainous background; but the sea seemed to have been turned into a pale greenish metal, flowing easily in a molten state. No one spoke, not a sigh was heard from the prisoners, who must have been suffering keenly as they cowered down in the boat. Don sat watching the weird panorama as they went along, asking himself at times if it was all real, or only the effect of some vivid dream. For it appeared to be impossible that he could have gone through what he had on the previous night, and be there now, borne who could say whither, by the successful raiders, who were moving their oars mechanically as the canoe glided on. "It must be a dream," he said to himself. "I shall awake soon, and--" "What a chance, Mas' Don!" said a low voice at his side, to prove to him that he was awake. "Chance? What chance?" said Don, starting. "I don't mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don." "I wish the wretches could be punished," said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with my pocket knife, and make a hole in the bottom of the canoe." "It would drown the innocent and the guilty, Jem." "Ay, that's so, my lad. I say, Mas' Don, arn't you hungry?" "Yes, I suppose so, Jem. Not hungry; but I feel as if I have had no food. I am too miserable to be hungry." "So am I sometimes when my shoulder burns; at other times I feel as if I could eat wood." They sat in silence as the moon rose higher, and the long lines of paddles in the different boats looked more weird and strange, while in the distance a mountain top that stood above the long black line of trees flashed in the moonlight as if emitting silver fire.<|quote|>"Wonder where they'll take us?"</|quote|>said Jem, at last. "To their _pah_, I suppose," replied Don, dreamily. "I s'pose they'll give us something to eat when we get there, eh?" "I suppose so, Jem. I don't know, and I feel too miserable even to try and think." "Ah," said Jem; "that's how those poor women and the wounded prisoners feel, Mas' Don; but they're only copper-coloured blacks, and we're whites. We can't afford to feel as they do. Look here, my lad, how soon do you think you'll be strong enough to try and escape?" "I don't know, Jem." "I say to-morrow." "Shall you be fit?" Jem was silent for a few minutes. "I'm like you, Mas' Don," he said. "I dunno; but I tell you what, we will not say to-morrow or next day, but make up our minds to go first chance. What do you say to that?" "Anything is better than being in the power of such wretches as these, Jem; so let's do as you say." Jem nodded his head as he sat in the bottom of the canoe in the broad moonlight, and Don watched the soft silver sea, the black velvet-looking shore, and the brilliant stars; and then, just as in his faintness, hunger, and misery, he had determined in his own mind that he would be obliged to sit there and suffer the long night through, and began wondering how long it would be before morning, he became aware of the fact that Nature is bounteously good to those who suffer, for he saw that Jem kept on nodding his head, as if in acquiescence with that which he had said; and then he seemed to subside slowly with his brow against the side. "He's asleep!" said Don to himself. "Poor Jem! He always could go to sleep directly." This turned Don's thoughts to the times when, after a hard morning's work, and a hasty dinner, he had seen Jem sit down in a corner with his back against a tub, and drop off apparently in an instant. "I wish I could go to sleep and forget all this," Don said to himself with a sigh-- "all this horror and weariness and misery." He shook his head: it was impossible; and he looked again at the dark shore that they were passing, at the shimmering sea, and then at the bronzed backs of the warriors as they paddled
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they were driven down from the platform upon which the _pah_ was constructed, and along the slope to the sands, where the canoes rode lightly on the swell. Into these they were forced to climb, some getting in with alacrity, others slowly and painfully; two or three falling helplessly in the water, and then, half drowned, being dragged in over the side. "Not a bit sorry I killed some of 'em," muttered Jem. "They arn't men, Mas' Don, but savage beasts." It did not take long, for there was plenty of room in the little fleet of canoes. The prisoners were divided, some being placed in the canoes with the plunder, and treated as if they were spoil. Others were divided among the long canoes, manned by the enemy, whose own wounded men, even to the worst, did not hesitate to take to a paddle, and fill their places. Some of the children whimpered, but an apathetic state of misery and dejection seemed to have affected even them, while in one or two cases, a blow from a paddle was sufficient to awe the poor little unfortunates into silence. As soon as the last man was in his place, a herculean chief waved his hands; one of his followers raised a great wooden trumpet, and blew a long, bellowing note; the paddles dipped almost as one into the water, and the men burst into a triumphal chorus, as, for a few hundred yards, the great war canoes which they had captured swept with their freight of spoil at a rapid rate southward along the shore. Then the sudden burst of energy ceased, the song broke off, the speed diminished; and the men slowly dipped their paddles in a heavy, drowsy way. Every now and then one of the warriors ceased paddling, or contented himself with going through the motion; but still the great serpent-like vessels glided on, though slowly, while the darkness came on rapidly, and the water flashed as its phosphorescent inhabitants were disturbed. The darkness grew intense, but not for long. Soon a gradual lightening became visible in the east, and suddenly a flash of light glanced along the surface of the sea, as the moon slowly rose to give a weird aspect to the long row of dusky warriors sluggishly urging the great canoes onward. Don and Jem had the good fortune to be together in the largest and leading canoe; and as they sat there in silence, the strangeness of the scene appeared awful. The shore looked almost black, save where the moon illumined the mountainous background; but the sea seemed to have been turned into a pale greenish metal, flowing easily in a molten state. No one spoke, not a sigh was heard from the prisoners, who must have been suffering keenly as they cowered down in the boat. Don sat watching the weird panorama as they went along, asking himself at times if it was all real, or only the effect of some vivid dream. For it appeared to be impossible that he could have gone through what he had on the previous night, and be there now, borne who could say whither, by the successful raiders, who were moving their oars mechanically as the canoe glided on. "It must be a dream," he said to himself. "I shall awake soon, and--" "What a chance, Mas' Don!" said a low voice at his side, to prove to him that he was awake. "Chance? What chance?" said Don, starting. "I don't mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don." "I wish the wretches could be punished," said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with my pocket knife, and make a hole in the bottom of the canoe." "It would drown the innocent and the guilty, Jem." "Ay, that's so, my lad. I say, Mas' Don, arn't you hungry?" "Yes, I suppose so, Jem. Not hungry; but I feel as if I have had no food. I am too miserable to be hungry." "So am I sometimes when my shoulder burns; at other times I feel as if I could eat wood." They sat in silence as the moon rose higher, and the long lines of paddles in the different boats looked more weird and strange, while in the distance a mountain top that stood above the long black line of trees flashed in the moonlight as if emitting silver fire.<|quote|>"Wonder where they'll take us?"</|quote|>said Jem, at last. "To their _pah_, I suppose," replied Don, dreamily. "I s'pose they'll give us something to eat when we get there, eh?" "I suppose so, Jem. I don't know, and I feel too miserable even to try and think." "Ah," said Jem; "that's how those poor women and the wounded prisoners feel, Mas' Don; but they're only copper-coloured blacks, and we're whites. We can't afford to feel as they do. Look here, my lad, how soon do you think you'll be strong enough to try and escape?" "I don't know, Jem." "I say to-morrow." "Shall you be fit?" Jem was silent for a few minutes. "I'm like you, Mas' Don," he said. "I dunno; but I tell you what, we will not say to-morrow or next day, but make up our minds to go first chance. What do you say to that?" "Anything is better than being in the power of such wretches as these, Jem; so let's do as you say." Jem nodded his head as he sat in the bottom of the canoe in the broad moonlight, and Don watched the soft silver sea, the black velvet-looking shore, and the brilliant stars; and then, just as in his faintness, hunger, and misery, he had determined in his own mind that he would be obliged to sit there and suffer the long night through, and began wondering how long it would be before morning, he became aware of the fact that Nature is bounteously good to those who suffer, for he saw that Jem kept on nodding his head, as if in acquiescence with that which he had said; and then he seemed to subside slowly with his brow against the side. "He's asleep!" said Don to himself. "Poor Jem! He always could go to sleep directly." This turned Don's thoughts to the times when, after a hard morning's work, and a hasty dinner, he had seen Jem sit down in a corner with his back against a tub, and drop off apparently in an instant. "I wish I could go to sleep and forget all this," Don said to himself with a sigh-- "all this horror and weariness and misery." He shook his head: it was impossible; and he looked again at the dark shore that they were passing, at the shimmering sea, and then at the bronzed backs of the warriors as they paddled on in their drowsy, mechanical way. The movement looked more and more strange as he gazed. The men's bodies swayed very little, and their arms all along the line looked misty, and seemed to stretch right away into infinity, so far away was the last rower from the prow. The water flashed with the moonlight on one side, and gleamed pallidly on the other as the blades stirred it; and then they grew more misty and more misty, but kept on _plash_--_plash_--_plash_, and the paddles of the line of canoes behind echoed the sound, or seemed to, as they beat the water, and Jem whispered softly in his ear,-- "Don't move, Mas' Don, my lad, I'm not tired!" But he did move, for he started up from where his head had been lying on Jem's knees, and the poor fellow smiled at him in the broad morning sunshine. Sunshine, and not moonshine; and Don stared. "Why, Jem," he said, "have I been asleep?" "S'pose so, Mas' Don. I know I have, and when I woke a bit ago, you'd got your head in my lap, and you was smiling just as if you was enjoying your bit of rest." CHAPTER FORTY TWO. TOMATI ESCAPES. "Have they been rowing--I mean paddling--all night, Jem?" said Don, as he looked back and saw the long line of canoes following the one he was in. "S'pose so, my lad. Seems to me they can go to sleep and keep on, just as old Rumble's mare used to doze away in the carrier's cart, all but her legs, which used to keep on going. Them chaps, p'r'aps, goes to sleep all but their arms." A terrible gnawing sensation was troubling Don now, as he looked eagerly about to see that they were going swiftly along the coast line; for their captors had roused themselves with the coming of day, and sent the canoes forward at a rapid rate for about an hour, until they ran their long narrow vessels in upon the beach and landed, making their prisoners do the same, close by the mouth of a swift rocky stream, whose bright waters came tumbling down over a series of cascades. Here it seemed as if a halt was to be made for resting, and after satisfying their own thirst, leave was given to the unhappy prisoners to assuage theirs, and then a certain amount
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the men burst into a triumphal chorus, as, for a few hundred yards, the great war canoes which they had captured swept with their freight of spoil at a rapid rate southward along the shore. Then the sudden burst of energy ceased, the song broke off, the speed diminished; and the men slowly dipped their paddles in a heavy, drowsy way. Every now and then one of the warriors ceased paddling, or contented himself with going through the motion; but still the great serpent-like vessels glided on, though slowly, while the darkness came on rapidly, and the water flashed as its phosphorescent inhabitants were disturbed. The darkness grew intense, but not for long. Soon a gradual lightening became visible in the east, and suddenly a flash of light glanced along the surface of the sea, as the moon slowly rose to give a weird aspect to the long row of dusky warriors sluggishly urging the great canoes onward. Don and Jem had the good fortune to be together in the largest and leading canoe; and as they sat there in silence, the strangeness of the scene appeared awful. The shore looked almost black, save where the moon illumined the mountainous background; but the sea seemed to have been turned into a pale greenish metal, flowing easily in a molten state. No one spoke, not a sigh was heard from the prisoners, who must have been suffering keenly as they cowered down in the boat. Don sat watching the weird panorama as they went along, asking himself at times if it was all real, or only the effect of some vivid dream. For it appeared to be impossible that he could have gone through what he had on the previous night, and be there now, borne who could say whither, by the successful raiders, who were moving their oars mechanically as the canoe glided on. "It must be a dream," he said to himself. "I shall awake soon, and--" "What a chance, Mas' Don!" said a low voice at his side, to prove to him that he was awake. "Chance? What chance?" said Don, starting. "I don't mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don." "I wish the wretches could be punished," said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with my pocket knife, and make a hole in the bottom of the canoe." "It would drown the innocent and the guilty, Jem." "Ay, that's so, my lad. I say, Mas' Don, arn't you hungry?" "Yes, I suppose so, Jem. Not hungry; but I feel as if I have had no food. I am too miserable to be hungry." "So am I sometimes when my shoulder burns; at other times I feel as if I could eat wood." They sat in silence as the moon rose higher, and the long lines of paddles in the different boats looked more weird and strange, while in the distance a mountain top that stood above the long black line of trees flashed in the moonlight as if emitting silver fire.<|quote|>"Wonder where they'll take us?"</|quote|>said Jem, at last. "To their _pah_, I suppose," replied Don, dreamily. "I s'pose they'll give us something to eat when we get there, eh?" "I suppose so, Jem. I don't know, and I feel too miserable even to try and think." "Ah," said Jem; "that's how those poor women and the wounded prisoners feel, Mas' Don; but they're only copper-coloured blacks, and we're whites. We can't afford to feel as they do. Look here, my lad, how soon do you think you'll be strong enough to try and escape?" "I don't know, Jem." "I say to-morrow." "Shall you be fit?" Jem was silent for a few minutes. "I'm like you, Mas' Don," he said. "I dunno; but I tell you what, we will not say to-morrow or next day, but make up our minds to go first chance. What do you say to that?" "Anything is better than being in the power of such wretches as these, Jem; so let's do as you say." Jem nodded his head as he sat in the bottom of the canoe in the broad moonlight, and Don watched the soft silver sea, the black velvet-looking shore, and the brilliant stars; and then, just as in his faintness, hunger, and misery, he had determined in his own mind that he would be obliged to sit there and suffer the long night through, and began wondering how long it would be before morning, he became aware of the fact that Nature is bounteously good to those who suffer, for he saw that Jem kept on nodding his head, as if in acquiescence with that which he had said; and then he seemed to subside slowly with his brow against the side. "He's asleep!" said Don to himself. "Poor Jem! He always could go to sleep directly." This turned Don's thoughts to the times when, after a hard morning's work, and a hasty dinner, he had seen Jem sit down in a corner with his back against a tub, and drop off apparently in an instant. "I wish I could go to sleep and forget all this," Don said to himself with a sigh-- "all this horror and weariness and misery." He shook his head: it was impossible; and he looked again at the dark shore that they were passing, at the shimmering sea, and then at the bronzed backs of the warriors as they paddled on in their drowsy, mechanical way. The movement looked more and more strange as he gazed. The men's bodies swayed very little, and their arms all along the line looked misty, and seemed to stretch right away into infinity, so far away was the last rower from the prow. The water flashed with the moonlight on one side, and gleamed pallidly on the other as the blades stirred it; and then they grew more misty and more misty, but kept on _plash_--_plash_--_plash_, and the paddles of the line of canoes behind echoed the sound, or seemed to, as they beat the water, and Jem whispered softly in his ear,--
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Don Lavington
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"yes, I really _do_ wish that I had never had a family, and then you would have known what it was to do without me!"
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Mrs. Gradgrind
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these mere shadows of facts,<|quote|>"yes, I really _do_ wish that I had never had a family, and then you would have known what it was to do without me!"</|quote|>CHAPTER IX SISSY'S PROGRESS SISSY
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strongest point before succumbing under these mere shadows of facts,<|quote|>"yes, I really _do_ wish that I had never had a family, and then you would have known what it was to do without me!"</|quote|>CHAPTER IX SISSY'S PROGRESS SISSY JUPE had not an easy
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and calorification, and I may say every kind of ation that could drive a poor invalid distracted, to hear you talking in this absurd way about sparks and ashes! I wish," whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, taking a chair, and discharging her strongest point before succumbing under these mere shadows of facts,<|quote|>"yes, I really _do_ wish that I had never had a family, and then you would have known what it was to do without me!"</|quote|>CHAPTER IX SISSY'S PROGRESS SISSY JUPE had not an easy time of it, between Mr. M'Choakumchild and Mrs. Gradgrind, and was not without strong impulses, in the first months of her probation, to run away. It hailed facts all day long so very hard, and life in general was opened
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last of it. After all the trouble that has been taken with you! After the lectures you have attended, and the experiments you have seen! After I have heard you myself, when the whole of my right side has been benumbed, going on with your master about combustion, and calcination, and calorification, and I may say every kind of ation that could drive a poor invalid distracted, to hear you talking in this absurd way about sparks and ashes! I wish," whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, taking a chair, and discharging her strongest point before succumbing under these mere shadows of facts,<|quote|>"yes, I really _do_ wish that I had never had a family, and then you would have known what it was to do without me!"</|quote|>CHAPTER IX SISSY'S PROGRESS SISSY JUPE had not an easy time of it, between Mr. M'Choakumchild and Mrs. Gradgrind, and was not without strong impulses, in the first months of her probation, to run away. It hailed facts all day long so very hard, and life in general was opened to her as such a closely ruled ciphering-book, that assuredly she would have run away, but for only one restraint. It is lamentable to think of; but this restraint was the result of no arithmetical process, was self-imposed in defiance of all calculation, and went dead against any table of
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you had been encouraged, it is morally and physically impossible that you could have done it." "I was encouraged by nothing, mother, but by looking at the red sparks dropping out of the fire, and whitening and dying. It made me think, after all, how short my life would be, and how little I could hope to do in it." "Nonsense!" said Mrs. Gradgrind, rendered almost energetic. "Nonsense! Don't stand there and tell me such stuff, Louisa, to my face, when you know very well that if it was ever to reach your father's ears I should never hear the last of it. After all the trouble that has been taken with you! After the lectures you have attended, and the experiments you have seen! After I have heard you myself, when the whole of my right side has been benumbed, going on with your master about combustion, and calcination, and calorification, and I may say every kind of ation that could drive a poor invalid distracted, to hear you talking in this absurd way about sparks and ashes! I wish," whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, taking a chair, and discharging her strongest point before succumbing under these mere shadows of facts,<|quote|>"yes, I really _do_ wish that I had never had a family, and then you would have known what it was to do without me!"</|quote|>CHAPTER IX SISSY'S PROGRESS SISSY JUPE had not an easy time of it, between Mr. M'Choakumchild and Mrs. Gradgrind, and was not without strong impulses, in the first months of her probation, to run away. It hailed facts all day long so very hard, and life in general was opened to her as such a closely ruled ciphering-book, that assuredly she would have run away, but for only one restraint. It is lamentable to think of; but this restraint was the result of no arithmetical process, was self-imposed in defiance of all calculation, and went dead against any table of probabilities that any Actuary would have drawn up from the premises. The girl believed that her father had not deserted her; she lived in the hope that he would come back, and in the faith that he would be made the happier by her remaining where she was. The wretched ignorance with which Jupe clung to this consolation, rejecting the superior comfort of knowing, on a sound arithmetical basis, that her father was an unnatural vagabond, filled Mr. Gradgrind with pity. Yet, what was to be done? M'Choakumchild reported that she had a very dense head for figures; that, once
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see what he could make of it. "Except that it is a fire," said Tom, "it looks to me as stupid and blank as everything else looks. What do you see in it? Not a circus?" "I don't see anything in it, Tom, particularly. But since I have been looking at it, I have been wondering about you and me, grown up." "Wondering again!" said Tom. "I have such unmanageable thoughts," returned his sister, "that they _will_ wonder." "Then I beg of you, Louisa," said Mrs. Gradgrind, who had opened the door without being heard, "to do nothing of that description, for goodness' sake, you inconsiderate girl, or I shall never hear the last of it from your father. And, Thomas, it is really shameful, with my poor head continually wearing me out, that a boy brought up as you have been, and whose education has cost what yours has, should be found encouraging his sister to wonder, when he knows his father has expressly said that she is not to do it." Louisa denied Tom's participation in the offence; but her mother stopped her with the conclusive answer, "Louisa, don't tell me, in my state of health; for unless you had been encouraged, it is morally and physically impossible that you could have done it." "I was encouraged by nothing, mother, but by looking at the red sparks dropping out of the fire, and whitening and dying. It made me think, after all, how short my life would be, and how little I could hope to do in it." "Nonsense!" said Mrs. Gradgrind, rendered almost energetic. "Nonsense! Don't stand there and tell me such stuff, Louisa, to my face, when you know very well that if it was ever to reach your father's ears I should never hear the last of it. After all the trouble that has been taken with you! After the lectures you have attended, and the experiments you have seen! After I have heard you myself, when the whole of my right side has been benumbed, going on with your master about combustion, and calcination, and calorification, and I may say every kind of ation that could drive a poor invalid distracted, to hear you talking in this absurd way about sparks and ashes! I wish," whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, taking a chair, and discharging her strongest point before succumbing under these mere shadows of facts,<|quote|>"yes, I really _do_ wish that I had never had a family, and then you would have known what it was to do without me!"</|quote|>CHAPTER IX SISSY'S PROGRESS SISSY JUPE had not an easy time of it, between Mr. M'Choakumchild and Mrs. Gradgrind, and was not without strong impulses, in the first months of her probation, to run away. It hailed facts all day long so very hard, and life in general was opened to her as such a closely ruled ciphering-book, that assuredly she would have run away, but for only one restraint. It is lamentable to think of; but this restraint was the result of no arithmetical process, was self-imposed in defiance of all calculation, and went dead against any table of probabilities that any Actuary would have drawn up from the premises. The girl believed that her father had not deserted her; she lived in the hope that he would come back, and in the faith that he would be made the happier by her remaining where she was. The wretched ignorance with which Jupe clung to this consolation, rejecting the superior comfort of knowing, on a sound arithmetical basis, that her father was an unnatural vagabond, filled Mr. Gradgrind with pity. Yet, what was to be done? M'Choakumchild reported that she had a very dense head for figures; that, once possessed with a general idea of the globe, she took the smallest conceivable interest in its exact measurements; that she was extremely slow in the acquisition of dates, unless some pitiful incident happened to be connected therewith; that she would burst into tears on being required (by the mental process) immediately to name the cost of two hundred and forty-seven muslin caps at fourteen-pence halfpenny; that she was as low down, in the school, as low could be; that after eight weeks of induction into the elements of Political Economy, she had only yesterday been set right by a prattler three feet high, for returning to the question, "What is the first principle of this science?" the absurd answer, "To do unto others as I would that they should do unto me." Mr. Gradgrind observed, shaking his head, that all this was very bad; that it showed the necessity of infinite grinding at the mill of knowledge, as per system, schedule, blue book, report, and tabular statements A to Z; and that Jupe "must be kept to it." So Jupe was kept to it, and became low-spirited, but no wiser. "It would be a fine thing to be you, Miss
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sister were overhung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagination if such treason could have been there might have made it out to be the shadow of their subject, and of its lowering association with their future. "What is your great mode of smoothing and managing, Tom? Is it a secret?" "Oh!" said Tom, "if it is a secret, it's not far off. It's you. You are his little pet, you are his favourite; he'll do anything for you. When he says to me what I don't like, I shall say to him," "My sister Loo will be hurt and disappointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always used to tell me she was sure you would be easier with me than this." "That'll bring him about, or nothing will." After waiting for some answering remark, and getting none, Tom wearily relapsed into the present time, and twined himself yawning round and about the rails of his chair, and rumpled his head more and more, until he suddenly looked up, and asked: "Have you gone to sleep, Loo?" "No, Tom. I am looking at the fire." "You seem to find more to look at in it than ever I could find," said Tom. "Another of the advantages, I suppose, of being a girl." "Tom," enquired his sister, slowly, and in a curious tone, as if she were reading what she asked in the fire, and it was not quite plainly written there, "do you look forward with any satisfaction to this change to Mr. Bounderby's?" "Why, there's one thing to be said of it," returned Tom, pushing his chair from him, and standing up; "it will be getting away from home." "There is one thing to be said of it," Louisa repeated in her former curious tone; "it will be getting away from home. Yes." "Not but what I shall be very unwilling, both to leave you, Loo, and to leave you here. But I must go, you know, whether I like it or not; and I had better go where I can take with me some advantage of your influence, than where I should lose it altogether. Don't you see?" "Yes, Tom." The answer was so long in coming, though there was no indecision in it, that Tom went and leaned on the back of her chair, to contemplate the fire which so engrossed her, from her point of view, and see what he could make of it. "Except that it is a fire," said Tom, "it looks to me as stupid and blank as everything else looks. What do you see in it? Not a circus?" "I don't see anything in it, Tom, particularly. But since I have been looking at it, I have been wondering about you and me, grown up." "Wondering again!" said Tom. "I have such unmanageable thoughts," returned his sister, "that they _will_ wonder." "Then I beg of you, Louisa," said Mrs. Gradgrind, who had opened the door without being heard, "to do nothing of that description, for goodness' sake, you inconsiderate girl, or I shall never hear the last of it from your father. And, Thomas, it is really shameful, with my poor head continually wearing me out, that a boy brought up as you have been, and whose education has cost what yours has, should be found encouraging his sister to wonder, when he knows his father has expressly said that she is not to do it." Louisa denied Tom's participation in the offence; but her mother stopped her with the conclusive answer, "Louisa, don't tell me, in my state of health; for unless you had been encouraged, it is morally and physically impossible that you could have done it." "I was encouraged by nothing, mother, but by looking at the red sparks dropping out of the fire, and whitening and dying. It made me think, after all, how short my life would be, and how little I could hope to do in it." "Nonsense!" said Mrs. Gradgrind, rendered almost energetic. "Nonsense! Don't stand there and tell me such stuff, Louisa, to my face, when you know very well that if it was ever to reach your father's ears I should never hear the last of it. After all the trouble that has been taken with you! After the lectures you have attended, and the experiments you have seen! After I have heard you myself, when the whole of my right side has been benumbed, going on with your master about combustion, and calcination, and calorification, and I may say every kind of ation that could drive a poor invalid distracted, to hear you talking in this absurd way about sparks and ashes! I wish," whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, taking a chair, and discharging her strongest point before succumbing under these mere shadows of facts,<|quote|>"yes, I really _do_ wish that I had never had a family, and then you would have known what it was to do without me!"</|quote|>CHAPTER IX SISSY'S PROGRESS SISSY JUPE had not an easy time of it, between Mr. M'Choakumchild and Mrs. Gradgrind, and was not without strong impulses, in the first months of her probation, to run away. It hailed facts all day long so very hard, and life in general was opened to her as such a closely ruled ciphering-book, that assuredly she would have run away, but for only one restraint. It is lamentable to think of; but this restraint was the result of no arithmetical process, was self-imposed in defiance of all calculation, and went dead against any table of probabilities that any Actuary would have drawn up from the premises. The girl believed that her father had not deserted her; she lived in the hope that he would come back, and in the faith that he would be made the happier by her remaining where she was. The wretched ignorance with which Jupe clung to this consolation, rejecting the superior comfort of knowing, on a sound arithmetical basis, that her father was an unnatural vagabond, filled Mr. Gradgrind with pity. Yet, what was to be done? M'Choakumchild reported that she had a very dense head for figures; that, once possessed with a general idea of the globe, she took the smallest conceivable interest in its exact measurements; that she was extremely slow in the acquisition of dates, unless some pitiful incident happened to be connected therewith; that she would burst into tears on being required (by the mental process) immediately to name the cost of two hundred and forty-seven muslin caps at fourteen-pence halfpenny; that she was as low down, in the school, as low could be; that after eight weeks of induction into the elements of Political Economy, she had only yesterday been set right by a prattler three feet high, for returning to the question, "What is the first principle of this science?" the absurd answer, "To do unto others as I would that they should do unto me." Mr. Gradgrind observed, shaking his head, that all this was very bad; that it showed the necessity of infinite grinding at the mill of knowledge, as per system, schedule, blue book, report, and tabular statements A to Z; and that Jupe "must be kept to it." So Jupe was kept to it, and became low-spirited, but no wiser. "It would be a fine thing to be you, Miss Louisa!" she said, one night, when Louisa had endeavoured to make her perplexities for next day something clearer to her. "Do you think so?" "I should know so much, Miss Louisa. All that is difficult to me now, would be so easy then." "You might not be the better for it, Sissy." Sissy submitted, after a little hesitation, "I should not be the worse, Miss Louisa." To which Miss Louisa answered, "I don't know that." There had been so little communication between these two both because life at Stone Lodge went monotonously round like a piece of machinery which discouraged human interference, and because of the prohibition relative to Sissy's past career that they were still almost strangers. Sissy, with her dark eyes wonderingly directed to Louisa's face, was uncertain whether to say more or to remain silent. "You are more useful to my mother, and more pleasant with her than I can ever be," Louisa resumed. "You are pleasanter to yourself, than _I_ am to _my_self." "But, if you please, Miss Louisa," Sissy pleaded, "I am O so stupid!" Louisa, with a brighter laugh than usual, told her she would be wiser by-and-by. "You don't know," said Sissy, half crying, "what a stupid girl I am. All through school hours I make mistakes. Mr. and Mrs. M'Choakumchild call me up, over and over again, regularly to make mistakes. I can't help them. They seem to come natural to me." "Mr. and Mrs. M'Choakumchild never make any mistakes themselves, I suppose, Sissy?" "O no!" she eagerly returned. "They know everything." "Tell me some of your mistakes." "I am almost ashamed," said Sissy, with reluctance. "But to-day, for instance, Mr. M'Choakumchild was explaining to us about Natural Prosperity." "National, I think it must have been," observed Louisa. "Yes, it was. But isn't it the same?" she timidly asked. "You had better say, National, as he said so," returned Louisa, with her dry reserve. "National Prosperity. And he said, Now, this schoolroom is a Nation. And in this nation, there are fifty millions of money. Isn't this a prosperous nation? Girl number twenty, isn't this a prosperous nation, and a'n't you in a thriving state?" "What did you say?" asked Louisa. "Miss Louisa, I said I didn't know. I thought I couldn't know whether it was a prosperous nation or not, and whether I was in a thriving state or not, unless
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one thing to be said of it," returned Tom, pushing his chair from him, and standing up; "it will be getting away from home." "There is one thing to be said of it," Louisa repeated in her former curious tone; "it will be getting away from home. Yes." "Not but what I shall be very unwilling, both to leave you, Loo, and to leave you here. But I must go, you know, whether I like it or not; and I had better go where I can take with me some advantage of your influence, than where I should lose it altogether. Don't you see?" "Yes, Tom." The answer was so long in coming, though there was no indecision in it, that Tom went and leaned on the back of her chair, to contemplate the fire which so engrossed her, from her point of view, and see what he could make of it. "Except that it is a fire," said Tom, "it looks to me as stupid and blank as everything else looks. What do you see in it? Not a circus?" "I don't see anything in it, Tom, particularly. But since I have been looking at it, I have been wondering about you and me, grown up." "Wondering again!" said Tom. "I have such unmanageable thoughts," returned his sister, "that they _will_ wonder." "Then I beg of you, Louisa," said Mrs. Gradgrind, who had opened the door without being heard, "to do nothing of that description, for goodness' sake, you inconsiderate girl, or I shall never hear the last of it from your father. And, Thomas, it is really shameful, with my poor head continually wearing me out, that a boy brought up as you have been, and whose education has cost what yours has, should be found encouraging his sister to wonder, when he knows his father has expressly said that she is not to do it." Louisa denied Tom's participation in the offence; but her mother stopped her with the conclusive answer, "Louisa, don't tell me, in my state of health; for unless you had been encouraged, it is morally and physically impossible that you could have done it." "I was encouraged by nothing, mother, but by looking at the red sparks dropping out of the fire, and whitening and dying. It made me think, after all, how short my life would be, and how little I could hope to do in it." "Nonsense!" said Mrs. Gradgrind, rendered almost energetic. "Nonsense! Don't stand there and tell me such stuff, Louisa, to my face, when you know very well that if it was ever to reach your father's ears I should never hear the last of it. After all the trouble that has been taken with you! After the lectures you have attended, and the experiments you have seen! After I have heard you myself, when the whole of my right side has been benumbed, going on with your master about combustion, and calcination, and calorification, and I may say every kind of ation that could drive a poor invalid distracted, to hear you talking in this absurd way about sparks and ashes! I wish," whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, taking a chair, and discharging her strongest point before succumbing under these mere shadows of facts,<|quote|>"yes, I really _do_ wish that I had never had a family, and then you would have known what it was to do without me!"</|quote|>CHAPTER IX SISSY'S PROGRESS SISSY JUPE had not an easy time of it, between Mr. M'Choakumchild and Mrs. Gradgrind, and was not without strong impulses, in the first months of her probation, to run away. It hailed facts all day long so very hard, and life in general was opened to her as such a closely ruled ciphering-book, that assuredly she would have run away, but for only one restraint. It is lamentable to think of; but this restraint was the result of no arithmetical process, was self-imposed in defiance of all calculation, and went dead against any table of probabilities that any Actuary would have drawn up from the premises. The girl believed that her father had not deserted her; she lived in the hope that he would come back, and in the faith that he would be made the happier by her remaining where she was. The wretched ignorance with which Jupe clung to this consolation, rejecting the superior comfort of knowing, on a sound arithmetical basis, that her father was an unnatural vagabond, filled Mr. Gradgrind with pity. Yet, what was to be done? M'Choakumchild reported that she had a very dense head for figures; that, once possessed with a general idea of the globe, she took the smallest conceivable interest in its exact measurements; that she was extremely slow in the acquisition of dates, unless some pitiful incident happened to be connected therewith; that she would burst into tears on being required (by the mental process) immediately to name the cost of two hundred and forty-seven muslin caps at fourteen-pence halfpenny; that she was as low down, in the school, as low could be; that after eight weeks of induction into the elements of Political Economy, she had only yesterday been set right by a prattler three feet high, for returning to the question, "What is the first principle of this science?" the absurd answer, "To do unto others as I would that they should do unto me." Mr. Gradgrind observed, shaking his head, that all this was very bad; that it showed the necessity of infinite grinding at the mill of knowledge, as per system, schedule, blue book, report, and
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Hard Times
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"It s nothing."
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Lilia
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and anxious, but not contrite.<|quote|>"It s nothing."</|quote|>She went in and tore
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watching her for hours, puzzled and anxious, but not contrite.<|quote|>"It s nothing."</|quote|>She went in and tore it up, and then began
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again forbidding direct communication between mother and daughter, and concluding with formal condolences. It nearly drove her mad. "Gently! gently!" said her husband. They were sitting together on the loggia when the letter arrived. He often sat with her now, watching her for hours, puzzled and anxious, but not contrite.<|quote|>"It s nothing."</|quote|>She went in and tore it up, and then began to write--a very short letter, whose gist was "Come and save me." It is not good to see your wife crying when she writes--especially if you are conscious that, on the whole, your treatment of her has been reasonable and
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bless you, my dearest, and save you. God bless your miserable mother." Fortunately Mrs. Herriton was in when the letter arrived. She seized it and opened it in her bedroom. Another moment, and Irma s placid childhood would have been destroyed for ever. Lilia received a brief note from Harriet, again forbidding direct communication between mother and daughter, and concluding with formal condolences. It nearly drove her mad. "Gently! gently!" said her husband. They were sitting together on the loggia when the letter arrived. He often sat with her now, watching her for hours, puzzled and anxious, but not contrite.<|quote|>"It s nothing."</|quote|>She went in and tore it up, and then began to write--a very short letter, whose gist was "Come and save me." It is not good to see your wife crying when she writes--especially if you are conscious that, on the whole, your treatment of her has been reasonable and kind. It is not good, when you accidentally look over her shoulder, to see that she is writing to a man. Nor should she shake her fist at you when she leaves the room, under the impression that you are engaged in lighting a cigar and cannot see her. Lilia
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his character, enumerating his iniquities, reporting whole conversations, tracing all the causes and the growth of her misery. She was beside herself with passion, and though she could hardly think or see, she suddenly attained to magnificence and pathos which a practised stylist might have envied. It was written like a diary, and not till its conclusion did she realize for whom it was meant. "Irma, darling Irma, this letter is for you. I almost forgot I have a daughter. It will make you unhappy, but I want you to know everything, and you cannot learn things too soon. God bless you, my dearest, and save you. God bless your miserable mother." Fortunately Mrs. Herriton was in when the letter arrived. She seized it and opened it in her bedroom. Another moment, and Irma s placid childhood would have been destroyed for ever. Lilia received a brief note from Harriet, again forbidding direct communication between mother and daughter, and concluding with formal condolences. It nearly drove her mad. "Gently! gently!" said her husband. They were sitting together on the loggia when the letter arrived. He often sat with her now, watching her for hours, puzzled and anxious, but not contrite.<|quote|>"It s nothing."</|quote|>She went in and tore it up, and then began to write--a very short letter, whose gist was "Come and save me." It is not good to see your wife crying when she writes--especially if you are conscious that, on the whole, your treatment of her has been reasonable and kind. It is not good, when you accidentally look over her shoulder, to see that she is writing to a man. Nor should she shake her fist at you when she leaves the room, under the impression that you are engaged in lighting a cigar and cannot see her. Lilia went to the post herself. But in Italy so many things can be arranged. The postman was a friend of Gino s, and Mr. Kingcroft never got his letter. So she gave up hope, became ill, and all through the autumn lay in bed. Gino was distracted. She knew why; he wanted a son. He could talk and think of nothing else. His one desire was to become the father of a man like himself, and it held him with a grip he only partially understood, for it was the first great desire, the first great passion of his life.
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be enough to set things straight. His wife was a very ordinary woman, and why should her ideas differ from his own? No one realized that more than personalities were engaged; that the struggle was national; that generations of ancestors, good, bad, or indifferent, forbad the Latin man to be chivalrous to the northern woman, the northern woman to forgive the Latin man. All this might have been foreseen: Mrs. Herriton foresaw it from the first. Meanwhile Lilia prided herself on her high personal standard, and Gino simply wondered why she did not come round. He hated discomfort and yearned for sympathy, but shrank from mentioning his difficulties in the town in case they were put down to his own incompetence. Spiridione was told, and replied in a philosophical but not very helpful letter. His other great friend, whom he trusted more, was still serving in Eritrea or some other desolate outpost. And, besides, what was the good of letters? Friends cannot travel through the post. Lilia, so similar to her husband in many ways, yearned for comfort and sympathy too. The night he laughed at her she wildly took up paper and pen and wrote page after page, analysing his character, enumerating his iniquities, reporting whole conversations, tracing all the causes and the growth of her misery. She was beside herself with passion, and though she could hardly think or see, she suddenly attained to magnificence and pathos which a practised stylist might have envied. It was written like a diary, and not till its conclusion did she realize for whom it was meant. "Irma, darling Irma, this letter is for you. I almost forgot I have a daughter. It will make you unhappy, but I want you to know everything, and you cannot learn things too soon. God bless you, my dearest, and save you. God bless your miserable mother." Fortunately Mrs. Herriton was in when the letter arrived. She seized it and opened it in her bedroom. Another moment, and Irma s placid childhood would have been destroyed for ever. Lilia received a brief note from Harriet, again forbidding direct communication between mother and daughter, and concluding with formal condolences. It nearly drove her mad. "Gently! gently!" said her husband. They were sitting together on the loggia when the letter arrived. He often sat with her now, watching her for hours, puzzled and anxious, but not contrite.<|quote|>"It s nothing."</|quote|>She went in and tore it up, and then began to write--a very short letter, whose gist was "Come and save me." It is not good to see your wife crying when she writes--especially if you are conscious that, on the whole, your treatment of her has been reasonable and kind. It is not good, when you accidentally look over her shoulder, to see that she is writing to a man. Nor should she shake her fist at you when she leaves the room, under the impression that you are engaged in lighting a cigar and cannot see her. Lilia went to the post herself. But in Italy so many things can be arranged. The postman was a friend of Gino s, and Mr. Kingcroft never got his letter. So she gave up hope, became ill, and all through the autumn lay in bed. Gino was distracted. She knew why; he wanted a son. He could talk and think of nothing else. His one desire was to become the father of a man like himself, and it held him with a grip he only partially understood, for it was the first great desire, the first great passion of his life. Falling in love was a mere physical triviality, like warm sun or cool water, beside this divine hope of immortality: "I continue." He gave candles to Santa Deodata, for he was always religious at a crisis, and sometimes he went to her himself and prayed the crude uncouth demands of the simple. Impetuously he summoned all his relatives back to bear him company in his time of need, and Lilia saw strange faces flitting past her in the darkened room. "My love!" he would say, "my dearest Lilia! Be calm. I have never loved any one but you." She, knowing everything, would only smile gently, too broken by suffering to make sarcastic repartees. Before the child was born he gave her a kiss, and said, "I have prayed all night for a boy." Some strangely tender impulse moved her, and she said faintly, "You are a boy yourself, Gino." He answered, "Then we shall be brothers." He lay outside the room with his head against the door like a dog. When they came to tell him the glad news they found him half unconscious, and his face was wet with tears. As for Lilia, some one said to her, "It
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thunderous, ploughing up choking clouds of moonlit dust. She did not call any more, for she felt very ill, and fainted; and when she revived she was lying in the road, with dust in her eyes, and dust in her mouth, and dust down her ears. There is something very terrible in dust at night-time. "What shall I do?" she moaned. "He will be so angry." And without further effort she slowly climbed back to captivity, shaking her garments as she went. Ill luck pursued her to the end. It was one of the nights when Gino happened to come in. He was in the kitchen, swearing and smashing plates, while Perfetta, her apron over her head, was weeping violently. At the sight of Lilia he turned upon her and poured forth a flood of miscellaneous abuse. He was far more angry but much less alarming than he had been that day when he edged after her round the table. And Lilia gained more courage from her bad conscience than she ever had from her good one, for as he spoke she was seized with indignation and feared him no longer, and saw him for a cruel, worthless, hypocritical, dissolute upstart, and spoke in return. Perfetta screamed for she told him everything--all she knew and all she thought. He stood with open mouth, all the anger gone out of him, feeling ashamed, and an utter fool. He was fairly and rightfully cornered. When had a husband so given himself away before? She finished; and he was dumb, for she had spoken truly. Then, alas! the absurdity of his own position grew upon him, and he laughed--as he would have laughed at the same situation on the stage. "You laugh?" stammered Lilia. "Ah!" he cried, "who could help it? I, who thought you knew and saw nothing--I am tricked--I am conquered. I give in. Let us talk of it no more." He touched her on the shoulder like a good comrade, half amused and half penitent, and then, murmuring and smiling to himself, ran quietly out of the room. Perfetta burst into congratulations. "What courage you have!" she cried; "and what good fortune! He is angry no longer! He has forgiven you!" Neither Perfetta, nor Gino, nor Lilia herself knew the true reason of all the misery that followed. To the end he thought that kindness and a little attention would be enough to set things straight. His wife was a very ordinary woman, and why should her ideas differ from his own? No one realized that more than personalities were engaged; that the struggle was national; that generations of ancestors, good, bad, or indifferent, forbad the Latin man to be chivalrous to the northern woman, the northern woman to forgive the Latin man. All this might have been foreseen: Mrs. Herriton foresaw it from the first. Meanwhile Lilia prided herself on her high personal standard, and Gino simply wondered why she did not come round. He hated discomfort and yearned for sympathy, but shrank from mentioning his difficulties in the town in case they were put down to his own incompetence. Spiridione was told, and replied in a philosophical but not very helpful letter. His other great friend, whom he trusted more, was still serving in Eritrea or some other desolate outpost. And, besides, what was the good of letters? Friends cannot travel through the post. Lilia, so similar to her husband in many ways, yearned for comfort and sympathy too. The night he laughed at her she wildly took up paper and pen and wrote page after page, analysing his character, enumerating his iniquities, reporting whole conversations, tracing all the causes and the growth of her misery. She was beside herself with passion, and though she could hardly think or see, she suddenly attained to magnificence and pathos which a practised stylist might have envied. It was written like a diary, and not till its conclusion did she realize for whom it was meant. "Irma, darling Irma, this letter is for you. I almost forgot I have a daughter. It will make you unhappy, but I want you to know everything, and you cannot learn things too soon. God bless you, my dearest, and save you. God bless your miserable mother." Fortunately Mrs. Herriton was in when the letter arrived. She seized it and opened it in her bedroom. Another moment, and Irma s placid childhood would have been destroyed for ever. Lilia received a brief note from Harriet, again forbidding direct communication between mother and daughter, and concluding with formal condolences. It nearly drove her mad. "Gently! gently!" said her husband. They were sitting together on the loggia when the letter arrived. He often sat with her now, watching her for hours, puzzled and anxious, but not contrite.<|quote|>"It s nothing."</|quote|>She went in and tore it up, and then began to write--a very short letter, whose gist was "Come and save me." It is not good to see your wife crying when she writes--especially if you are conscious that, on the whole, your treatment of her has been reasonable and kind. It is not good, when you accidentally look over her shoulder, to see that she is writing to a man. Nor should she shake her fist at you when she leaves the room, under the impression that you are engaged in lighting a cigar and cannot see her. Lilia went to the post herself. But in Italy so many things can be arranged. The postman was a friend of Gino s, and Mr. Kingcroft never got his letter. So she gave up hope, became ill, and all through the autumn lay in bed. Gino was distracted. She knew why; he wanted a son. He could talk and think of nothing else. His one desire was to become the father of a man like himself, and it held him with a grip he only partially understood, for it was the first great desire, the first great passion of his life. Falling in love was a mere physical triviality, like warm sun or cool water, beside this divine hope of immortality: "I continue." He gave candles to Santa Deodata, for he was always religious at a crisis, and sometimes he went to her himself and prayed the crude uncouth demands of the simple. Impetuously he summoned all his relatives back to bear him company in his time of need, and Lilia saw strange faces flitting past her in the darkened room. "My love!" he would say, "my dearest Lilia! Be calm. I have never loved any one but you." She, knowing everything, would only smile gently, too broken by suffering to make sarcastic repartees. Before the child was born he gave her a kiss, and said, "I have prayed all night for a boy." Some strangely tender impulse moved her, and she said faintly, "You are a boy yourself, Gino." He answered, "Then we shall be brothers." He lay outside the room with his head against the door like a dog. When they came to tell him the glad news they found him half unconscious, and his face was wet with tears. As for Lilia, some one said to her, "It is a beautiful boy!" But she had died in giving birth to him. Chapter 5 At the time of Lilia s death Philip Herriton was just twenty-four years of age--indeed the news reached Sawston on his birthday. He was a tall, weakly-built young man, whose clothes had to be judiciously padded on the shoulders in order to make him pass muster. His face was plain rather than not, and there was a curious mixture in it of good and bad. He had a fine forehead and a good large nose, and both observation and sympathy were in his eyes. But below the nose and eyes all was confusion, and those people who believe that destiny resides in the mouth and chin shook their heads when they looked at him. Philip himself, as a boy, had been keenly conscious of these defects. Sometimes when he had been bullied or hustled about at school he would retire to his cubicle and examine his features in a looking-glass, and he would sigh and say, "It is a weak face. I shall never carve a place for myself in the world." But as years went on he became either less self-conscious or more self-satisfied. The world, he found, made a niche for him as it did for every one. Decision of character might come later--or he might have it without knowing. At all events he had got a sense of beauty and a sense of humour, two most desirable gifts. The sense of beauty developed first. It caused him at the age of twenty to wear parti-coloured ties and a squashy hat, to be late for dinner on account of the sunset, and to catch art from Burne-Jones to Praxiteles. At twenty-two he went to Italy with some cousins, and there he absorbed into one aesthetic whole olive-trees, blue sky, frescoes, country inns, saints, peasants, mosaics, statues, beggars. He came back with the air of a prophet who would either remodel Sawston or reject it. All the energies and enthusiasms of a rather friendless life had passed into the championship of beauty. In a short time it was over. Nothing had happened either in Sawston or within himself. He had shocked half-a-dozen people, squabbled with his sister, and bickered with his mother. He concluded that nothing could happen, not knowing that human love and love of truth sometimes conquer where love of beauty fails.
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good fortune! He is angry no longer! He has forgiven you!" Neither Perfetta, nor Gino, nor Lilia herself knew the true reason of all the misery that followed. To the end he thought that kindness and a little attention would be enough to set things straight. His wife was a very ordinary woman, and why should her ideas differ from his own? No one realized that more than personalities were engaged; that the struggle was national; that generations of ancestors, good, bad, or indifferent, forbad the Latin man to be chivalrous to the northern woman, the northern woman to forgive the Latin man. All this might have been foreseen: Mrs. Herriton foresaw it from the first. Meanwhile Lilia prided herself on her high personal standard, and Gino simply wondered why she did not come round. He hated discomfort and yearned for sympathy, but shrank from mentioning his difficulties in the town in case they were put down to his own incompetence. Spiridione was told, and replied in a philosophical but not very helpful letter. His other great friend, whom he trusted more, was still serving in Eritrea or some other desolate outpost. And, besides, what was the good of letters? Friends cannot travel through the post. Lilia, so similar to her husband in many ways, yearned for comfort and sympathy too. The night he laughed at her she wildly took up paper and pen and wrote page after page, analysing his character, enumerating his iniquities, reporting whole conversations, tracing all the causes and the growth of her misery. She was beside herself with passion, and though she could hardly think or see, she suddenly attained to magnificence and pathos which a practised stylist might have envied. It was written like a diary, and not till its conclusion did she realize for whom it was meant. "Irma, darling Irma, this letter is for you. I almost forgot I have a daughter. It will make you unhappy, but I want you to know everything, and you cannot learn things too soon. God bless you, my dearest, and save you. God bless your miserable mother." Fortunately Mrs. Herriton was in when the letter arrived. She seized it and opened it in her bedroom. Another moment, and Irma s placid childhood would have been destroyed for ever. Lilia received a brief note from Harriet, again forbidding direct communication between mother and daughter, and concluding with formal condolences. It nearly drove her mad. "Gently! gently!" said her husband. They were sitting together on the loggia when the letter arrived. He often sat with her now, watching her for hours, puzzled and anxious, but not contrite.<|quote|>"It s nothing."</|quote|>She went in and tore it up, and then began to write--a very short letter, whose gist was "Come and save me." It is not good to see your wife crying when she writes--especially if you are conscious that, on the whole, your treatment of her has been reasonable and kind. It is not good, when you accidentally look over her shoulder, to see that she is writing to a man. Nor should she shake her fist at you when she leaves the room, under the impression that you are engaged in lighting a cigar and cannot see her. Lilia went to the post herself. But in Italy so many things can be arranged. The postman was a friend of Gino s, and Mr. Kingcroft never got his letter. So she gave up hope, became ill, and all through the autumn lay in bed. Gino was distracted. She knew why; he wanted a son. He could talk and think of nothing else. His one desire was to become the father of a man like himself, and it held him with a grip he only partially understood, for it was the first great desire, the first great passion of his life. Falling in love was a mere physical triviality, like warm sun or cool water, beside this divine hope of immortality: "I continue." He gave candles to Santa Deodata, for he was always religious at a crisis, and sometimes he went to her himself and prayed the crude uncouth demands of the simple. Impetuously he summoned all his relatives back to bear him company in his time of need, and Lilia saw strange faces flitting past her in the darkened room. "My love!" he would say, "my dearest Lilia! Be calm. I have never loved any one but you." She, knowing everything, would only smile gently, too broken by suffering to make sarcastic repartees. Before the child was born he gave her a kiss, and said, "I have prayed all night for a boy." Some strangely tender impulse moved her, and she said faintly, "You are a boy yourself, Gino." He answered, "Then we shall be brothers." He lay outside the room with his head against the door like a dog. When they came to tell him the glad news they found him half unconscious, and his face was wet with tears. As for Lilia, some one said to her, "It is a beautiful boy!" But she had died in giving birth to him. Chapter 5 At the time of Lilia s death Philip Herriton was just twenty-four years of age--indeed the news reached Sawston on his birthday. He was a tall, weakly-built young man, whose clothes had to be judiciously padded on the shoulders in order to make him pass muster. His face was plain rather than not, and there was a curious mixture in it of good and bad. He had a fine forehead and a good large nose, and both observation and sympathy were in his eyes. But
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Where Angels Fear To Tread
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inquired the voice.
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No speaker
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Oliver. "How old are yer?"<|quote|>inquired the voice.</|quote|>"Ten, sir," replied Oliver. "Then
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the key-hole. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver. "How old are yer?"<|quote|>inquired the voice.</|quote|>"Ten, sir," replied Oliver. "Then I'll whop yer when I
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yer?" cried the voice which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the door. "I will, directly, sir," replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning the key. "I suppose yer the new boy, ain't yer?" said the voice through the key-hole. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver. "How old are yer?"<|quote|>inquired the voice.</|quote|>"Ten, sir," replied Oliver. "Then I'll whop yer when I get in," said the voice; "you just see if I don't, that's all, my work'us brat!" and having made this obliging promise, the voice began to whistle. Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very
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in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of the shop-door: which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was repeated, in an angry and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times. When he began to undo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voice began. "Open the door, will yer?" cried the voice which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the door. "I will, directly, sir," replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning the key. "I suppose yer the new boy, ain't yer?" said the voice through the key-hole. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver. "How old are yer?"<|quote|>inquired the voice.</|quote|>"Ten, sir," replied Oliver. "Then I'll whop yer when I get in," said the voice; "you just see if I don't, that's all, my work'us brat!" and having made this obliging promise, the voice began to whistle. Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very expressive monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the smallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would redeem his pledge, most honourably. He drew back the bolts with a trembling hand, and opened the door. For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street,
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The boy had no friends to care for, or to care for him. The regret of no recent separation was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart. But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as he crept into his narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could be lain in a calm and lasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the tall grass waving gently above his head, and the sound of the old deep bell to soothe him in his sleep. Oliver was awakened in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of the shop-door: which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was repeated, in an angry and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times. When he began to undo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voice began. "Open the door, will yer?" cried the voice which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the door. "I will, directly, sir," replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning the key. "I suppose yer the new boy, ain't yer?" said the voice through the key-hole. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver. "How old are yer?"<|quote|>inquired the voice.</|quote|>"Ten, sir," replied Oliver. "Then I'll whop yer when I get in," said the voice; "you just see if I don't, that's all, my work'us brat!" and having made this obliging promise, the voice began to whistle. Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very expressive monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the smallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would redeem his pledge, most honourably. He drew back the bolts with a trembling hand, and opened the door. For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the street, and over the way: impressed with the belief that the unknown, who had addressed him through the key-hole, had walked a few paces off, to warm himself; for nobody did he see but a big charity-boy, sitting on a post in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter: which he cut into wedges, the size of his mouth, with a clasp-knife, and then consumed with great dexterity. "I beg your pardon, sir," said Oliver at length: seeing that no other visitor made his appearance; "did you knock?" "I kicked," replied the charity-boy.
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of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal object: from which he almost expected to see some frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with terror. Against the wall were ranged, in regular array, a long row of elm boards cut in the same shape: looking in the dim light, like high-shouldered ghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets. Coffin-plates, elm-chips, bright-headed nails, and shreds of black cloth, lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behind the counter was ornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very stiff neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearse drawn by four black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close and hot. The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The recess beneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust, looked like a grave. Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was alone in a strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the best of us will sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no friends to care for, or to care for him. The regret of no recent separation was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart. But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as he crept into his narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could be lain in a calm and lasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the tall grass waving gently above his head, and the sound of the old deep bell to soothe him in his sleep. Oliver was awakened in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of the shop-door: which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was repeated, in an angry and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times. When he began to undo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voice began. "Open the door, will yer?" cried the voice which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the door. "I will, directly, sir," replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning the key. "I suppose yer the new boy, ain't yer?" said the voice through the key-hole. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver. "How old are yer?"<|quote|>inquired the voice.</|quote|>"Ten, sir," replied Oliver. "Then I'll whop yer when I get in," said the voice; "you just see if I don't, that's all, my work'us brat!" and having made this obliging promise, the voice began to whistle. Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very expressive monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the smallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would redeem his pledge, most honourably. He drew back the bolts with a trembling hand, and opened the door. For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the street, and over the way: impressed with the belief that the unknown, who had addressed him through the key-hole, had walked a few paces off, to warm himself; for nobody did he see but a big charity-boy, sitting on a post in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter: which he cut into wedges, the size of his mouth, with a clasp-knife, and then consumed with great dexterity. "I beg your pardon, sir," said Oliver at length: seeing that no other visitor made his appearance; "did you knock?" "I kicked," replied the charity-boy. "Did you want a coffin, sir?" inquired Oliver, innocently. At this, the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce; and said that Oliver would want one before long, if he cut jokes with his superiors in that way. "Yer don't know who I am, I suppose, Work'us?" said the charity-boy, in continuation: descending from the top of the post, meanwhile, with edifying gravity. "No, sir," rejoined Oliver. "I'm Mister Noah Claypole," said the charity-boy, "and you're under me. Take down the shutters, yer idle young ruffian!" With this, Mr. Claypole administered a kick to Oliver, and entered the shop with a dignified air, which did him great credit. It is difficult for a large-headed, small-eyed youth, of lumbering make and heavy countenance, to look dignified under any circumstances; but it is more especially so, when superadded to these personal attractions are a red nose and yellow smalls. Oliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in his effort to stagger away beneath the weight of the first one to a small court at the side of the house in which they were kept during the day, was graciously assisted by Noah: who having consoled him with the assurance that
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down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated "kitchen"; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair. "Here, Charlotte," said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, "give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn't come home since the morning, so he may go without 'em. I dare say the boy isn't too dainty to eat 'em are you, boy?" Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him. I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should like better; and that would be to see the Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish. "Well," said the undertaker's wife, when Oliver had finished his supper: which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite: "have you done?" There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative. "Then come with me," said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs; "your bed's under the counter. You don't mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn't much matter whether you do or don't, for you can't sleep anywhere else. Come; don't keep me here all night!" Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress. CHAPTER V. OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER'S BUSINESS Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker's shop, set the lamp down on a workman's bench, and gazed timidly about him with a feeling of awe and dread, which many people a good deal older than he will be at no loss to understand. An unfinished coffin on black tressels, which stood in the middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal object: from which he almost expected to see some frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with terror. Against the wall were ranged, in regular array, a long row of elm boards cut in the same shape: looking in the dim light, like high-shouldered ghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets. Coffin-plates, elm-chips, bright-headed nails, and shreds of black cloth, lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behind the counter was ornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very stiff neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearse drawn by four black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close and hot. The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The recess beneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust, looked like a grave. Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was alone in a strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the best of us will sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no friends to care for, or to care for him. The regret of no recent separation was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart. But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as he crept into his narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could be lain in a calm and lasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the tall grass waving gently above his head, and the sound of the old deep bell to soothe him in his sleep. Oliver was awakened in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of the shop-door: which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was repeated, in an angry and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times. When he began to undo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voice began. "Open the door, will yer?" cried the voice which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the door. "I will, directly, sir," replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning the key. "I suppose yer the new boy, ain't yer?" said the voice through the key-hole. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver. "How old are yer?"<|quote|>inquired the voice.</|quote|>"Ten, sir," replied Oliver. "Then I'll whop yer when I get in," said the voice; "you just see if I don't, that's all, my work'us brat!" and having made this obliging promise, the voice began to whistle. Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very expressive monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the smallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would redeem his pledge, most honourably. He drew back the bolts with a trembling hand, and opened the door. For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the street, and over the way: impressed with the belief that the unknown, who had addressed him through the key-hole, had walked a few paces off, to warm himself; for nobody did he see but a big charity-boy, sitting on a post in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter: which he cut into wedges, the size of his mouth, with a clasp-knife, and then consumed with great dexterity. "I beg your pardon, sir," said Oliver at length: seeing that no other visitor made his appearance; "did you knock?" "I kicked," replied the charity-boy. "Did you want a coffin, sir?" inquired Oliver, innocently. At this, the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce; and said that Oliver would want one before long, if he cut jokes with his superiors in that way. "Yer don't know who I am, I suppose, Work'us?" said the charity-boy, in continuation: descending from the top of the post, meanwhile, with edifying gravity. "No, sir," rejoined Oliver. "I'm Mister Noah Claypole," said the charity-boy, "and you're under me. Take down the shutters, yer idle young ruffian!" With this, Mr. Claypole administered a kick to Oliver, and entered the shop with a dignified air, which did him great credit. It is difficult for a large-headed, small-eyed youth, of lumbering make and heavy countenance, to look dignified under any circumstances; but it is more especially so, when superadded to these personal attractions are a red nose and yellow smalls. Oliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in his effort to stagger away beneath the weight of the first one to a small court at the side of the house in which they were kept during the day, was graciously assisted by Noah: who having consoled him with the assurance that "he'd catch it," condescended to help him. Mr. Sowerberry came down soon after. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Sowerberry appeared. Oliver having "caught it," in fulfilment of Noah's prediction, followed that young gentleman down the stairs to breakfast. "Come near the fire, Noah," said Charlotte. "I saved a nice little bit of bacon for you from master's breakfast. Oliver, shut that door at Mister Noah's back, and take them bits that I've put out on the cover of the bread-pan. There's your tea; take it away to that box, and drink it there, and make haste, for they'll want you to mind the shop. D'ye hear?" "D'ye hear, Work'us?" said Noah Claypole. "Lor, Noah!" said Charlotte, "what a rum creature you are! Why don't you let the boy alone?" "Let him alone!" said Noah. "Why everybody lets him alone enough, for the matter of that. Neither his father nor his mother will ever interfere with him. All his relations let him have his own way pretty well. Eh, Charlotte? He! he! he!" "Oh, you queer soul!" said Charlotte, bursting into a hearty laugh, in which she was joined by Noah; after which they both looked scornfully at poor Oliver Twist, as he sat shivering on the box in the coldest corner of the room, and ate the stale pieces which had been specially reserved for him. Noah was a charity-boy, but not a workhouse orphan. No chance-child was he, for he could trace his genealogy all the way back to his parents, who lived hard by; his mother being a washerwoman, and his father a drunken soldier, discharged with a wooden leg, and a diurnal pension of twopence-halfpenny and an unstateable fraction. The shop-boys in the neighbourhood had long been in the habit of branding Noah in the public streets, with the ignominious epithets of "leathers," "charity," and the like; and Noah had bourne them without reply. But, now that fortune had cast in his way a nameless orphan, at whom even the meanest could point the finger of scorn, he retorted on him with interest. This affords charming food for contemplation. It shows us what a beautiful thing human nature may be made to be; and how impartially the same amiable qualities are developed in the finest lord and the dirtiest charity-boy. Oliver had been sojourning at the undertaker's some three weeks or a month. Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry the shop
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dread, which many people a good deal older than he will be at no loss to understand. An unfinished coffin on black tressels, which stood in the middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal object: from which he almost expected to see some frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with terror. Against the wall were ranged, in regular array, a long row of elm boards cut in the same shape: looking in the dim light, like high-shouldered ghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets. Coffin-plates, elm-chips, bright-headed nails, and shreds of black cloth, lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behind the counter was ornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very stiff neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearse drawn by four black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close and hot. The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The recess beneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust, looked like a grave. Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was alone in a strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the best of us will sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no friends to care for, or to care for him. The regret of no recent separation was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart. But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as he crept into his narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could be lain in a calm and lasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the tall grass waving gently above his head, and the sound of the old deep bell to soothe him in his sleep. Oliver was awakened in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of the shop-door: which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was repeated, in an angry and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times. When he began to undo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voice began. "Open the door, will yer?" cried the voice which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the door. "I will, directly, sir," replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning the key. "I suppose yer the new boy, ain't yer?" said the voice through the key-hole. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver. "How old are yer?"<|quote|>inquired the voice.</|quote|>"Ten, sir," replied Oliver. "Then I'll whop yer when I get in," said the voice; "you just see if I don't, that's all, my work'us brat!" and having made this obliging promise, the voice began to whistle. Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very expressive monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the smallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would redeem his pledge, most honourably. He drew back the bolts with a trembling hand, and opened the door. For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the street, and over the way: impressed with the belief that the unknown, who had addressed him through the key-hole, had walked a few paces off, to warm himself; for nobody did he see but a big charity-boy, sitting on a post in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter: which he cut into wedges, the size of his mouth, with a clasp-knife, and then consumed with great dexterity. "I beg your pardon, sir," said Oliver at length: seeing that no other visitor made his appearance; "did you knock?" "I kicked," replied the charity-boy. "Did you want a coffin, sir?" inquired Oliver, innocently. At this, the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce; and said that Oliver would want one before long, if he cut jokes with his superiors in that way. "Yer don't know who I am, I suppose, Work'us?" said the charity-boy, in continuation: descending from the top of the post, meanwhile, with edifying gravity. "No, sir," rejoined Oliver. "I'm Mister Noah Claypole," said the charity-boy, "and you're under me. Take down the shutters, yer idle young ruffian!" With this, Mr. Claypole administered a kick to Oliver, and entered the shop with a dignified air, which did him great credit. It is difficult for a large-headed, small-eyed youth, of lumbering make and heavy countenance, to look dignified under any circumstances; but it is more especially so, when superadded to these personal attractions are a red nose and yellow smalls. Oliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in his effort
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Oliver Twist
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cried Bull,
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No speaker
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professor, staring. "You blind bat,"<|quote|>cried Bull,</|quote|>"don't you see who is
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do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat,"<|quote|>cried Bull,</|quote|>"don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again,
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were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat,"<|quote|>cried Bull,</|quote|>"don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!" There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to
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or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat,"<|quote|>cried Bull,</|quote|>"don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!" There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand. "What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out
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as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, and lit it like a burning chariot. But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said, "It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street." "Well, if there is," said Bull impatiently, "it must be something else a sham fight or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat,"<|quote|>cried Bull,</|quote|>"don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!" There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand. "What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went
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in the field beyond this street are the Gendarmerie. We shall soon get there." "No," said Inspector Ratcliffe, "we shall never get there." He had been standing up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture. "What do you mean?" asked Bull sharply. "I mean that we shall never get there," said the pessimist placidly. "They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them from here. The town is in arms, as I said it was. I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude." And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea. The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, and lit it like a burning chariot. But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said, "It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street." "Well, if there is," said Bull impatiently, "it must be something else a sham fight or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat,"<|quote|>cried Bull,</|quote|>"don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!" There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand. "What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but
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good sense and optimism broke suddenly out of him. "Oh, this is all raving nonsense!" he cried. "If you really think that ordinary people in ordinary houses are anarchists, you must be madder than an anarchist yourself. If we turned and fought these fellows, the whole town would fight for us." "No," said the other with an immovable simplicity, "the whole town would fight for them. We shall see." While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement. "What is that noise?" he said. "Oh, the horses behind us, I suppose," said the Colonel. "I thought we had got clear of them." "The horses behind us! No," said the Professor, "it is not horses, and it is not behind us." Almost as he spoke, across the end of the street before them two shining and rattling shapes shot past. They were gone almost in a flash, but everyone could see that they were motor-cars, and the Professor stood up with a pale face and swore that they were the other two motor-cars from Dr. Renard's garage. "I tell you they were his," he repeated, with wild eyes, "and they were full of men in masks!" "Absurd!" said the Colonel angrily. "Dr. Renard would never give them his cars." "He may have been forced," said Ratcliffe quietly. "The whole town is on their side." "You still believe that," asked the Colonel incredulously. "You will all believe it soon," said the other with a hopeless calm. There was a puzzled pause for some little time, and then the Colonel began again abruptly "No, I can't believe it. The thing is nonsense. The plain people of a peaceable French town" He was cut short by a bang and a blaze of light, which seemed close to his eyes. As the car sped on it left a floating patch of white smoke behind it, and Syme had heard a shot shriek past his ear. "My God!" said the Colonel, "someone has shot at us." "It need not interrupt conversation," said the gloomy Ratcliffe. "Pray resume your remarks, Colonel. You were talking, I think, about the plain people of a peaceable French town." The staring Colonel was long past minding satire. He rolled his eyes all round the street. "It is extraordinary," he said, "most extraordinary." "A fastidious person," said Syme, "might even call it unpleasant. However, I suppose those lights out in the field beyond this street are the Gendarmerie. We shall soon get there." "No," said Inspector Ratcliffe, "we shall never get there." He had been standing up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture. "What do you mean?" asked Bull sharply. "I mean that we shall never get there," said the pessimist placidly. "They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them from here. The town is in arms, as I said it was. I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude." And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea. The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, and lit it like a burning chariot. But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said, "It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street." "Well, if there is," said Bull impatiently, "it must be something else a sham fight or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat,"<|quote|>cried Bull,</|quote|>"don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!" There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand. "What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!" The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried, "the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head" "Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat." "I tell you it can't be!" cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull's hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them." "I won't 'ave it," said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. "The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance." "Shall we go back, then?" asked the Professor. "No," said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, "the street behind us is held too. In fact,
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Colonel, "someone has shot at us." "It need not interrupt conversation," said the gloomy Ratcliffe. "Pray resume your remarks, Colonel. You were talking, I think, about the plain people of a peaceable French town." The staring Colonel was long past minding satire. He rolled his eyes all round the street. "It is extraordinary," he said, "most extraordinary." "A fastidious person," said Syme, "might even call it unpleasant. However, I suppose those lights out in the field beyond this street are the Gendarmerie. We shall soon get there." "No," said Inspector Ratcliffe, "we shall never get there." He had been standing up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture. "What do you mean?" asked Bull sharply. "I mean that we shall never get there," said the pessimist placidly. "They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them from here. The town is in arms, as I said it was. I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude." And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea. The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, and lit it like a burning chariot. But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said, "It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street." "Well, if there is," said Bull impatiently, "it must be something else a sham fight or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat,"<|quote|>cried Bull,</|quote|>"don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!" There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand. "What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!"
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The Man Who Was Thursday
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said Tony.
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No speaker
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again." "Nothing much has happened,"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"We've missed you. What did
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had worms is quite well again." "Nothing much has happened,"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"We've missed you. What did you find to do in
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as anything and he sat quite still and then went away into the wood and I began drawing a picture of a battle only I couldn't finish it because the paints weren't right and the grey carthorse the one that had worms is quite well again." "Nothing much has happened,"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?" "Me? Oh, I've been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed.
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and Thunderclap and I jumped it six times yesterday and six times again to-day and two more of the fish in the little pond are dead, floating upside down all swollen and nanny burnt her finger on the kettle yesterday and daddy and I saw a fox just as near as anything and he sat quite still and then went away into the wood and I began drawing a picture of a battle only I couldn't finish it because the paints weren't right and the grey carthorse the one that had worms is quite well again." "Nothing much has happened,"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?" "Me? Oh, I've been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing." "What's that?" "No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all." "You've bought a Pekingese." "Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I _want_ to dreadfully." "Go on." "Tony, I've found a flat." "Well, you'd better lose
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she give him a hiding." Presently the train came in and Brenda emerged exquisitely from her third-class carriage. "You've _both_ come. What angels you are. I don't at all deserve it." "Oh, mummy, have you brought the monkey-lady?" "What _does_ the child mean?" "He's got it into his head that your chum Polly has a tail." "Come to think of it, I shouldn't be surprised if she had." Two little cases held all her luggage. The chauffeur strapped them on behind the car, and they drove to Hetton. "What's all the news?" "Ben's put the rail up ever so high and Thunderclap and I jumped it six times yesterday and six times again to-day and two more of the fish in the little pond are dead, floating upside down all swollen and nanny burnt her finger on the kettle yesterday and daddy and I saw a fox just as near as anything and he sat quite still and then went away into the wood and I began drawing a picture of a battle only I couldn't finish it because the paints weren't right and the grey carthorse the one that had worms is quite well again." "Nothing much has happened,"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?" "Me? Oh, I've been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing." "What's that?" "No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all." "You've bought a Pekingese." "Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I _want_ to dreadfully." "Go on." "Tony, I've found a flat." "Well, you'd better lose it again, quick." "All right. I'll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile, try not to brood about it." "I shan't give it another thought." "What's a flat, daddy?" * * * * * Brenda wore pyjamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup. "I suppose all this means that you're going to start again about your flat?" "Mmmm." "You haven't signed any papers yet, have you?" "Oh no." Brenda shook her head emphatically. "Then no great harm's done." Tony began to fill his pipe. Brenda knelt
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sitting some way from her and they did not speak to each other until everyone was going. "I kept trying to get through to you this morning," he said, "but the line was always engaged." "Oh, come on," said Brenda, "I'll sock you a movie." Later she wired to Tony: _Staying with Marjorie another day or two all love to you both_. [IV] "Is mummy coming back to-day?" "I hope so." "That monkey-woman's party has lasted a long time. Can I come in to the station and meet her?" "Yes, we'll both go." "She hasn't seen Thunderclap for four days. She hasn't seen me jump the new post and rail, has she, daddy?" She was coming by the 3.18. Tony and John Andrew were there early. They wandered about the station looking at things, and bought some chocolate from a slot machine. The stationmaster came out to talk to them. "Her ladyship coming back to-day?" He was an old friend of Tony's. "I've been expecting her every day. You know what it is when ladies get to London." "Sam Brace's wife went to London and he couldn't get her back. Had to go up and fetch her himself. And then she give him a hiding." Presently the train came in and Brenda emerged exquisitely from her third-class carriage. "You've _both_ come. What angels you are. I don't at all deserve it." "Oh, mummy, have you brought the monkey-lady?" "What _does_ the child mean?" "He's got it into his head that your chum Polly has a tail." "Come to think of it, I shouldn't be surprised if she had." Two little cases held all her luggage. The chauffeur strapped them on behind the car, and they drove to Hetton. "What's all the news?" "Ben's put the rail up ever so high and Thunderclap and I jumped it six times yesterday and six times again to-day and two more of the fish in the little pond are dead, floating upside down all swollen and nanny burnt her finger on the kettle yesterday and daddy and I saw a fox just as near as anything and he sat quite still and then went away into the wood and I began drawing a picture of a battle only I couldn't finish it because the paints weren't right and the grey carthorse the one that had worms is quite well again." "Nothing much has happened,"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?" "Me? Oh, I've been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing." "What's that?" "No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all." "You've bought a Pekingese." "Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I _want_ to dreadfully." "Go on." "Tony, I've found a flat." "Well, you'd better lose it again, quick." "All right. I'll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile, try not to brood about it." "I shan't give it another thought." "What's a flat, daddy?" * * * * * Brenda wore pyjamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup. "I suppose all this means that you're going to start again about your flat?" "Mmmm." "You haven't signed any papers yet, have you?" "Oh no." Brenda shook her head emphatically. "Then no great harm's done." Tony began to fill his pipe. Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. "Listen, you haven't been brooding?" "No." "Because, you see, when you say 'flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. _You_ mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her
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Conservative Central Office, to say how sorry he had been not to get to the party the night before. "I hear Brenda disgraced herself," he said. "Goodness," said Brenda. "People do think that young men are easily come by." * * * * * "I scarcely saw you at Polly's last night," said Mrs Beaver. "What became of you?" "We went early. Brenda Last was tired." "She was looking lovely. I am so glad you've made friends with her. When are you going to see her again?" "I said I'd ring up." "Well, why don't you?" "Oh, mumsy, what's the use? I can't afford to start taking about women like Brenda Last. If I ring up she'll say, what are you doing, and I shall have to ask her to something, and it will be the same thing every day. I simply haven't the money." "I know, my son. It's very difficult for you... and you're wonderful about money. I ought to be grateful that I haven't a son always coming to me with debts. Still, it doesn't do to deny yourself _everything_, you know. You're getting to be an old bachelor already at twenty-five. I could see Brenda liked you, that evening she came here." "Oh, she likes me all right." "I hope she makes up her mind about that flat. They're going like hot cakes. I shall have to look about for another suitable house to split up. You'd be surprised who've been taking them--quite a number of people with houses in London already... Well, I must be getting back to work. I'm away for two nights by the way. See that Chambers looks after you properly. There are some Australians Sylvia Newport discovered who want to take a house in the country, so I'm driving them round to one or two that might do for them. Where are you lunching?" "Margot's." By one o'clock, when they came back from taking Djinn to the park, Beaver had not rung up. "So that's that," said Brenda, "I daresay I'm glad really." She sent a telegram to Tony to expect her by the afternoon train and, in a small voice, ordered her things to be packed. "I don't seem to have anywhere to lunch," she said. "Why don't you come to Margot's? I know she'd love it." "Well, ring up and ask her." So she met Beaver again. He was sitting some way from her and they did not speak to each other until everyone was going. "I kept trying to get through to you this morning," he said, "but the line was always engaged." "Oh, come on," said Brenda, "I'll sock you a movie." Later she wired to Tony: _Staying with Marjorie another day or two all love to you both_. [IV] "Is mummy coming back to-day?" "I hope so." "That monkey-woman's party has lasted a long time. Can I come in to the station and meet her?" "Yes, we'll both go." "She hasn't seen Thunderclap for four days. She hasn't seen me jump the new post and rail, has she, daddy?" She was coming by the 3.18. Tony and John Andrew were there early. They wandered about the station looking at things, and bought some chocolate from a slot machine. The stationmaster came out to talk to them. "Her ladyship coming back to-day?" He was an old friend of Tony's. "I've been expecting her every day. You know what it is when ladies get to London." "Sam Brace's wife went to London and he couldn't get her back. Had to go up and fetch her himself. And then she give him a hiding." Presently the train came in and Brenda emerged exquisitely from her third-class carriage. "You've _both_ come. What angels you are. I don't at all deserve it." "Oh, mummy, have you brought the monkey-lady?" "What _does_ the child mean?" "He's got it into his head that your chum Polly has a tail." "Come to think of it, I shouldn't be surprised if she had." Two little cases held all her luggage. The chauffeur strapped them on behind the car, and they drove to Hetton. "What's all the news?" "Ben's put the rail up ever so high and Thunderclap and I jumped it six times yesterday and six times again to-day and two more of the fish in the little pond are dead, floating upside down all swollen and nanny burnt her finger on the kettle yesterday and daddy and I saw a fox just as near as anything and he sat quite still and then went away into the wood and I began drawing a picture of a battle only I couldn't finish it because the paints weren't right and the grey carthorse the one that had worms is quite well again." "Nothing much has happened,"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?" "Me? Oh, I've been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing." "What's that?" "No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all." "You've bought a Pekingese." "Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I _want_ to dreadfully." "Go on." "Tony, I've found a flat." "Well, you'd better lose it again, quick." "All right. I'll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile, try not to brood about it." "I shan't give it another thought." "What's a flat, daddy?" * * * * * Brenda wore pyjamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup. "I suppose all this means that you're going to start again about your flat?" "Mmmm." "You haven't signed any papers yet, have you?" "Oh no." Brenda shook her head emphatically. "Then no great harm's done." Tony began to fill his pipe. Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. "Listen, you haven't been brooding?" "No." "Because, you see, when you say 'flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. _You_ mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan
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to expect her by the afternoon train and, in a small voice, ordered her things to be packed. "I don't seem to have anywhere to lunch," she said. "Why don't you come to Margot's? I know she'd love it." "Well, ring up and ask her." So she met Beaver again. He was sitting some way from her and they did not speak to each other until everyone was going. "I kept trying to get through to you this morning," he said, "but the line was always engaged." "Oh, come on," said Brenda, "I'll sock you a movie." Later she wired to Tony: _Staying with Marjorie another day or two all love to you both_. [IV] "Is mummy coming back to-day?" "I hope so." "That monkey-woman's party has lasted a long time. Can I come in to the station and meet her?" "Yes, we'll both go." "She hasn't seen Thunderclap for four days. She hasn't seen me jump the new post and rail, has she, daddy?" She was coming by the 3.18. Tony and John Andrew were there early. They wandered about the station looking at things, and bought some chocolate from a slot machine. The stationmaster came out to talk to them. "Her ladyship coming back to-day?" He was an old friend of Tony's. "I've been expecting her every day. You know what it is when ladies get to London." "Sam Brace's wife went to London and he couldn't get her back. Had to go up and fetch her himself. And then she give him a hiding." Presently the train came in and Brenda emerged exquisitely from her third-class carriage. "You've _both_ come. What angels you are. I don't at all deserve it." "Oh, mummy, have you brought the monkey-lady?" "What _does_ the child mean?" "He's got it into his head that your chum Polly has a tail." "Come to think of it, I shouldn't be surprised if she had." Two little cases held all her luggage. The chauffeur strapped them on behind the car, and they drove to Hetton. "What's all the news?" "Ben's put the rail up ever so high and Thunderclap and I jumped it six times yesterday and six times again to-day and two more of the fish in the little pond are dead, floating upside down all swollen and nanny burnt her finger on the kettle yesterday and daddy and I saw a fox just as near as anything and he sat quite still and then went away into the wood and I began drawing a picture of a battle only I couldn't finish it because the paints weren't right and the grey carthorse the one that had worms is quite well again." "Nothing much has happened,"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?" "Me? Oh, I've been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing." "What's that?" "No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all." "You've bought a Pekingese." "Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I _want_ to dreadfully." "Go on." "Tony, I've found a flat." "Well, you'd better lose it again, quick." "All right. I'll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile, try not to brood about it." "I shan't give it another thought." "What's a flat, daddy?" * * * * * Brenda wore pyjamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup. "I suppose all this means that you're going to start again about your flat?" "Mmmm." "You haven't signed any papers yet, have you?" "Oh no." Brenda shook her head emphatically. "Then no great harm's done." Tony began to fill his pipe. Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. "Listen, you haven't been brooding?" "No." "Because, you see, when you say 'flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. _You_ mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes
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A Handful Of Dust
|
"Lutchina"
|
No speaker
|
for five minutes, listening to<|quote|>"Lutchina"</|quote|>being sung by the chorus,
|
book, the company was silent for five minutes, listening to<|quote|>"Lutchina"</|quote|>being sung by the chorus, and the song gave what
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of the visitors hearing, with his thoughts far away, said hardly audibly: "Yes ... truly...." One hour passed, another. In the town gardens close by a band was playing and a chorus was singing. When Vera Iosifovna shut her manuscript book, the company was silent for five minutes, listening to<|quote|>"Lutchina"</|quote|>being sung by the chorus, and the song gave what was not in the novel and is in real life. "Do you publish your stories in magazines?" Startsev asked Vera Iosifovna. "No," she answered. "I never publish. I write it and put it away in my cupboard. Why publish?" she
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in love with a wandering artist; she read of what never happens in real life, and yet it was pleasant to listen--it was comfortable, and such agreeable, serene thoughts kept coming into the mind, one had no desire to get up. "Not badsome ..." Ivan Petrovitch said softly. And one of the visitors hearing, with his thoughts far away, said hardly audibly: "Yes ... truly...." One hour passed, another. In the town gardens close by a band was playing and a chorus was singing. When Vera Iosifovna shut her manuscript book, the company was silent for five minutes, listening to<|quote|>"Lutchina"</|quote|>being sung by the chorus, and the song gave what was not in the novel and is in real life. "Do you publish your stories in magazines?" Startsev asked Vera Iosifovna. "No," she answered. "I never publish. I write it and put it away in my cupboard. Why publish?" she explained. "We have enough to live on." And for some reason every one sighed. "And now, Kitten, you play something," Ivan Petrovitch said to his daughter. The lid of the piano was raised and the music lying ready was opened. Ekaterina Ivanovna sat down and banged on the piano with
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the smell of fried onions.... It was comfortable in the soft deep arm-chair; the lights had such a friendly twinkle in the twilight of the drawing-room, and at the moment on a summer evening when sounds of voices and laughter floated in from the street and whiffs of lilac from the yard, it was difficult to grasp that the frost was intense, and that the setting sun was lighting with its chilly rays a solitary wayfarer on the snowy plain. Vera Iosifovna read how a beautiful young countess founded a school, a hospital, a library, in her village, and fell in love with a wandering artist; she read of what never happens in real life, and yet it was pleasant to listen--it was comfortable, and such agreeable, serene thoughts kept coming into the mind, one had no desire to get up. "Not badsome ..." Ivan Petrovitch said softly. And one of the visitors hearing, with his thoughts far away, said hardly audibly: "Yes ... truly...." One hour passed, another. In the town gardens close by a band was playing and a chorus was singing. When Vera Iosifovna shut her manuscript book, the company was silent for five minutes, listening to<|quote|>"Lutchina"</|quote|>being sung by the chorus, and the song gave what was not in the novel and is in real life. "Do you publish your stories in magazines?" Startsev asked Vera Iosifovna. "No," she answered. "I never publish. I write it and put it away in my cupboard. Why publish?" she explained. "We have enough to live on." And for some reason every one sighed. "And now, Kitten, you play something," Ivan Petrovitch said to his daughter. The lid of the piano was raised and the music lying ready was opened. Ekaterina Ivanovna sat down and banged on the piano with both hands, and then banged again with all her might, and then again and again; her shoulders and bosom shook. She obstinately banged on the same notes, and it sounded as if she would not leave off until she had hammered the keys into the piano. The drawing-room was filled with the din; everything was resounding; the floor, the ceiling, the furniture.... Ekaterina Ivanovna was playing a difficult passage, interesting simply on account of its difficulty, long and monotonous, and Startsev, listening, pictured stones dropping down a steep hill and going on dropping, and he wished they would leave off
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well that he will notice nothing." "Ah, you spoilt chicken!" Ivan Petrovitch muttered tenderly, and he kissed her on the forehead. "You have come just in the nick of time," he said, addressing the doctor again. "My better half has written a 'hugeous' novel, and she is going to read it aloud to-day." "Petit Jean," said Vera Iosifovna to her husband, "dites que l'on nous donne du thé." Startsev was introduced to Ekaterina Ivanovna, a girl of eighteen, very much like her mother, thin and pretty. Her expression was still childish and her figure was soft and slim; and her developed girlish bosom, healthy and beautiful, was suggestive of spring, real spring. Then they drank tea with jam, honey, and sweetmeats, and with very nice cakes, which melted in the mouth. As the evening came on, other visitors gradually arrived, and Ivan Petrovitch fixed his laughing eyes on each of them and said: "How do you do, if you please?" Then they all sat down in the drawing-room with very serious faces, and Vera Iosifovna read her novel. It began like this: "The frost was intense...." The windows were wide open; from the kitchen came the clatter of knives and the smell of fried onions.... It was comfortable in the soft deep arm-chair; the lights had such a friendly twinkle in the twilight of the drawing-room, and at the moment on a summer evening when sounds of voices and laughter floated in from the street and whiffs of lilac from the yard, it was difficult to grasp that the frost was intense, and that the setting sun was lighting with its chilly rays a solitary wayfarer on the snowy plain. Vera Iosifovna read how a beautiful young countess founded a school, a hospital, a library, in her village, and fell in love with a wandering artist; she read of what never happens in real life, and yet it was pleasant to listen--it was comfortable, and such agreeable, serene thoughts kept coming into the mind, one had no desire to get up. "Not badsome ..." Ivan Petrovitch said softly. And one of the visitors hearing, with his thoughts far away, said hardly audibly: "Yes ... truly...." One hour passed, another. In the town gardens close by a band was playing and a chorus was singing. When Vera Iosifovna shut her manuscript book, the company was silent for five minutes, listening to<|quote|>"Lutchina"</|quote|>being sung by the chorus, and the song gave what was not in the novel and is in real life. "Do you publish your stories in magazines?" Startsev asked Vera Iosifovna. "No," she answered. "I never publish. I write it and put it away in my cupboard. Why publish?" she explained. "We have enough to live on." And for some reason every one sighed. "And now, Kitten, you play something," Ivan Petrovitch said to his daughter. The lid of the piano was raised and the music lying ready was opened. Ekaterina Ivanovna sat down and banged on the piano with both hands, and then banged again with all her might, and then again and again; her shoulders and bosom shook. She obstinately banged on the same notes, and it sounded as if she would not leave off until she had hammered the keys into the piano. The drawing-room was filled with the din; everything was resounding; the floor, the ceiling, the furniture.... Ekaterina Ivanovna was playing a difficult passage, interesting simply on account of its difficulty, long and monotonous, and Startsev, listening, pictured stones dropping down a steep hill and going on dropping, and he wished they would leave off dropping; and at the same time Ekaterina Ivanovna, rosy from the violent exercise, strong and vigorous, with a lock of hair falling over her forehead, attracted him very much. After the winter spent at Dyalizh among patients and peasants, to sit in a drawing-room, to watch this young, elegant, and, in all probability, pure creature, and to listen to these noisy, tedious but still cultured sounds, was so pleasant, so novel.... "Well, Kitten, you have never played that before," said Ivan Petrovitch, with tears in his eyes, when his daughter had finished and stood up. "Die, Denis; you won't write anything better." All flocked round her, congratulated her, expressed astonishment, declared that it was long since they had heard such music, and she listened in silence with a faint smile, and her whole figure was expressive of triumph. "Splendid, superb!" "Splendid," said Startsev, too, carried away by the general enthusiasm. "Where have you studied?" he asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "At the Conservatoire?" "No, I am only preparing for the Conservatoire, and till now have been working with Madame Zavlovsky." "Have you finished at the high school here?" "Oh, no," Vera Iosifovna answered for her, "We have teachers for her at home;
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His wife, Vera Iosifovna--a thin, nice-looking lady who wore a pince-nez--used to write novels and stories, and was very fond of reading them aloud to her visitors. The daughter, Ekaterina Ivanovna, a young girl, used to play on the piano. In short, every member of the family had a special talent. The Turkins welcomed visitors, and good-humouredly displayed their talents with genuine simplicity. Their stone house was roomy and cool in summer; half of the windows looked into a shady old garden, where nightingales used to sing in the spring. When there were visitors in the house, there was a clatter of knives in the kitchen and a smell of fried onions in the yard--and that was always a sure sign of a plentiful and savoury supper to follow. And as soon as Dmitri Ionitch Startsev was appointed the district doctor, and took up his abode at Dyalizh, six miles from S----, he, too, was told that as a cultivated man it was essential for him to make the acquaintance of the Turkins. In the winter he was introduced to Ivan Petrovitch in the street; they talked about the weather, about the theatre, about the cholera; an invitation followed. On a holiday in the spring--it was Ascension Day--after seeing his patients, Startsev set off for town in search of a little recreation and to make some purchases. He walked in a leisurely way (he had not yet set up his carriage), humming all the time: "'Before I'd drunk the tears from life's goblet....'" In town he dined, went for a walk in the gardens, then Ivan Petrovitch's invitation came into his mind, as it were of itself, and he decided to call on the Turkins and see what sort of people they were. "How do you do, if you please?" said Ivan Petrovitch, meeting him on the steps. "Delighted, delighted to see such an agreeable visitor. Come along; I will introduce you to my better half. I tell him, Verotchka," he went on, as he presented the doctor to his wife-- "I tell him that he has no human right to sit at home in a hospital; he ought to devote his leisure to society. Oughtn't he, darling?" "Sit here," said Vera Iosifovna, making her visitor sit down beside her. "You can dance attendance on me. My husband is jealous--he is an Othello; but we will try and behave so well that he will notice nothing." "Ah, you spoilt chicken!" Ivan Petrovitch muttered tenderly, and he kissed her on the forehead. "You have come just in the nick of time," he said, addressing the doctor again. "My better half has written a 'hugeous' novel, and she is going to read it aloud to-day." "Petit Jean," said Vera Iosifovna to her husband, "dites que l'on nous donne du thé." Startsev was introduced to Ekaterina Ivanovna, a girl of eighteen, very much like her mother, thin and pretty. Her expression was still childish and her figure was soft and slim; and her developed girlish bosom, healthy and beautiful, was suggestive of spring, real spring. Then they drank tea with jam, honey, and sweetmeats, and with very nice cakes, which melted in the mouth. As the evening came on, other visitors gradually arrived, and Ivan Petrovitch fixed his laughing eyes on each of them and said: "How do you do, if you please?" Then they all sat down in the drawing-room with very serious faces, and Vera Iosifovna read her novel. It began like this: "The frost was intense...." The windows were wide open; from the kitchen came the clatter of knives and the smell of fried onions.... It was comfortable in the soft deep arm-chair; the lights had such a friendly twinkle in the twilight of the drawing-room, and at the moment on a summer evening when sounds of voices and laughter floated in from the street and whiffs of lilac from the yard, it was difficult to grasp that the frost was intense, and that the setting sun was lighting with its chilly rays a solitary wayfarer on the snowy plain. Vera Iosifovna read how a beautiful young countess founded a school, a hospital, a library, in her village, and fell in love with a wandering artist; she read of what never happens in real life, and yet it was pleasant to listen--it was comfortable, and such agreeable, serene thoughts kept coming into the mind, one had no desire to get up. "Not badsome ..." Ivan Petrovitch said softly. And one of the visitors hearing, with his thoughts far away, said hardly audibly: "Yes ... truly...." One hour passed, another. In the town gardens close by a band was playing and a chorus was singing. When Vera Iosifovna shut her manuscript book, the company was silent for five minutes, listening to<|quote|>"Lutchina"</|quote|>being sung by the chorus, and the song gave what was not in the novel and is in real life. "Do you publish your stories in magazines?" Startsev asked Vera Iosifovna. "No," she answered. "I never publish. I write it and put it away in my cupboard. Why publish?" she explained. "We have enough to live on." And for some reason every one sighed. "And now, Kitten, you play something," Ivan Petrovitch said to his daughter. The lid of the piano was raised and the music lying ready was opened. Ekaterina Ivanovna sat down and banged on the piano with both hands, and then banged again with all her might, and then again and again; her shoulders and bosom shook. She obstinately banged on the same notes, and it sounded as if she would not leave off until she had hammered the keys into the piano. The drawing-room was filled with the din; everything was resounding; the floor, the ceiling, the furniture.... Ekaterina Ivanovna was playing a difficult passage, interesting simply on account of its difficulty, long and monotonous, and Startsev, listening, pictured stones dropping down a steep hill and going on dropping, and he wished they would leave off dropping; and at the same time Ekaterina Ivanovna, rosy from the violent exercise, strong and vigorous, with a lock of hair falling over her forehead, attracted him very much. After the winter spent at Dyalizh among patients and peasants, to sit in a drawing-room, to watch this young, elegant, and, in all probability, pure creature, and to listen to these noisy, tedious but still cultured sounds, was so pleasant, so novel.... "Well, Kitten, you have never played that before," said Ivan Petrovitch, with tears in his eyes, when his daughter had finished and stood up. "Die, Denis; you won't write anything better." All flocked round her, congratulated her, expressed astonishment, declared that it was long since they had heard such music, and she listened in silence with a faint smile, and her whole figure was expressive of triumph. "Splendid, superb!" "Splendid," said Startsev, too, carried away by the general enthusiasm. "Where have you studied?" he asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "At the Conservatoire?" "No, I am only preparing for the Conservatoire, and till now have been working with Madame Zavlovsky." "Have you finished at the high school here?" "Oh, no," Vera Iosifovna answered for her, "We have teachers for her at home; there might be bad influences at the high school or a boarding school, you know. While a young girl is growing up, she ought to be under no influence but her mother's." "All the same, I'm going to the Conservatoire," said Ekaterina Ivanovna. "No. Kitten loves her mamma. Kitten won't grieve papa and mamma." "No, I'm going, I'm going," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with playful caprice and stamping her foot. And at supper it was Ivan Petrovitch who displayed his talents. Laughing only with his eyes, he told anecdotes, made epigrams, asked ridiculous riddles and answered them himself, talking the whole time in his extraordinary language, evolved in the course of prolonged practice in witticism and evidently now become a habit: "Badsome," "Hugeous," "Thank you most dumbly," and so on. But that was not all. When the guests, replete and satisfied, trooped into the hall, looking for their coats and sticks, there bustled about them the footman Pavlusha, or, as he was called in the family, Pava--a lad of fourteen with shaven head and chubby cheeks. "Come, Pava, perform!" Ivan Petrovitch said to him. Pava struck an attitude, flung up his arm, and said in a tragic tone: "Unhappy woman, die!" And every one roared with laughter. "It's entertaining," thought Startsev, as he went out into the street. He went to a restaurant and drank some beer, then set off to walk home to Dyalizh; he walked all the way singing: "'Thy voice to me so languid and caressing....'" On going to bed, he felt not the slightest fatigue after the six miles' walk. On the contrary, he felt as though he could with pleasure have walked another twenty. "Not badsome," he thought, and laughed as he fell asleep. II Startsev kept meaning to go to the Turkins' again, but there was a great deal of work in the hospital, and he was unable to find free time. In this way more than a year passed in work and solitude. But one day a letter in a light blue envelope was brought him from the town. Vera Iosifovna had been suffering for some time from migraine, but now since Kitten frightened her every day by saying that she was going away to the Conservatoire, the attacks began to be more frequent. All the doctors of the town had been at the Turkins'; at last it was the district doctor's turn. Vera
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tenderly, and he kissed her on the forehead. "You have come just in the nick of time," he said, addressing the doctor again. "My better half has written a 'hugeous' novel, and she is going to read it aloud to-day." "Petit Jean," said Vera Iosifovna to her husband, "dites que l'on nous donne du thé." Startsev was introduced to Ekaterina Ivanovna, a girl of eighteen, very much like her mother, thin and pretty. Her expression was still childish and her figure was soft and slim; and her developed girlish bosom, healthy and beautiful, was suggestive of spring, real spring. Then they drank tea with jam, honey, and sweetmeats, and with very nice cakes, which melted in the mouth. As the evening came on, other visitors gradually arrived, and Ivan Petrovitch fixed his laughing eyes on each of them and said: "How do you do, if you please?" Then they all sat down in the drawing-room with very serious faces, and Vera Iosifovna read her novel. It began like this: "The frost was intense...." The windows were wide open; from the kitchen came the clatter of knives and the smell of fried onions.... It was comfortable in the soft deep arm-chair; the lights had such a friendly twinkle in the twilight of the drawing-room, and at the moment on a summer evening when sounds of voices and laughter floated in from the street and whiffs of lilac from the yard, it was difficult to grasp that the frost was intense, and that the setting sun was lighting with its chilly rays a solitary wayfarer on the snowy plain. Vera Iosifovna read how a beautiful young countess founded a school, a hospital, a library, in her village, and fell in love with a wandering artist; she read of what never happens in real life, and yet it was pleasant to listen--it was comfortable, and such agreeable, serene thoughts kept coming into the mind, one had no desire to get up. "Not badsome ..." Ivan Petrovitch said softly. And one of the visitors hearing, with his thoughts far away, said hardly audibly: "Yes ... truly...." One hour passed, another. In the town gardens close by a band was playing and a chorus was singing. When Vera Iosifovna shut her manuscript book, the company was silent for five minutes, listening to<|quote|>"Lutchina"</|quote|>being sung by the chorus, and the song gave what was not in the novel and is in real life. "Do you publish your stories in magazines?" Startsev asked Vera Iosifovna. "No," she answered. "I never publish. I write it and put it away in my cupboard. Why publish?" she explained. "We have enough to live on." And for some reason every one sighed. "And now, Kitten, you play something," Ivan Petrovitch said to his daughter. The lid of the piano was raised and the music lying ready was opened. Ekaterina Ivanovna sat down and banged on the piano with both hands, and then banged again with all her might, and then again and again; her shoulders and bosom shook. She obstinately banged on the same notes, and it sounded as if she would not leave off until she had hammered the keys into the piano. The drawing-room was filled with the din; everything was resounding; the floor, the ceiling, the furniture.... Ekaterina Ivanovna was playing a difficult passage, interesting simply on account of its difficulty, long and monotonous, and Startsev, listening, pictured stones dropping down a steep hill and going on dropping, and he wished they would leave off dropping; and at the same time Ekaterina Ivanovna, rosy from the violent exercise, strong and vigorous, with a lock of hair falling over her forehead, attracted him very much. After the winter spent at Dyalizh among patients and peasants, to sit in a drawing-room, to watch this young, elegant, and, in all probability, pure creature, and to listen to these noisy, tedious but still cultured sounds, was so pleasant, so novel.... "Well, Kitten, you have never played that before," said Ivan Petrovitch, with tears in his eyes, when his daughter had finished and stood up. "Die, Denis; you won't write anything better." All flocked round her, congratulated her, expressed astonishment, declared that it was long since they had heard such music, and she listened in silence with a faint smile, and her whole figure was expressive of triumph. "Splendid, superb!" "Splendid," said Startsev, too, carried away by the general enthusiasm. "Where have you studied?" he asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "At the Conservatoire?" "No, I am only preparing for the Conservatoire, and till now have been working with Madame Zavlovsky." "Have you finished at the high school here?" "Oh, no," Vera Iosifovna answered for her, "We have teachers for her at home; there might be bad influences at the high school or a boarding school, you know. While a young girl is growing up, she ought to be under no influence but her mother's." "All the same, I'm going to the Conservatoire," said Ekaterina Ivanovna. "No. Kitten loves her mamma. Kitten won't grieve papa and mamma." "No, I'm going, I'm going," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with playful caprice and stamping her foot. And at supper it was Ivan Petrovitch who displayed his talents. Laughing only with his eyes, he told anecdotes, made epigrams, asked ridiculous riddles and answered them himself, talking the whole time in
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The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (4)
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“I want you to meet my girl.”
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Tom
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“We’re getting off,” he insisted.<|quote|>“I want you to meet my girl.”</|quote|>I think he’d tanked up
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forced me from the car. “We’re getting off,” he insisted.<|quote|>“I want you to meet my girl.”</|quote|>I think he’d tanked up a good deal at luncheon,
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had no desire to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon, and when we stopped by the ash-heaps he jumped to his feet and, taking hold of my elbow, literally forced me from the car. “We’re getting off,” he insisted.<|quote|>“I want you to meet my girl.”</|quote|>I think he’d tanked up a good deal at luncheon, and his determination to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do. I followed him over a low whitewashed railroad fence, and we walked back a hundred yards
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Buchanan’s mistress. The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular cafés with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her, I had no desire to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon, and when we stopped by the ash-heaps he jumped to his feet and, taking hold of my elbow, literally forced me from the car. “We’re getting off,” he insisted.<|quote|>“I want you to meet my girl.”</|quote|>I think he’d tanked up a good deal at luncheon, and his determination to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do. I followed him over a low whitewashed railroad fence, and we walked back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg’s persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministering to it, and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the three shops it contained was
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Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness, or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days, under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground. The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and, when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute, and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan’s mistress. The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular cafés with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her, I had no desire to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon, and when we stopped by the ash-heaps he jumped to his feet and, taking hold of my elbow, literally forced me from the car. “We’re getting off,” he insisted.<|quote|>“I want you to meet my girl.”</|quote|>I think he’d tanked up a good deal at luncheon, and his determination to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do. I followed him over a low whitewashed railroad fence, and we walked back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg’s persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministering to it, and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant, approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a garage—Repairs. George B. Wilson. Cars bought and sold.—and I followed Tom inside. The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had occurred to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind, and that sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead, when the proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. He was a blond,
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and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight. But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness, or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days, under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground. The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and, when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute, and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan’s mistress. The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular cafés with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her, I had no desire to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon, and when we stopped by the ash-heaps he jumped to his feet and, taking hold of my elbow, literally forced me from the car. “We’re getting off,” he insisted.<|quote|>“I want you to meet my girl.”</|quote|>I think he’d tanked up a good deal at luncheon, and his determination to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do. I followed him over a low whitewashed railroad fence, and we walked back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg’s persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministering to it, and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant, approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a garage—Repairs. George B. Wilson. Cars bought and sold.—and I followed Tom inside. The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had occurred to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind, and that sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead, when the proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. He was a blond, spiritless man, anaemic, and faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes. “Hello, Wilson, old man,” said Tom, slapping him jovially on the shoulder. “How’s business?” “I can’t complain,” answered Wilson unconvincingly. “When are you going to sell me that car?” “Next week; I’ve got my man working on it now.” “Works pretty slow, don’t he?” “No, he doesn’t,” said Tom coldly. “And if you feel that way about it, maybe I’d better sell it somewhere else after all.” “I don’t mean that,” explained Wilson quickly. “I just meant—” His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs, and in a moment the thickish figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crêpe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as if he
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marriage. Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman in New York” was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart. Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red petrol-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and, turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbour’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens. I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness. II About halfway between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight. But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness, or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days, under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground. The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and, when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute, and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan’s mistress. The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular cafés with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her, I had no desire to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon, and when we stopped by the ash-heaps he jumped to his feet and, taking hold of my elbow, literally forced me from the car. “We’re getting off,” he insisted.<|quote|>“I want you to meet my girl.”</|quote|>I think he’d tanked up a good deal at luncheon, and his determination to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do. I followed him over a low whitewashed railroad fence, and we walked back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg’s persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministering to it, and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant, approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a garage—Repairs. George B. Wilson. Cars bought and sold.—and I followed Tom inside. The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had occurred to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind, and that sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead, when the proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. He was a blond, spiritless man, anaemic, and faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes. “Hello, Wilson, old man,” said Tom, slapping him jovially on the shoulder. “How’s business?” “I can’t complain,” answered Wilson unconvincingly. “When are you going to sell me that car?” “Next week; I’ve got my man working on it now.” “Works pretty slow, don’t he?” “No, he doesn’t,” said Tom coldly. “And if you feel that way about it, maybe I’d better sell it somewhere else after all.” “I don’t mean that,” explained Wilson quickly. “I just meant—” His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs, and in a moment the thickish figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crêpe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands with Tom, looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips, and without turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice: “Get some chairs, why don’t you, so somebody can sit down.” “Oh, sure,” agreed Wilson hurriedly, and went toward the little office, mingling immediately with the cement colour of the walls. A white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in the vicinity—except his wife, who moved close to Tom. “I want to see you,” said Tom intently. “Get on the next train.” “All right.” “I’ll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level.” She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson emerged with two chairs from his office door. We waited for her down the road and out of sight. It was a few days before the Fourth of July, and a grey, scrawny Italian child was setting torpedoes in a row along the railroad track. “Terrible place, isn’t it,” said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor Eckleburg. “Awful.” “It does her good to get away.” “Doesn’t her husband object?” “Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He’s so dumb he doesn’t know he’s alive.” So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York—or not quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might be on the train. She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin, which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. At the newsstand she bought a copy of Town Tattle and a moving-picture magazine, and in the station drugstore some cold cream and a small flask of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive she let four taxicabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-coloured with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and, leaning forward, tapped on the front glass. “I want to get one of those dogs,” she said earnestly. “I want to get one for the apartment. They’re nice to have—a dog.” We backed up to a grey old man who bore an
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motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight. But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness, or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days, under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground. The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and, when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute, and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan’s mistress. The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular cafés with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her, I had no desire to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon, and when we stopped by the ash-heaps he jumped to his feet and, taking hold of my elbow, literally forced me from the car. “We’re getting off,” he insisted.<|quote|>“I want you to meet my girl.”</|quote|>I think he’d tanked up a good deal at luncheon, and his determination to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do. I followed him over a low whitewashed railroad fence, and we walked back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg’s persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministering to it, and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant, approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a garage—Repairs. George B. Wilson. Cars bought and sold.—and I followed Tom inside. The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had occurred to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind, and that sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead, when the proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. He was a blond, spiritless man, anaemic, and faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes. “Hello, Wilson, old man,” said Tom, slapping him jovially on the shoulder. “How’s business?” “I can’t complain,” answered Wilson unconvincingly. “When are you going to sell me that car?” “Next week; I’ve got my man working on it now.” “Works pretty slow, don’t he?” “No, he doesn’t,” said Tom coldly. “And if you feel that way about it, maybe I’d better
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The Great Gatsby
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"I was staggered for the moment,"
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Mr. Sherlock Holmes
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his self-possession in an instant.<|quote|>"I was staggered for the moment,"</|quote|>he said, "but the thing
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horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant.<|quote|>"I was staggered for the moment,"</|quote|>he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory
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clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot, clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant.<|quote|>"I was staggered for the moment,"</|quote|>he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down." "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the
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can find any other traces of his individuality." He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot, clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant.<|quote|>"I was staggered for the moment,"</|quote|>he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down." "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered. "It will be clear enough to
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step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor. "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find any other traces of his individuality." He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot, clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant.<|quote|>"I was staggered for the moment,"</|quote|>he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down." "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered. "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made had he
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considered that possibility." "How then?" I persisted. "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?" "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried. "Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found." He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor. "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find any other traces of his individuality." He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot, clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant.<|quote|>"I was staggered for the moment,"</|quote|>he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down." "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered. "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of exerting them in its defence. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight. "We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out." "What then?" I asked. "Why, we have got him, that s all," said he. "I know a dog that would follow that scent to the world s end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should give us the But halloa! here are the accredited representatives of the law." Heavy steps and the clamour of loud voices were audible from below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash. "Before they come," said Holmes, "just put
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muddy discs. "This is not a footmark," said I. "It is something much more valuable to us. It is the impression of a wooden stump. You see here on the sill is the boot-mark, a heavy boot with the broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the timber-toe." "It is the wooden-legged man." "Quite so. But there has been some one else, a very able and efficient ally. Could you scale that wall, doctor?" I looked out of the open window. The moon still shone brightly on that angle of the house. We were a good sixty feet from the ground, and, look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a crevice in the brick-work. "It is absolutely impossible," I answered. "Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend up here who lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing one end of it to this great hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you were an active man, You might swarm up, wooden leg and all. You would depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up the rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the inside, and get away in the way that he originally came. As a minor point it may be noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional sailor. His hands were far from horny. My lens discloses more than one blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin off his hand." "This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How came he into the room?" "Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of the commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals of crime in this country, though parallel cases suggest themselves from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia." "How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?" "The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered that possibility." "How then?" I persisted. "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?" "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried. "Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found." He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor. "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find any other traces of his individuality." He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot, clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant.<|quote|>"I was staggered for the moment,"</|quote|>he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down." "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered. "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of exerting them in its defence. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight. "We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out." "What then?" I asked. "Why, we have got him, that s all," said he. "I know a dog that would follow that scent to the world s end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should give us the But halloa! here are the accredited representatives of the law." Heavy steps and the clamour of loud voices were audible from below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash. "Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this poor fellow s arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?" "The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered. "Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding the usual _rigor mortis_. Coupled with this distortion of the face, this Hippocratic smile, or _risus sardonicus_, as the old writers called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?" "Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered, "some strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus." "That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for the means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in his chair. Now examine the thorn." I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been trimmed and rounded off with a knife. "Is that an English thorn?" he asked. "No, it certainly is not." "With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference. But here are the regulars; so the auxiliary forces may beat a retreat." As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a grey suit strode heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from between swollen and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an inspector in uniform, and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto. "Here s a business!" he cried, in a muffled, husky voice. "Here s a pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the house seems to be as full as a rabbit-warren!" "I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes, quietly. "Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It s Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the theorist. Remember you! I ll never forget how you lectured us all on
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fresh ground in the annals of crime in this country, though parallel cases suggest themselves from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia." "How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?" "The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered that possibility." "How then?" I persisted. "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?" "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried. "Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found." He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor. "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find any other traces of his individuality." He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot, clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant.<|quote|>"I was staggered for the moment,"</|quote|>he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down." "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered. "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of exerting them in its defence. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out into a loud
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The Sign Of The Four
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"The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'"
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Mr. Emerson
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account of his diminutive stature?"<|quote|>"The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'"</|quote|>Mr. Eager could not resist
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to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?"<|quote|>"The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'"</|quote|>Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. "Non
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of the girl, too. It doesn't do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?" Miss Lavish bristled. "Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?"<|quote|>"The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'"</|quote|>Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. "Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the May' "would render a correct meaning." "The point is, we have warred with it. Look." He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding
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"He was not driving us well," she said. "He jolted us." "That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now. Can you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I'd be frightened of the girl, too. It doesn't do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?" Miss Lavish bristled. "Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?"<|quote|>"The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'"</|quote|>Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. "Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the May' "would render a correct meaning." "The point is, we have warred with it. Look." He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees. "Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to admire them. Do you suppose there's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both." No one
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who were happy." Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son. "We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul." Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character. "He was not driving us well," she said. "He jolted us." "That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now. Can you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I'd be frightened of the girl, too. It doesn't do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?" Miss Lavish bristled. "Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?"<|quote|>"The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'"</|quote|>Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. "Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the May' "would render a correct meaning." "The point is, we have warred with it. Look." He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees. "Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to admire them. Do you suppose there's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both." No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended it, that diligent and
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sit there? To be driven by lovers--A king might envy us, and if we part them it's more like sacrilege than anything I know." Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect. Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click. "Signorina!" said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy? "Signorina!" echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why? For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box. "Victory at last!" said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again. "It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson. "It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy." Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son. "We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul." Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character. "He was not driving us well," she said. "He jolted us." "That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now. Can you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I'd be frightened of the girl, too. It doesn't do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?" Miss Lavish bristled. "Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?"<|quote|>"The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'"</|quote|>Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. "Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the May' "would render a correct meaning." "The point is, we have warred with it. Look." He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees. "Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to admire them. Do you suppose there's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both." No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d'Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly had he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, had become equally enthusiastic. But it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in your head, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting. And the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest. The party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keep together being only equalled by their desire to go different directions. Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with the drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics in common, were left to each other. The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio
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with agonizing jolts up through the Piazza of Fiesole and into the Settignano road. "Piano! piano!" said Mr. Eager, elegantly waving his hand over his head. "Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene," crooned the driver, and whipped his horses up again. Now Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on the subject of Alessio Baldovinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, or was he one of its manifestations? The other carriage was left behind. As the pace increased to a gallop the large, slumbering form of Mr. Emerson was thrown against the chaplain with the regularity of a machine. "Piano! piano!" said he, with a martyred look at Lucy. An extra lurch made him turn angrily in his seat. Phaethon, who for some time had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded. A little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, was most unpleasant. The horses were stopped, the lovers were ordered to disentangle themselves, the boy was to lose his pourboire, the girl was immediately to get down. "She is my sister," said he, turning round on them with piteous eyes. Mr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that he was a liar. Phaethon hung down his head, not at the matter of the accusation, but at its manner. At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stopping had awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated, and patted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish, though unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of Bohemianism. "Most certainly I would let them be," she cried. "But I dare say I shall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of the conventions all my life. This is what I call an adventure." "We must not submit," said Mr. Eager. "I knew he was trying it on. He is treating us as if we were a party of Cook's tourists." "Surely no!" said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing. The other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behave themselves properly. "Leave them alone," Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. "Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers--A king might envy us, and if we part them it's more like sacrilege than anything I know." Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect. Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click. "Signorina!" said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy? "Signorina!" echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why? For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box. "Victory at last!" said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again. "It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson. "It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy." Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son. "We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul." Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character. "He was not driving us well," she said. "He jolted us." "That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now. Can you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I'd be frightened of the girl, too. It doesn't do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?" Miss Lavish bristled. "Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?"<|quote|>"The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'"</|quote|>Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. "Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the May' "would render a correct meaning." "The point is, we have warred with it. Look." He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees. "Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to admire them. Do you suppose there's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both." No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d'Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly had he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, had become equally enthusiastic. But it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in your head, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting. And the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest. The party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keep together being only equalled by their desire to go different directions. Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with the drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics in common, were left to each other. The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emerson what his profession was, and he had answered "the railway." She was very sorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be such a dreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe had turned the conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not very much hurt at her asking him. "The railway!" gasped Miss Lavish. "Oh, but I shall die! Of course it was the railway!" She could not control her mirth. "He is the image of a porter--on, on the South-Eastern." "Eleanor, be quiet," plucking at her vivacious companion. "Hush! They'll hear--the Emersons--" "I can't stop. Let me go my wicked way. A porter--" "Eleanor!" "I'm sure it's all right," put in Lucy. "The Emersons won't hear, and they wouldn't mind if they did." Miss Lavish did not seem pleased at this. "Miss Honeychurch listening!" she said rather crossly. "Pouf! Wouf! You naughty girl! Go away!" "Oh, Lucy, you ought to be with Mr. Eager, I'm sure." "I can't find them now, and I don't want to either." "Mr. Eager will be offended. It is your party." "Please, I'd rather stop here with you." "No, I agree," said Miss Lavish. "It's like a school feast; the boys have got separated from the girls. Miss Lucy, you are to go. We wish to converse on high topics unsuited for your ear." The girl was stubborn. As her time at Florence drew to its close she was only at ease amongst those to whom she felt indifferent. Such a one was Miss Lavish, and such for the moment was Charlotte. She wished she had not called attention to herself; they were both annoyed at her remark and seemed determined to get rid of her. "How tired one gets," said Miss Bartlett. "Oh, I do wish Freddy and your mother could be here." Unselfishness with Miss Bartlett had entirely usurped the functions of enthusiasm. Lucy did not look at the view either. She would not enjoy anything till she was safe at Rome. "Then sit you down," said Miss Lavish. "Observe my foresight." With many a smile she produced two of those mackintosh squares that protect the frame of the tourist from damp grass or cold marble steps. She sat on one; who was to sit on the other?
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Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stopping had awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated, and patted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish, though unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of Bohemianism. "Most certainly I would let them be," she cried. "But I dare say I shall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of the conventions all my life. This is what I call an adventure." "We must not submit," said Mr. Eager. "I knew he was trying it on. He is treating us as if we were a party of Cook's tourists." "Surely no!" said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing. The other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behave themselves properly. "Leave them alone," Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. "Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers--A king might envy us, and if we part them it's more like sacrilege than anything I know." Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect. Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click. "Signorina!" said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy? "Signorina!" echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why? For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box. "Victory at last!" said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again. "It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson. "It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy." Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son. "We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul." Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character. "He was not driving us well," she said. "He jolted us." "That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now. Can you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I'd be frightened of the girl, too. It doesn't do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?" Miss Lavish bristled. "Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?"<|quote|>"The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'"</|quote|>Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. "Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the May' "would render a correct meaning." "The point is, we have warred with it. Look." He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees. "Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to admire them. Do you suppose there's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both." No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d'Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly had he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, had become equally enthusiastic. But it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in your head, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting. And the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest. The party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keep together being only equalled by their desire to go different directions. Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with the drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics in common, were left to each other. The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emerson what his profession was, and he had answered "the railway." She was very sorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be such a dreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe had turned the conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not very much hurt at her asking him. "The railway!" gasped Miss Lavish. "Oh, but I shall die! Of course it was the railway!" She could not control her mirth. "He is the image of a porter--on, on the South-Eastern." "Eleanor, be quiet," plucking at her vivacious companion. "Hush! They'll hear--the Emersons--" "I can't stop. Let me go my wicked way. A porter--" "Eleanor!" "I'm sure it's all right," put in Lucy. "The Emersons won't hear, and they wouldn't mind if they did." Miss Lavish did not seem pleased at this. "Miss Honeychurch listening!" she said rather crossly. "Pouf! Wouf! You naughty girl! Go away!" "Oh, Lucy,
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A Room With A View
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I went out the door and into my own room and lay on the bed. The bed went sailing off and I sat up in bed and looked at the wall to make it stop. Outside in the square the fiesta was going on. It did not mean anything. Later Bill and Mike came in to get me to go down and eat with them. I pretended to be asleep.
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No speaker
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"Get some sleep, old Jake."<|quote|>I went out the door and into my own room and lay on the bed. The bed went sailing off and I sat up in bed and looked at the wall to make it stop. Outside in the square the fiesta was going on. It did not mean anything. Later Bill and Mike came in to get me to go down and eat with them. I pretended to be asleep.</|quote|>"He's asleep. Better let him
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blind." "Well, bung-o," Mike said. "Get some sleep, old Jake."<|quote|>I went out the door and into my own room and lay on the bed. The bed went sailing off and I sat up in bed and looked at the wall to make it stop. Outside in the square the fiesta was going on. It did not mean anything. Later Bill and Mike came in to get me to go down and eat with them. I pretended to be asleep.</|quote|>"He's asleep. Better let him alone." "He's blind as a
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do," Mike said. "She shouldn't have done it." "No." "Have a drink? Wait while I ring for some beer." "I'm drunk," I said. "I'm going in and lie down." "Are you blind? I was blind myself." "Yes," I said, "I'm blind." "Well, bung-o," Mike said. "Get some sleep, old Jake."<|quote|>I went out the door and into my own room and lay on the bed. The bed went sailing off and I sat up in bed and looked at the wall to make it stop. Outside in the square the fiesta was going on. It did not mean anything. Later Bill and Mike came in to get me to go down and eat with them. I pretended to be asleep.</|quote|>"He's asleep. Better let him alone." "He's blind as a tick," Mike said. They went out. I got up and went to the balcony and looked out at the dancing in the square. The world was not wheeling any more. It was just very clear and bright, and inclined to
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in, Jake." I went in and sat down. The room was unstable unless I looked at some fixed point. "Brett, you know. She's gone off with the bull-fighter chap." "No." "Yes. She looked for you to say good-bye. They went on the seven o'clock train." "Did they?" "Bad thing to do," Mike said. "She shouldn't have done it." "No." "Have a drink? Wait while I ring for some beer." "I'm drunk," I said. "I'm going in and lie down." "Are you blind? I was blind myself." "Yes," I said, "I'm blind." "Well, bung-o," Mike said. "Get some sleep, old Jake."<|quote|>I went out the door and into my own room and lay on the bed. The bed went sailing off and I sat up in bed and looked at the wall to make it stop. Outside in the square the fiesta was going on. It did not mean anything. Later Bill and Mike came in to get me to go down and eat with them. I pretended to be asleep.</|quote|>"He's asleep. Better let him alone." "He's blind as a tick," Mike said. They went out. I got up and went to the balcony and looked out at the dancing in the square. The world was not wheeling any more. It was just very clear and bright, and inclined to blur at the edges. I washed, brushed my hair. I looked strange to myself in the glass, and went down-stairs to the dining-room. "Here he is!" said Bill. "Good old Jake! I knew you wouldn't pass out." "Hello, you old drunk," Mike said. "I got hungry and woke up." "Eat
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sick." I set down the glass. I had not meant to drink it fast. "I feel tight." "You ought to." "That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" "Sure. Get tight. Get over your damn depression." "Well, I'm tight. Is that what you want?" "Sit down." "I won't sit down," I said. "I'm going over to the hotel." I was very drunk. I was drunker than I ever remembered having been. At the hotel I went up-stairs. Brett's door was open. I put my head in the room. Mike was sitting on the bed. He waved a bottle. "Jake," he said. "Come in, Jake." I went in and sat down. The room was unstable unless I looked at some fixed point. "Brett, you know. She's gone off with the bull-fighter chap." "No." "Yes. She looked for you to say good-bye. They went on the seven o'clock train." "Did they?" "Bad thing to do," Mike said. "She shouldn't have done it." "No." "Have a drink? Wait while I ring for some beer." "I'm drunk," I said. "I'm going in and lie down." "Are you blind? I was blind myself." "Yes," I said, "I'm blind." "Well, bung-o," Mike said. "Get some sleep, old Jake."<|quote|>I went out the door and into my own room and lay on the bed. The bed went sailing off and I sat up in bed and looked at the wall to make it stop. Outside in the square the fiesta was going on. It did not mean anything. Later Bill and Mike came in to get me to go down and eat with them. I pretended to be asleep.</|quote|>"He's asleep. Better let him alone." "He's blind as a tick," Mike said. They went out. I got up and went to the balcony and looked out at the dancing in the square. The world was not wheeling any more. It was just very clear and bright, and inclined to blur at the edges. I washed, brushed my hair. I looked strange to myself in the glass, and went down-stairs to the dining-room. "Here he is!" said Bill. "Good old Jake! I knew you wouldn't pass out." "Hello, you old drunk," Mike said. "I got hungry and woke up." "Eat some soup," Bill said. The three of us sat at the table, and it seemed as though about six people were missing. BOOK III CHAPTER 19 In the morning it was all over. The fiesta was finished. I woke about nine o'clock, had a bath, dressed, and went down-stairs. The square was empty and there were no people on the streets. A few children were picking up rocket-sticks in the square. The caf s were just opening and the waiters were carrying out the comfortable white wicker chairs and arranging them around the marble-topped tables in the shade of the
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old girl, probably." "Who was his old girl?" "Somebody named Frances." We had another absinthe. "When do you go back?" I asked. "To-morrow." After a little while Bill said: "Well, it was a swell fiesta." "Yes," I said; "something doing all the time." "You wouldn't believe it. It's like a wonderful nightmare." "Sure," I said. "I'd believe anything. Including nightmares." "What's the matter? Feel low?" "Low as hell." "Have another absinthe. Here, waiter! Another absinthe for this se or." "I feel like hell," I said. "Drink that," said Bill. "Drink it slow." It was beginning to get dark. The fiesta was going on. I began to feel drunk but I did not feel any better. "How do you feel?" "I feel like hell." "Have another?" "It won't do any good." "Try it. You can't tell; maybe this is the one that gets it. Hey, waiter! Another absinthe for this se or!" I poured the water directly into it and stirred it instead of letting it drip. Bill put in a lump of ice. I stirred the ice around with a spoon in the brownish, cloudy mixture. "How is it?" "Fine." "Don't drink it fast that way. It will make you sick." I set down the glass. I had not meant to drink it fast. "I feel tight." "You ought to." "That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" "Sure. Get tight. Get over your damn depression." "Well, I'm tight. Is that what you want?" "Sit down." "I won't sit down," I said. "I'm going over to the hotel." I was very drunk. I was drunker than I ever remembered having been. At the hotel I went up-stairs. Brett's door was open. I put my head in the room. Mike was sitting on the bed. He waved a bottle. "Jake," he said. "Come in, Jake." I went in and sat down. The room was unstable unless I looked at some fixed point. "Brett, you know. She's gone off with the bull-fighter chap." "No." "Yes. She looked for you to say good-bye. They went on the seven o'clock train." "Did they?" "Bad thing to do," Mike said. "She shouldn't have done it." "No." "Have a drink? Wait while I ring for some beer." "I'm drunk," I said. "I'm going in and lie down." "Are you blind? I was blind myself." "Yes," I said, "I'm blind." "Well, bung-o," Mike said. "Get some sleep, old Jake."<|quote|>I went out the door and into my own room and lay on the bed. The bed went sailing off and I sat up in bed and looked at the wall to make it stop. Outside in the square the fiesta was going on. It did not mean anything. Later Bill and Mike came in to get me to go down and eat with them. I pretended to be asleep.</|quote|>"He's asleep. Better let him alone." "He's blind as a tick," Mike said. They went out. I got up and went to the balcony and looked out at the dancing in the square. The world was not wheeling any more. It was just very clear and bright, and inclined to blur at the edges. I washed, brushed my hair. I looked strange to myself in the glass, and went down-stairs to the dining-room. "Here he is!" said Bill. "Good old Jake! I knew you wouldn't pass out." "Hello, you old drunk," Mike said. "I got hungry and woke up." "Eat some soup," Bill said. The three of us sat at the table, and it seemed as though about six people were missing. BOOK III CHAPTER 19 In the morning it was all over. The fiesta was finished. I woke about nine o'clock, had a bath, dressed, and went down-stairs. The square was empty and there were no people on the streets. A few children were picking up rocket-sticks in the square. The caf s were just opening and the waiters were carrying out the comfortable white wicker chairs and arranging them around the marble-topped tables in the shade of the arcade. They were sweeping the streets and sprinkling them with a hose. I sat in one of the wicker chairs and leaned back comfortably. The waiter was in no hurry to come. The white-paper announcements of the unloading of the bulls and the big schedules of special trains were still up on the pillars of the arcade. A waiter wearing a blue apron came out with a bucket of water and a cloth, and commenced to tear down the notices, pulling the paper off in strips and washing and rubbing away the paper that stuck to the stone. The fiesta was over. I drank a coffee and after a while Bill came over. I watched him come walking across the square. He sat down at the table and ordered a coffee. "Well," he said, "it's all over." "Yes," I said. "When do you go?" "I don't know. We better get a car, I think. Aren't you going back to Paris?" "No. I can stay away another week. I think I'll go to San Sebastian." "I want to get back." "What's Mike going to do?" "He's going to Saint Jean de Luz." "Let's get a car and all go as far
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him and put him on their shoulders. He fought and twisted away, and started running, in the midst of them, toward the exit. He did not want to be carried on people's shoulders. But they held him and lifted him. It was uncomfortable and his legs were spraddled and his body was very sore. They were lifting him and all running toward the gate. He had his hand on somebody's shoulder. He looked around at us apologetically. The crowd, running, went out the gate with him. We all three went back to the hotel. Brett went up-stairs. Bill and I sat in the down-stairs dining-room and ate some hard-boiled eggs and drank several bottles of beer. Belmonte came down in his street clothes with his manager and two other men. They sat at the next table and ate. Belmonte ate very little. They were leaving on the seven o'clock train for Barcelona. Belmonte wore a blue-striped shirt and a dark suit, and ate soft-boiled eggs. The others ate a big meal. Belmonte did not talk. He only answered questions. Bill was tired after the bull-fight. So was I. We both took a bull-fight very hard. We sat and ate the eggs and I watched Belmonte and the people at his table. The men with him were tough-looking and businesslike. "Come on over to the caf ," Bill said. "I want an absinthe." It was the last day of the fiesta. Outside it was beginning to be cloudy again. The square was full of people and the fireworks experts were making up their set pieces for the night and covering them over with beech branches. Boys were watching. We passed stands of rockets with long bamboo stems. Outside the caf there was a great crowd. The music and the dancing were going on. The giants and the dwarfs were passing. "Where's Edna?" I asked Bill. "I don't know." We watched the beginning of the evening of the last night of the fiesta. The absinthe made everything seem better. I drank it without sugar in the dripping glass, and it was pleasantly bitter. "I feel sorry about Cohn," Bill said. "He had an awful time." "Oh, to hell with Cohn," I said. "Where do you suppose he went?" "Up to Paris." "What do you suppose he'll do?" "Oh, to hell with him." "What do you suppose he'll do?" "Pick up with his old girl, probably." "Who was his old girl?" "Somebody named Frances." We had another absinthe. "When do you go back?" I asked. "To-morrow." After a little while Bill said: "Well, it was a swell fiesta." "Yes," I said; "something doing all the time." "You wouldn't believe it. It's like a wonderful nightmare." "Sure," I said. "I'd believe anything. Including nightmares." "What's the matter? Feel low?" "Low as hell." "Have another absinthe. Here, waiter! Another absinthe for this se or." "I feel like hell," I said. "Drink that," said Bill. "Drink it slow." It was beginning to get dark. The fiesta was going on. I began to feel drunk but I did not feel any better. "How do you feel?" "I feel like hell." "Have another?" "It won't do any good." "Try it. You can't tell; maybe this is the one that gets it. Hey, waiter! Another absinthe for this se or!" I poured the water directly into it and stirred it instead of letting it drip. Bill put in a lump of ice. I stirred the ice around with a spoon in the brownish, cloudy mixture. "How is it?" "Fine." "Don't drink it fast that way. It will make you sick." I set down the glass. I had not meant to drink it fast. "I feel tight." "You ought to." "That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" "Sure. Get tight. Get over your damn depression." "Well, I'm tight. Is that what you want?" "Sit down." "I won't sit down," I said. "I'm going over to the hotel." I was very drunk. I was drunker than I ever remembered having been. At the hotel I went up-stairs. Brett's door was open. I put my head in the room. Mike was sitting on the bed. He waved a bottle. "Jake," he said. "Come in, Jake." I went in and sat down. The room was unstable unless I looked at some fixed point. "Brett, you know. She's gone off with the bull-fighter chap." "No." "Yes. She looked for you to say good-bye. They went on the seven o'clock train." "Did they?" "Bad thing to do," Mike said. "She shouldn't have done it." "No." "Have a drink? Wait while I ring for some beer." "I'm drunk," I said. "I'm going in and lie down." "Are you blind? I was blind myself." "Yes," I said, "I'm blind." "Well, bung-o," Mike said. "Get some sleep, old Jake."<|quote|>I went out the door and into my own room and lay on the bed. The bed went sailing off and I sat up in bed and looked at the wall to make it stop. Outside in the square the fiesta was going on. It did not mean anything. Later Bill and Mike came in to get me to go down and eat with them. I pretended to be asleep.</|quote|>"He's asleep. Better let him alone." "He's blind as a tick," Mike said. They went out. I got up and went to the balcony and looked out at the dancing in the square. The world was not wheeling any more. It was just very clear and bright, and inclined to blur at the edges. I washed, brushed my hair. I looked strange to myself in the glass, and went down-stairs to the dining-room. "Here he is!" said Bill. "Good old Jake! I knew you wouldn't pass out." "Hello, you old drunk," Mike said. "I got hungry and woke up." "Eat some soup," Bill said. The three of us sat at the table, and it seemed as though about six people were missing. BOOK III CHAPTER 19 In the morning it was all over. The fiesta was finished. I woke about nine o'clock, had a bath, dressed, and went down-stairs. The square was empty and there were no people on the streets. A few children were picking up rocket-sticks in the square. The caf s were just opening and the waiters were carrying out the comfortable white wicker chairs and arranging them around the marble-topped tables in the shade of the arcade. They were sweeping the streets and sprinkling them with a hose. I sat in one of the wicker chairs and leaned back comfortably. The waiter was in no hurry to come. The white-paper announcements of the unloading of the bulls and the big schedules of special trains were still up on the pillars of the arcade. A waiter wearing a blue apron came out with a bucket of water and a cloth, and commenced to tear down the notices, pulling the paper off in strips and washing and rubbing away the paper that stuck to the stone. The fiesta was over. I drank a coffee and after a while Bill came over. I watched him come walking across the square. He sat down at the table and ordered a coffee. "Well," he said, "it's all over." "Yes," I said. "When do you go?" "I don't know. We better get a car, I think. Aren't you going back to Paris?" "No. I can stay away another week. I think I'll go to San Sebastian." "I want to get back." "What's Mike going to do?" "He's going to Saint Jean de Luz." "Let's get a car and all go as far as Bayonne. You can get the train up from there to-night." "Good. Let's go after lunch." "All right. I'll get the car." We had lunch and paid the bill. Montoya did not come near us. One of the maids brought the bill. The car was outside. The chauffeur piled and strapped the bags on top of the car and put them in beside him in the front seat and we got in. The car went out of the square, along through the side streets, out under the trees and down the hill and away from Pamplona. It did not seem like a very long ride. Mike had a bottle of Fundador. I only took a couple of drinks. We came over the mountains and out of Spain and down the white roads and through the overfoliaged, wet, green, Basque country, and finally into Bayonne. We left Bill's baggage at the station, and he bought a ticket to Paris. His train left at seven-ten. We came out of the station. The car was standing out in front. "What shall we do about the car?" Bill asked. "Oh, bother the car," Mike said. "Let's just keep the car with us." "All right," Bill said. "Where shall we go?" "Let's go to Biarritz and have a drink." "Old Mike the spender," Bill said. We drove in to Biarritz and left the car outside a very Ritz place. We went into the bar and sat on high stools and drank a whiskey and soda. "That drink's mine," Mike said. "Let's roll for it." So we rolled poker dice out of a deep leather dice-cup. Bill was out first roll. Mike lost to me and handed the bartender a hundred-franc note. The whiskeys were twelve francs apiece. We had another round and Mike lost again. Each time he gave the bartender a good tip. In a room off the bar there was a good jazz band playing. It was a pleasant bar. We had another round. I went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill and Mike rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won the second. On the final roll Mike had three kings and let them stay. He handed the dice-cup to Bill. Bill rattled them and rolled, and there were three kings, an ace, and a queen. "It's yours, Mike," Bill said. "Old Mike, the gambler." "I'm
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suppose he'll do?" "Pick up with his old girl, probably." "Who was his old girl?" "Somebody named Frances." We had another absinthe. "When do you go back?" I asked. "To-morrow." After a little while Bill said: "Well, it was a swell fiesta." "Yes," I said; "something doing all the time." "You wouldn't believe it. It's like a wonderful nightmare." "Sure," I said. "I'd believe anything. Including nightmares." "What's the matter? Feel low?" "Low as hell." "Have another absinthe. Here, waiter! Another absinthe for this se or." "I feel like hell," I said. "Drink that," said Bill. "Drink it slow." It was beginning to get dark. The fiesta was going on. I began to feel drunk but I did not feel any better. "How do you feel?" "I feel like hell." "Have another?" "It won't do any good." "Try it. You can't tell; maybe this is the one that gets it. Hey, waiter! Another absinthe for this se or!" I poured the water directly into it and stirred it instead of letting it drip. Bill put in a lump of ice. I stirred the ice around with a spoon in the brownish, cloudy mixture. "How is it?" "Fine." "Don't drink it fast that way. It will make you sick." I set down the glass. I had not meant to drink it fast. "I feel tight." "You ought to." "That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" "Sure. Get tight. Get over your damn depression." "Well, I'm tight. Is that what you want?" "Sit down." "I won't sit down," I said. "I'm going over to the hotel." I was very drunk. I was drunker than I ever remembered having been. At the hotel I went up-stairs. Brett's door was open. I put my head in the room. Mike was sitting on the bed. He waved a bottle. "Jake," he said. "Come in, Jake." I went in and sat down. The room was unstable unless I looked at some fixed point. "Brett, you know. She's gone off with the bull-fighter chap." "No." "Yes. She looked for you to say good-bye. They went on the seven o'clock train." "Did they?" "Bad thing to do," Mike said. "She shouldn't have done it." "No." "Have a drink? Wait while I ring for some beer." "I'm drunk," I said. "I'm going in and lie down." "Are you blind? I was blind myself." "Yes," I said, "I'm blind." "Well, bung-o," Mike said. "Get some sleep, old Jake."<|quote|>I went out the door and into my own room and lay on the bed. The bed went sailing off and I sat up in bed and looked at the wall to make it stop. Outside in the square the fiesta was going on. It did not mean anything. Later Bill and Mike came in to get me to go down and eat with them. I pretended to be asleep.</|quote|>"He's asleep. Better let him alone." "He's blind as a tick," Mike said. They went out. I got up and went to the balcony and looked out at the dancing in the square. The world was not wheeling any more. It was just very clear and bright, and inclined to blur at the edges. I washed, brushed my hair. I looked strange to myself in the glass, and went down-stairs to the dining-room. "Here he is!" said Bill. "Good old Jake! I knew you wouldn't pass out." "Hello, you old drunk," Mike said. "I got hungry and woke up." "Eat some soup," Bill said. The three of us sat at the table, and it seemed as though about six people were missing. BOOK III CHAPTER 19 In the morning it was all over. The fiesta was finished. I woke about nine o'clock, had a bath, dressed, and went down-stairs. The square was empty and there were no people on the streets. A few children were picking up rocket-sticks in the square. The caf s were just opening and the waiters were carrying out the comfortable white wicker chairs and arranging them around the marble-topped tables in the shade of the arcade. They were sweeping the streets and sprinkling them with a hose. I sat in one of the wicker chairs and leaned back comfortably. The waiter was in no hurry to come. The white-paper announcements of the unloading of the bulls and the big schedules of special trains were still up on the pillars of the arcade. A waiter wearing a blue apron came out with a bucket of water and a cloth, and commenced to tear down the notices, pulling the paper off in strips and washing and rubbing away the paper that stuck to the stone. The fiesta was over. I drank a coffee and after a while Bill came over. I watched him come walking across the square. He sat down at the table and ordered a coffee. "Well," he said, "it's all over." "Yes," I said. "When do you go?" "I don't know. We better get a car, I think. Aren't you going back to Paris?" "No. I can stay away another week. I think I'll go to San Sebastian." "I want to get back." "What's Mike going to do?" "He's going to Saint Jean de Luz." "Let's get a car and all go as far as Bayonne. You can get the train up from there to-night." "Good. Let's go after lunch." "All right. I'll get the car." We had lunch and paid the bill. Montoya did not come near us. One of the maids brought the bill. The car was outside. The chauffeur piled and strapped the bags on top of the car and put them in beside him in the front seat and we got in. The car went out of the square, along through the side streets, out under the trees and down the hill and away from Pamplona. It did not seem like a very long ride. Mike had a bottle of Fundador. I only took a couple of drinks. We came over the mountains and out of Spain and down the white roads and through the overfoliaged, wet, green, Basque country, and finally into Bayonne. We left Bill's baggage at the station,
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The Sun Also Rises
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Katharine whispered, desiring, at all costs, to keep him quiet. Oddly enough, when the speaker was no longer in front of them, there seemed to be much that was suggestive in what he had said. At any rate, a pale-faced young man with sad eyes was already on his feet, delivering an accurately worded speech with perfect composure. William Rodney listened with a curious lifting of his upper lip, although his face was still quivering slightly with emotion.
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No speaker
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You must answer their questions,"<|quote|>Katharine whispered, desiring, at all costs, to keep him quiet. Oddly enough, when the speaker was no longer in front of them, there seemed to be much that was suggestive in what he had said. At any rate, a pale-faced young man with sad eyes was already on his feet, delivering an accurately worded speech with perfect composure. William Rodney listened with a curious lifting of his upper lip, although his face was still quivering slightly with emotion.</|quote|>"Idiot!" he whispered. "He s
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was terrible! terrible! terrible!" "Hush! You must answer their questions,"<|quote|>Katharine whispered, desiring, at all costs, to keep him quiet. Oddly enough, when the speaker was no longer in front of them, there seemed to be much that was suggestive in what he had said. At any rate, a pale-faced young man with sad eyes was already on his feet, delivering an accurately worded speech with perfect composure. William Rodney listened with a curious lifting of his upper lip, although his face was still quivering slightly with emotion.</|quote|>"Idiot!" he whispered. "He s misunderstood every word I said!"
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to answer questions, he jumped up, thrust himself through the seated bodies into the corner where Katharine was sitting, and exclaimed, very audibly: "Well, Katharine, I hope I ve made a big enough fool of myself even for you! It was terrible! terrible! terrible!" "Hush! You must answer their questions,"<|quote|>Katharine whispered, desiring, at all costs, to keep him quiet. Oddly enough, when the speaker was no longer in front of them, there seemed to be much that was suggestive in what he had said. At any rate, a pale-faced young man with sad eyes was already on his feet, delivering an accurately worded speech with perfect composure. William Rodney listened with a curious lifting of his upper lip, although his face was still quivering slightly with emotion.</|quote|>"Idiot!" he whispered. "He s misunderstood every word I said!" "Well then, answer him," Katharine whispered back. "No, I shan t! They d only laugh at me. Why did I let you persuade me that these sort of people care for literature?" he continued. There was much to be said
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At length Mr. Rodney sat down impulsively in the middle of a sentence, and, after a pause of bewilderment, the audience expressed its relief at being able to laugh aloud in a decided outburst of applause. Mr. Rodney acknowledged this with a wild glance round him, and, instead of waiting to answer questions, he jumped up, thrust himself through the seated bodies into the corner where Katharine was sitting, and exclaimed, very audibly: "Well, Katharine, I hope I ve made a big enough fool of myself even for you! It was terrible! terrible! terrible!" "Hush! You must answer their questions,"<|quote|>Katharine whispered, desiring, at all costs, to keep him quiet. Oddly enough, when the speaker was no longer in front of them, there seemed to be much that was suggestive in what he had said. At any rate, a pale-faced young man with sad eyes was already on his feet, delivering an accurately worded speech with perfect composure. William Rodney listened with a curious lifting of his upper lip, although his face was still quivering slightly with emotion.</|quote|>"Idiot!" he whispered. "He s misunderstood every word I said!" "Well then, answer him," Katharine whispered back. "No, I shan t! They d only laugh at me. Why did I let you persuade me that these sort of people care for literature?" he continued. There was much to be said both for and against Mr. Rodney s paper. It had been crammed with assertions that such-and-such passages, taken liberally from English, French, and Italian, are the supreme pearls of literature. Further, he was fond of using metaphors which, compounded in the study, were apt to sound either cramped or out
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two were written together, and to discover his own handwriting suddenly illegible. When he found himself possessed of a coherent passage, he shook it at his audience almost aggressively, and then fumbled for another. After a distressing search a fresh discovery would be made, and produced in the same way, until, by means of repeated attacks, he had stirred his audience to a degree of animation quite remarkable in these gatherings. Whether they were stirred by his enthusiasm for poetry or by the contortions which a human being was going through for their benefit, it would be hard to say. At length Mr. Rodney sat down impulsively in the middle of a sentence, and, after a pause of bewilderment, the audience expressed its relief at being able to laugh aloud in a decided outburst of applause. Mr. Rodney acknowledged this with a wild glance round him, and, instead of waiting to answer questions, he jumped up, thrust himself through the seated bodies into the corner where Katharine was sitting, and exclaimed, very audibly: "Well, Katharine, I hope I ve made a big enough fool of myself even for you! It was terrible! terrible! terrible!" "Hush! You must answer their questions,"<|quote|>Katharine whispered, desiring, at all costs, to keep him quiet. Oddly enough, when the speaker was no longer in front of them, there seemed to be much that was suggestive in what he had said. At any rate, a pale-faced young man with sad eyes was already on his feet, delivering an accurately worded speech with perfect composure. William Rodney listened with a curious lifting of his upper lip, although his face was still quivering slightly with emotion.</|quote|>"Idiot!" he whispered. "He s misunderstood every word I said!" "Well then, answer him," Katharine whispered back. "No, I shan t! They d only laugh at me. Why did I let you persuade me that these sort of people care for literature?" he continued. There was much to be said both for and against Mr. Rodney s paper. It had been crammed with assertions that such-and-such passages, taken liberally from English, French, and Italian, are the supreme pearls of literature. Further, he was fond of using metaphors which, compounded in the study, were apt to sound either cramped or out of place as he delivered them in fragments. Literature was a fresh garland of spring flowers, he said, in which yew-berries and the purple nightshade mingled with the various tints of the anemone; and somehow or other this garland encircled marble brows. He had read very badly some very beautiful quotations. But through his manner and his confusion of language there had emerged some passion of feeling which, as he spoke, formed in the majority of the audience a little picture or an idea which each now was eager to give expression to. Most of the people there proposed to
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jerked his head to right and left, as though a vision drew him now to the door, now to the window, bespoke his horrible discomfort under the stare of so many eyes. He was scrupulously well dressed, and a pearl in the center of his tie seemed to give him a touch of aristocratic opulence. But the rather prominent eyes and the impulsive stammering manner, which seemed to indicate a torrent of ideas intermittently pressing for utterance and always checked in their course by a clutch of nervousness, drew no pity, as in the case of a more imposing personage, but a desire to laugh, which was, however, entirely lacking in malice. Mr. Rodney was evidently so painfully conscious of the oddity of his appearance, and his very redness and the starts to which his body was liable gave such proof of his own discomfort, that there was something endearing in this ridiculous susceptibility, although most people would probably have echoed Denham s private exclamation, "Fancy marrying a creature like that!" His paper was carefully written out, but in spite of this precaution Mr. Rodney managed to turn over two sheets instead of one, to choose the wrong sentence where two were written together, and to discover his own handwriting suddenly illegible. When he found himself possessed of a coherent passage, he shook it at his audience almost aggressively, and then fumbled for another. After a distressing search a fresh discovery would be made, and produced in the same way, until, by means of repeated attacks, he had stirred his audience to a degree of animation quite remarkable in these gatherings. Whether they were stirred by his enthusiasm for poetry or by the contortions which a human being was going through for their benefit, it would be hard to say. At length Mr. Rodney sat down impulsively in the middle of a sentence, and, after a pause of bewilderment, the audience expressed its relief at being able to laugh aloud in a decided outburst of applause. Mr. Rodney acknowledged this with a wild glance round him, and, instead of waiting to answer questions, he jumped up, thrust himself through the seated bodies into the corner where Katharine was sitting, and exclaimed, very audibly: "Well, Katharine, I hope I ve made a big enough fool of myself even for you! It was terrible! terrible! terrible!" "Hush! You must answer their questions,"<|quote|>Katharine whispered, desiring, at all costs, to keep him quiet. Oddly enough, when the speaker was no longer in front of them, there seemed to be much that was suggestive in what he had said. At any rate, a pale-faced young man with sad eyes was already on his feet, delivering an accurately worded speech with perfect composure. William Rodney listened with a curious lifting of his upper lip, although his face was still quivering slightly with emotion.</|quote|>"Idiot!" he whispered. "He s misunderstood every word I said!" "Well then, answer him," Katharine whispered back. "No, I shan t! They d only laugh at me. Why did I let you persuade me that these sort of people care for literature?" he continued. There was much to be said both for and against Mr. Rodney s paper. It had been crammed with assertions that such-and-such passages, taken liberally from English, French, and Italian, are the supreme pearls of literature. Further, he was fond of using metaphors which, compounded in the study, were apt to sound either cramped or out of place as he delivered them in fragments. Literature was a fresh garland of spring flowers, he said, in which yew-berries and the purple nightshade mingled with the various tints of the anemone; and somehow or other this garland encircled marble brows. He had read very badly some very beautiful quotations. But through his manner and his confusion of language there had emerged some passion of feeling which, as he spoke, formed in the majority of the audience a little picture or an idea which each now was eager to give expression to. Most of the people there proposed to spend their lives in the practice either of writing or painting, and merely by looking at them it could be seen that, as they listened to Mr. Purvis first, and then to Mr. Greenhalgh, they were seeing something done by these gentlemen to a possession which they thought to be their own. One person after another rose, and, as with an ill-balanced axe, attempted to hew out his conception of art a little more clearly, and sat down with the feeling that, for some reason which he could not grasp, his strokes had gone awry. As they sat down they turned almost invariably to the person sitting next them, and rectified and continued what they had just said in public. Before long, therefore, the groups on the mattresses and the groups on the chairs were all in communication with each other, and Mary Datchet, who had begun to darn stockings again, stooped down and remarked to Ralph: "That was what I call a first-rate paper." Both of them instinctively turned their eyes in the direction of the reader of the paper. He was lying back against the wall, with his eyes apparently shut, and his chin sunk upon his collar.
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me." "They say she s going to marry that queer creature Rodney." "Marry Rodney? Then she must be more deluded than I thought her." "Now that s my door, all right," Mary exclaimed, carefully putting her wools away, as a succession of knocks reverberated unnecessarily, accompanied by a sound of people stamping their feet and laughing. A moment later the room was full of young men and women, who came in with a peculiar look of expectation, exclaimed "Oh!" when they saw Denham, and then stood still, gaping rather foolishly. The room very soon contained between twenty and thirty people, who found seats for the most part upon the floor, occupying the mattresses, and hunching themselves together into triangular shapes. They were all young and some of them seemed to make a protest by their hair and dress, and something somber and truculent in the expression of their faces, against the more normal type, who would have passed unnoticed in an omnibus or an underground railway. It was notable that the talk was confined to groups, and was, at first, entirely spasmodic in character, and muttered in undertones as if the speakers were suspicious of their fellow-guests. Katharine Hilbery came in rather late, and took up a position on the floor, with her back against the wall. She looked round quickly, recognized about half a dozen people, to whom she nodded, but failed to see Ralph, or, if so, had already forgotten to attach any name to him. But in a second these heterogeneous elements were all united by the voice of Mr. Rodney, who suddenly strode up to the table, and began very rapidly in high-strained tones: "In undertaking to speak of the Elizabethan use of metaphor in poetry" All the different heads swung slightly or steadied themselves into a position in which they could gaze straight at the speaker s face, and the same rather solemn expression was visible on all of them. But, at the same time, even the faces that were most exposed to view, and therefore most tautly under control, disclosed a sudden impulsive tremor which, unless directly checked, would have developed into an outburst of laughter. The first sight of Mr. Rodney was irresistibly ludicrous. He was very red in the face, whether from the cool November night or nervousness, and every movement, from the way he wrung his hands to the way he jerked his head to right and left, as though a vision drew him now to the door, now to the window, bespoke his horrible discomfort under the stare of so many eyes. He was scrupulously well dressed, and a pearl in the center of his tie seemed to give him a touch of aristocratic opulence. But the rather prominent eyes and the impulsive stammering manner, which seemed to indicate a torrent of ideas intermittently pressing for utterance and always checked in their course by a clutch of nervousness, drew no pity, as in the case of a more imposing personage, but a desire to laugh, which was, however, entirely lacking in malice. Mr. Rodney was evidently so painfully conscious of the oddity of his appearance, and his very redness and the starts to which his body was liable gave such proof of his own discomfort, that there was something endearing in this ridiculous susceptibility, although most people would probably have echoed Denham s private exclamation, "Fancy marrying a creature like that!" His paper was carefully written out, but in spite of this precaution Mr. Rodney managed to turn over two sheets instead of one, to choose the wrong sentence where two were written together, and to discover his own handwriting suddenly illegible. When he found himself possessed of a coherent passage, he shook it at his audience almost aggressively, and then fumbled for another. After a distressing search a fresh discovery would be made, and produced in the same way, until, by means of repeated attacks, he had stirred his audience to a degree of animation quite remarkable in these gatherings. Whether they were stirred by his enthusiasm for poetry or by the contortions which a human being was going through for their benefit, it would be hard to say. At length Mr. Rodney sat down impulsively in the middle of a sentence, and, after a pause of bewilderment, the audience expressed its relief at being able to laugh aloud in a decided outburst of applause. Mr. Rodney acknowledged this with a wild glance round him, and, instead of waiting to answer questions, he jumped up, thrust himself through the seated bodies into the corner where Katharine was sitting, and exclaimed, very audibly: "Well, Katharine, I hope I ve made a big enough fool of myself even for you! It was terrible! terrible! terrible!" "Hush! You must answer their questions,"<|quote|>Katharine whispered, desiring, at all costs, to keep him quiet. Oddly enough, when the speaker was no longer in front of them, there seemed to be much that was suggestive in what he had said. At any rate, a pale-faced young man with sad eyes was already on his feet, delivering an accurately worded speech with perfect composure. William Rodney listened with a curious lifting of his upper lip, although his face was still quivering slightly with emotion.</|quote|>"Idiot!" he whispered. "He s misunderstood every word I said!" "Well then, answer him," Katharine whispered back. "No, I shan t! They d only laugh at me. Why did I let you persuade me that these sort of people care for literature?" he continued. There was much to be said both for and against Mr. Rodney s paper. It had been crammed with assertions that such-and-such passages, taken liberally from English, French, and Italian, are the supreme pearls of literature. Further, he was fond of using metaphors which, compounded in the study, were apt to sound either cramped or out of place as he delivered them in fragments. Literature was a fresh garland of spring flowers, he said, in which yew-berries and the purple nightshade mingled with the various tints of the anemone; and somehow or other this garland encircled marble brows. He had read very badly some very beautiful quotations. But through his manner and his confusion of language there had emerged some passion of feeling which, as he spoke, formed in the majority of the audience a little picture or an idea which each now was eager to give expression to. Most of the people there proposed to spend their lives in the practice either of writing or painting, and merely by looking at them it could be seen that, as they listened to Mr. Purvis first, and then to Mr. Greenhalgh, they were seeing something done by these gentlemen to a possession which they thought to be their own. One person after another rose, and, as with an ill-balanced axe, attempted to hew out his conception of art a little more clearly, and sat down with the feeling that, for some reason which he could not grasp, his strokes had gone awry. As they sat down they turned almost invariably to the person sitting next them, and rectified and continued what they had just said in public. Before long, therefore, the groups on the mattresses and the groups on the chairs were all in communication with each other, and Mary Datchet, who had begun to darn stockings again, stooped down and remarked to Ralph: "That was what I call a first-rate paper." Both of them instinctively turned their eyes in the direction of the reader of the paper. He was lying back against the wall, with his eyes apparently shut, and his chin sunk upon his collar. Katharine was turning over the pages of his manuscript as if she were looking for some passage that had particularly struck her, and had a difficulty in finding it. "Let s go and tell him how much we liked it," said Mary, thus suggesting an action which Ralph was anxious to take, though without her he would have been too proud to do it, for he suspected that he had more interest in Katharine than she had in him. "That was a very interesting paper," Mary began, without any shyness, seating herself on the floor opposite to Rodney and Katharine. "Will you lend me the manuscript to read in peace?" Rodney, who had opened his eyes on their approach, regarded her for a moment in suspicious silence. "Do you say that merely to disguise the fact of my ridiculous failure?" he asked. Katharine looked up from her reading with a smile. "He says he doesn t mind what we think of him," she remarked. "He says we don t care a rap for art of any kind." "I asked her to pity me, and she teases me!" Rodney exclaimed. "I don t intend to pity you, Mr. Rodney," Mary remarked, kindly, but firmly. "When a paper s a failure, nobody says anything, whereas now, just listen to them!" The sound, which filled the room, with its hurry of short syllables, its sudden pauses, and its sudden attacks, might be compared to some animal hubbub, frantic and inarticulate. "D you think that s all about my paper?" Rodney inquired, after a moment s attention, with a distinct brightening of expression. "Of course it is," said Mary. "It was a very suggestive paper." She turned to Denham for confirmation, and he corroborated her. "It s the ten minutes after a paper is read that proves whether it s been a success or not," he said. "If I were you, Rodney, I should be very pleased with myself." This commendation seemed to comfort Mr. Rodney completely, and he began to bethink him of all the passages in his paper which deserved to be called "suggestive." "Did you agree at all, Denham, with what I said about Shakespeare s later use of imagery? I m afraid I didn t altogether make my meaning plain." Here he gathered himself together, and by means of a series of frog-like jerks, succeeded in bringing himself close to
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prominent eyes and the impulsive stammering manner, which seemed to indicate a torrent of ideas intermittently pressing for utterance and always checked in their course by a clutch of nervousness, drew no pity, as in the case of a more imposing personage, but a desire to laugh, which was, however, entirely lacking in malice. Mr. Rodney was evidently so painfully conscious of the oddity of his appearance, and his very redness and the starts to which his body was liable gave such proof of his own discomfort, that there was something endearing in this ridiculous susceptibility, although most people would probably have echoed Denham s private exclamation, "Fancy marrying a creature like that!" His paper was carefully written out, but in spite of this precaution Mr. Rodney managed to turn over two sheets instead of one, to choose the wrong sentence where two were written together, and to discover his own handwriting suddenly illegible. When he found himself possessed of a coherent passage, he shook it at his audience almost aggressively, and then fumbled for another. After a distressing search a fresh discovery would be made, and produced in the same way, until, by means of repeated attacks, he had stirred his audience to a degree of animation quite remarkable in these gatherings. Whether they were stirred by his enthusiasm for poetry or by the contortions which a human being was going through for their benefit, it would be hard to say. At length Mr. Rodney sat down impulsively in the middle of a sentence, and, after a pause of bewilderment, the audience expressed its relief at being able to laugh aloud in a decided outburst of applause. Mr. Rodney acknowledged this with a wild glance round him, and, instead of waiting to answer questions, he jumped up, thrust himself through the seated bodies into the corner where Katharine was sitting, and exclaimed, very audibly: "Well, Katharine, I hope I ve made a big enough fool of myself even for you! It was terrible! terrible! terrible!" "Hush! You must answer their questions,"<|quote|>Katharine whispered, desiring, at all costs, to keep him quiet. Oddly enough, when the speaker was no longer in front of them, there seemed to be much that was suggestive in what he had said. At any rate, a pale-faced young man with sad eyes was already on his feet, delivering an accurately worded speech with perfect composure. William Rodney listened with a curious lifting of his upper lip, although his face was still quivering slightly with emotion.</|quote|>"Idiot!" he whispered. "He s misunderstood every word I said!" "Well then, answer him," Katharine whispered back. "No, I shan t! They d only laugh at me. Why did I let you persuade me that these sort of people care for literature?" he continued. There was much to be said both for and against Mr. Rodney s paper. It had been crammed with assertions that such-and-such passages, taken liberally from English, French, and Italian, are the supreme pearls of literature. Further, he was fond of using metaphors which, compounded in the study, were apt to sound either cramped or out of place as he delivered them in fragments. Literature was a fresh garland of spring flowers, he said, in which yew-berries and the purple nightshade mingled with the various tints of the anemone; and somehow or other this garland encircled marble brows. He had read very badly some very beautiful quotations. But through his manner and his confusion of language there had emerged some passion of feeling which, as he spoke, formed in the majority of the audience a little picture or an idea which each now was eager to give expression to. Most of the people there proposed to spend their lives in the practice either of writing or painting, and merely by looking at them it could be seen that, as they listened to Mr. Purvis first, and then to
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Night And Day
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“Have you seriously come to propose--and from _him_ again,”
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Grace
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gaped like a jostled wound,<|quote|>“Have you seriously come to propose--and from _him_ again,”</|quote|>she added-- “that I shall
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didn’t answer, while their breach gaped like a jostled wound,<|quote|>“Have you seriously come to propose--and from _him_ again,”</|quote|>she added-- “that I shall reconsider my resolute act and
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our relation as father and daughter.” “You understand me no better than I fear I understand you,” Lady Grace returned, “if what you expect of me is really to take back my words to Lord John.” And then as he didn’t answer, while their breach gaped like a jostled wound,<|quote|>“Have you seriously come to propose--and from _him_ again,”</|quote|>she added-- “that I shall reconsider my resolute act and lend myself to your beautiful arrangement?” It had so the sound of unmixed ridicule that he could only, for his dignity, not give way to passion. “I’ve come, above all, for _this_, I may say, Grace: to remind you of
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you.” The perfect readiness of which on his lips had, like a higher wave, the virtue of lifting and dropping him to still more tangible ground. “And if I understand you aright as wishing to know whether I apologise for that zeal, why you take a most preposterous view of our relation as father and daughter.” “You understand me no better than I fear I understand you,” Lady Grace returned, “if what you expect of me is really to take back my words to Lord John.” And then as he didn’t answer, while their breach gaped like a jostled wound,<|quote|>“Have you seriously come to propose--and from _him_ again,”</|quote|>she added-- “that I shall reconsider my resolute act and lend myself to your beautiful arrangement?” It had so the sound of unmixed ridicule that he could only, for his dignity, not give way to passion. “I’ve come, above all, for _this_, I may say, Grace: to remind you of whom you’re addressing when you jibe at me, and to make of you assuredly a plain demand--exactly as to whether you judged us to have actively _incurred_ your treatment of our unhappy friend, to have brought it upon us, he and I, by my refusal to discuss with you at
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moping here without a sign!” “But a sign of what, father?” she asked--as helpless as a lone islander scanning the horizon for a sail. “Of your appreciating, of your in some degree dutifully considering, the predicament into which you’ve put me!” “Hasn’t it occurred to you in the least that you’ve rather put _me_ into one?” He threw back his head as from exasperated nerves. “I put you certainly in the predicament of your receiving by my care a handsome settlement in life--which all the elements that would make for your enjoying it had every appearance of successfully commending to you.” The perfect readiness of which on his lips had, like a higher wave, the virtue of lifting and dropping him to still more tangible ground. “And if I understand you aright as wishing to know whether I apologise for that zeal, why you take a most preposterous view of our relation as father and daughter.” “You understand me no better than I fear I understand you,” Lady Grace returned, “if what you expect of me is really to take back my words to Lord John.” And then as he didn’t answer, while their breach gaped like a jostled wound,<|quote|>“Have you seriously come to propose--and from _him_ again,”</|quote|>she added-- “that I shall reconsider my resolute act and lend myself to your beautiful arrangement?” It had so the sound of unmixed ridicule that he could only, for his dignity, not give way to passion. “I’ve come, above all, for _this_, I may say, Grace: to remind you of whom you’re addressing when you jibe at me, and to make of you assuredly a plain demand--exactly as to whether you judged us to have actively _incurred_ your treatment of our unhappy friend, to have brought it upon us, he and I, by my refusal to discuss with you at such a crisis the question of my disposition of a particular item of my property. I’ve only to look at you, for that matter,” Lord Theign continued--always with a finer point and a higher consistency as his rehearsal of his wrongs broadened-- “to have my inquiry, as it seems to me, eloquently answered. You flounced away from poor John, you took, as he tells me, ‘his head off,’ just to repay me for what you chose to regard as my snub on the score of your challenging my entertainment of a possible purchaser; a rebuke launched at me, practically, in
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back to his more careful eye, across the counter, some questionable coin that he has tried to pass. “Why, your own sister to begin with--whose interest in what may make for your happiness I suppose you decently recognise; and _his_ people, one and all, the delightful old Duchess in particular, who only wanted to be charming to you, and who are as good people, and as pleasant and as clever, damn it, when all’s said and done, as any others that are likely to come your way.” It clearly did his lordship good to work out thus his case, which grew more and more coherent to him and glowed with irresistible colour. “Letting alone gallant John himself, most amiable of men, about whose merits and whose claims you appear to have pretended to agree with me just that you might, when he presumed, poor chap, ardently to urge them, deal him with the more cruel effect that calculated blow on the mouth!” It was clear that in the girl’s great gravity embarrassment had no share. “They so come down on you I understand then, father, that you’re obliged to come down on _me?_” “Assuredly--for some better satisfaction than your just moping here without a sign!” “But a sign of what, father?” she asked--as helpless as a lone islander scanning the horizon for a sail. “Of your appreciating, of your in some degree dutifully considering, the predicament into which you’ve put me!” “Hasn’t it occurred to you in the least that you’ve rather put _me_ into one?” He threw back his head as from exasperated nerves. “I put you certainly in the predicament of your receiving by my care a handsome settlement in life--which all the elements that would make for your enjoying it had every appearance of successfully commending to you.” The perfect readiness of which on his lips had, like a higher wave, the virtue of lifting and dropping him to still more tangible ground. “And if I understand you aright as wishing to know whether I apologise for that zeal, why you take a most preposterous view of our relation as father and daughter.” “You understand me no better than I fear I understand you,” Lady Grace returned, “if what you expect of me is really to take back my words to Lord John.” And then as he didn’t answer, while their breach gaped like a jostled wound,<|quote|>“Have you seriously come to propose--and from _him_ again,”</|quote|>she added-- “that I shall reconsider my resolute act and lend myself to your beautiful arrangement?” It had so the sound of unmixed ridicule that he could only, for his dignity, not give way to passion. “I’ve come, above all, for _this_, I may say, Grace: to remind you of whom you’re addressing when you jibe at me, and to make of you assuredly a plain demand--exactly as to whether you judged us to have actively _incurred_ your treatment of our unhappy friend, to have brought it upon us, he and I, by my refusal to discuss with you at such a crisis the question of my disposition of a particular item of my property. I’ve only to look at you, for that matter,” Lord Theign continued--always with a finer point and a higher consistency as his rehearsal of his wrongs broadened-- “to have my inquiry, as it seems to me, eloquently answered. You flounced away from poor John, you took, as he tells me, ‘his head off,’ just to repay me for what you chose to regard as my snub on the score of your challenging my entertainment of a possible purchaser; a rebuke launched at me, practically, in the presence of a most inferior person, a stranger and an intruder, from whom you had all the air of taking your cue for naming me the great condition on which you’d gratify my hope. Am I to understand, in other words,” --and his lordship mounted to a climax-- “that you sent us about our business because I failed to gratify _your_ hope: that of my knocking under to your sudden monstrous pretension to lay down the law for my choice of ways and means of raising, to my best convenience, a considerable sum of money? You’ll be so good as to understand, once for all, that I recognise there no right of interference from any quarter--and also to let that knowledge govern your behaviour in my absence.” Lady Grace had thus for some minutes waited on his words--waited even as almost with anxiety for the safe conduct he might look to from some of the more extravagant of them. But he at least felt at the end--if it was an end--all he owed them; so that there was nothing for her but to accept as achieved his dreadful felicity. “You’re very angry with me, and I hope you won’t
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exclamation marked at once with patience and impatience, with resignation and ridicule. After which, waiting for his daughter, Lord Theign slowly and absently roamed, finding matches at last and lighting his cigarette--all with an air of concern that had settled on him more heavily from the moment of his finding himself alone. His luxury of gloom--if gloom it was--dropped, however, on his taking heed of Lady Grace, who, arriving on the scene through the other room, had had just time to stand and watch him in silence. “Oh!” he jerked out at sight of her--which she had to content herself with as a parental greeting after separation, his next words doing little to qualify its dryness. “I take it for granted that you know I’m within a couple of hours of leaving England under a necessity of health.” And then as drawing nearer, she signified without speaking her possession of this fact: “I’ve thought accordingly that before I go I should--on this first possible occasion since that odious occurrence at Dedborough--like to leave you a little more food for meditation, in my absence, on the painfully false position in which you there placed me.” He carried himself restlessly even perhaps with a shade of awkwardness, to which her stillness was a contrast; she just waited, wholly passive--possibly indeed a trifle portentous. “If you had plotted and planned it in advance,” he none the less firmly pursued, “if you had acted from some uncanny or malignant motive, you couldn’t have arranged more perfectly to incommode, to disconcert and, to all intents and purposes, make light of me and insult me.” Even before this charge she made no sign; with her eyes now attached to the ground she let him proceed. “I had practically guaranteed to our excellent, our charming friend, your favourable view of his appeal--which you yourself too, remember, had left him in so little doubt of!--so that, having by your performance so egregiously failed him, I have the pleasure of their coming down on me for explanations, for compensations, and for God knows what besides.” Lady Grace, looking up at last, left him in no doubt of the rigour of her attention. “I’m sorry indeed, father, to have done you any wrong; but may I ask whom, in such a connection, you refer to as ‘they’?” “‘They’?” he echoed in the manner of a man who has had handed back to his more careful eye, across the counter, some questionable coin that he has tried to pass. “Why, your own sister to begin with--whose interest in what may make for your happiness I suppose you decently recognise; and _his_ people, one and all, the delightful old Duchess in particular, who only wanted to be charming to you, and who are as good people, and as pleasant and as clever, damn it, when all’s said and done, as any others that are likely to come your way.” It clearly did his lordship good to work out thus his case, which grew more and more coherent to him and glowed with irresistible colour. “Letting alone gallant John himself, most amiable of men, about whose merits and whose claims you appear to have pretended to agree with me just that you might, when he presumed, poor chap, ardently to urge them, deal him with the more cruel effect that calculated blow on the mouth!” It was clear that in the girl’s great gravity embarrassment had no share. “They so come down on you I understand then, father, that you’re obliged to come down on _me?_” “Assuredly--for some better satisfaction than your just moping here without a sign!” “But a sign of what, father?” she asked--as helpless as a lone islander scanning the horizon for a sail. “Of your appreciating, of your in some degree dutifully considering, the predicament into which you’ve put me!” “Hasn’t it occurred to you in the least that you’ve rather put _me_ into one?” He threw back his head as from exasperated nerves. “I put you certainly in the predicament of your receiving by my care a handsome settlement in life--which all the elements that would make for your enjoying it had every appearance of successfully commending to you.” The perfect readiness of which on his lips had, like a higher wave, the virtue of lifting and dropping him to still more tangible ground. “And if I understand you aright as wishing to know whether I apologise for that zeal, why you take a most preposterous view of our relation as father and daughter.” “You understand me no better than I fear I understand you,” Lady Grace returned, “if what you expect of me is really to take back my words to Lord John.” And then as he didn’t answer, while their breach gaped like a jostled wound,<|quote|>“Have you seriously come to propose--and from _him_ again,”</|quote|>she added-- “that I shall reconsider my resolute act and lend myself to your beautiful arrangement?” It had so the sound of unmixed ridicule that he could only, for his dignity, not give way to passion. “I’ve come, above all, for _this_, I may say, Grace: to remind you of whom you’re addressing when you jibe at me, and to make of you assuredly a plain demand--exactly as to whether you judged us to have actively _incurred_ your treatment of our unhappy friend, to have brought it upon us, he and I, by my refusal to discuss with you at such a crisis the question of my disposition of a particular item of my property. I’ve only to look at you, for that matter,” Lord Theign continued--always with a finer point and a higher consistency as his rehearsal of his wrongs broadened-- “to have my inquiry, as it seems to me, eloquently answered. You flounced away from poor John, you took, as he tells me, ‘his head off,’ just to repay me for what you chose to regard as my snub on the score of your challenging my entertainment of a possible purchaser; a rebuke launched at me, practically, in the presence of a most inferior person, a stranger and an intruder, from whom you had all the air of taking your cue for naming me the great condition on which you’d gratify my hope. Am I to understand, in other words,” --and his lordship mounted to a climax-- “that you sent us about our business because I failed to gratify _your_ hope: that of my knocking under to your sudden monstrous pretension to lay down the law for my choice of ways and means of raising, to my best convenience, a considerable sum of money? You’ll be so good as to understand, once for all, that I recognise there no right of interference from any quarter--and also to let that knowledge govern your behaviour in my absence.” Lady Grace had thus for some minutes waited on his words--waited even as almost with anxiety for the safe conduct he might look to from some of the more extravagant of them. But he at least felt at the end--if it was an end--all he owed them; so that there was nothing for her but to accept as achieved his dreadful felicity. “You’re very angry with me, and I hope you won’t feel me simply ‘aggravating’ if I say that, thinking everything over, I’ve done my best to allow for that. But I _can_ answer your question if I do answer it by saying that my discovery of your possible sacrifice of one of our most beautiful things didn’t predispose me to decide in favour of a person--however ‘backed’ by you--for whose benefit the sacrifice was to take place. Frankly,” the girl pushed on, “I did quite hate, for the moment, everything that might make for such a mistake; and took the darkest view, let me also confess, of every one, without exception, connected with it I interceded with you, earnestly, for our precious picture, and you wouldn’t on any terms _have_ my intercession. On top of that Lord John blundered in, without timeliness or tact--and I’m afraid that, as I hadn’t been the least in love with him even before, he did have to take the consequence.” Lord Theign, with an elated swing of his person, greeted this as all he could possibly want. “You recognise then that your reception of him _was_ purely vindictive!--the meaning of which is that unless my conduct of my private interests, of which you know nothing whatever, happens to square with your superior wisdom you’ll put me under boycott all round! While you chatter about mistakes and blunders, and about our charming friend’s lack of the discretion of which you yourself set so grand an example, what account have you to offer of the scene you made me there before that fellow--your confederate, as he had all the air of being!--by giving it me with such effrontery that, if I had eminently done with him after his remarkable display, you at least were but the more determined to see him keep it up?” The girl’s justification, clearly, was very present to her, and not less obviously the truth that to make it strong she must, avoiding every side-issue, keep it very simple, “The only account I can give you, I think, is that I could but speak at such a moment as I felt, and that I felt--well, how can I say how deeply? If you can really bear to know, I feel so still I care in fact more than ever that we shouldn’t do such things. I care, if you like, to indiscretion--I care, if you like, to offence, to arrogance, to folly.
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that you’re obliged to come down on _me?_” “Assuredly--for some better satisfaction than your just moping here without a sign!” “But a sign of what, father?” she asked--as helpless as a lone islander scanning the horizon for a sail. “Of your appreciating, of your in some degree dutifully considering, the predicament into which you’ve put me!” “Hasn’t it occurred to you in the least that you’ve rather put _me_ into one?” He threw back his head as from exasperated nerves. “I put you certainly in the predicament of your receiving by my care a handsome settlement in life--which all the elements that would make for your enjoying it had every appearance of successfully commending to you.” The perfect readiness of which on his lips had, like a higher wave, the virtue of lifting and dropping him to still more tangible ground. “And if I understand you aright as wishing to know whether I apologise for that zeal, why you take a most preposterous view of our relation as father and daughter.” “You understand me no better than I fear I understand you,” Lady Grace returned, “if what you expect of me is really to take back my words to Lord John.” And then as he didn’t answer, while their breach gaped like a jostled wound,<|quote|>“Have you seriously come to propose--and from _him_ again,”</|quote|>she added-- “that I shall reconsider my resolute act and lend myself to your beautiful arrangement?” It had so the sound of unmixed ridicule that he could only, for his dignity, not give way to passion. “I’ve come, above all, for _this_, I may say, Grace: to remind you of whom you’re addressing when you jibe at me, and to make of you assuredly a plain demand--exactly as to whether you judged us to have actively _incurred_ your treatment of our unhappy friend, to have brought it upon us, he and I, by my refusal to discuss with you at such a crisis the question of my disposition of a particular item of my property. I’ve only to look at you, for that matter,” Lord Theign continued--always with a finer point and a higher consistency as his rehearsal of his wrongs broadened-- “to have my inquiry, as it seems to me, eloquently answered. You flounced away from poor John, you took, as he tells me, ‘his head off,’ just to repay me for what you chose to regard as my snub on the score of your challenging my entertainment of a possible purchaser; a rebuke launched at me, practically, in the presence of a most inferior person, a stranger and an intruder, from whom you had all the air of taking your cue for naming me the great condition on which you’d gratify my hope. Am I to understand, in other words,” --and his lordship mounted to a climax-- “that you sent us about our business
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The Outcry
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he a little inconsistently said,
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No speaker
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see any, Lady Sandgate. But,”<|quote|>he a little inconsistently said,</|quote|>“I’m greatly obliged to you
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gave up. “I really don’t see any, Lady Sandgate. But,”<|quote|>he a little inconsistently said,</|quote|>“I’m greatly obliged to you for telling me.” “Don’t mention
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and if you don’t see any---!” In that case, Lady Sandgate’s motion implied, she washed her hands of it. Hugh had for a moment the air of a young man treated to the sweet chance to guess a conundrum--which he gave up. “I really don’t see any, Lady Sandgate. But,”<|quote|>he a little inconsistently said,</|quote|>“I’m greatly obliged to you for telling me.” “Don’t mention it!--though I think it _is_ good of me,” she smiled, “on so short an acquaintance.” To which she added more gravely: “I leave you the situation--but I’m willing to let you know that I’m all on Grace’s side.” “So am
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considers.” “That’s the _ground_ of his indignation?” “He had his reasons for counting on her, and it has determined a painful crisis.” Hugh Crimble turned this over--feeling apparently for something he didn’t find. “I’m sorry to hear such things, but where’s the connection with me?” “Ah, you know best yourself, and if you don’t see any---!” In that case, Lady Sandgate’s motion implied, she washed her hands of it. Hugh had for a moment the air of a young man treated to the sweet chance to guess a conundrum--which he gave up. “I really don’t see any, Lady Sandgate. But,”<|quote|>he a little inconsistently said,</|quote|>“I’m greatly obliged to you for telling me.” “Don’t mention it!--though I think it _is_ good of me,” she smiled, “on so short an acquaintance.” To which she added more gravely: “I leave you the situation--but I’m willing to let you know that I’m all on Grace’s side.” “So am I, _rather!_--please let me frankly say.” He clearly refreshed, he even almost charmed her. “It’s the very least you can say!--though I’m not sure whether you say it as the simplest or as the very subtlest of men. But in case you don’t know as I do how little the
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Lord John. Declined, I mean, the offer of his hand in marriage.” Hugh was clearly as much mystified as anything else. “He proposed there--?” “He had spoken, that day, _before_--before your talk with Lord Theign, who had every confidence in her accepting him. But you came, Mr. Crimble, you went; and when her suitor reappeared, just after you _had_ gone, for his answer--” “She wouldn’t have him?” Hugh asked with a precipitation of interest. But Lady Sandgate could humour almost any curiosity. “She wouldn’t look at him.” He bethought himself. “But had she said she would?” “So her father indignantly considers.” “That’s the _ground_ of his indignation?” “He had his reasons for counting on her, and it has determined a painful crisis.” Hugh Crimble turned this over--feeling apparently for something he didn’t find. “I’m sorry to hear such things, but where’s the connection with me?” “Ah, you know best yourself, and if you don’t see any---!” In that case, Lady Sandgate’s motion implied, she washed her hands of it. Hugh had for a moment the air of a young man treated to the sweet chance to guess a conundrum--which he gave up. “I really don’t see any, Lady Sandgate. But,”<|quote|>he a little inconsistently said,</|quote|>“I’m greatly obliged to you for telling me.” “Don’t mention it!--though I think it _is_ good of me,” she smiled, “on so short an acquaintance.” To which she added more gravely: “I leave you the situation--but I’m willing to let you know that I’m all on Grace’s side.” “So am I, _rather!_--please let me frankly say.” He clearly refreshed, he even almost charmed her. “It’s the very least you can say!--though I’m not sure whether you say it as the simplest or as the very subtlest of men. But in case you don’t know as I do how little the particular candidate I’ve named----” “Had a right or a claim to succeed with her?” he broke in--all quick intelligence here at least. “No, I don’t perhaps know as well as you do--but I think I know as well as I just yet require.” “There you are then! And if you did prevent,” his hostess maturely pursued, “what wouldn’t have been--well, good or nice, I’m quite on your side too.” Our young man seemed to feel the shade of ambiguity, but he reached at a meaning. “You’re with me in my plea for our defending at any cost of effort or
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him.” “And who may therefore arrive at any moment?” She looked at her bracelet watch. “Scarcely before noon. So you’ll just have your chance--” “Thank the powers then!” --Hugh grasped at it. “I shall have it best if you’ll be so good as to tell me first--well,” he faltered, “what it is that, to my great disquiet, you’ve further alluded to; what it is that has occurred.” Lady Sandgate took her time, but her good-nature and other sentiments pronounced. “Haven’t you at least guessed that she has fallen under her father’s extreme reprobation?” “Yes, so much as that--that she must have greatly annoyed him--I have been supposing. But isn’t it by her having asked me to act for her? I mean about the Mantovano--which I _have_ done.” Lady Sandgate wondered. “You’ve ‘acted’?” “It’s what I’ve come to tell her at last--and I’m all impatience.” “I see, I see” --she had caught a clue. “He hated that--yes; but you haven’t really made out,” she put to him, “the _other_ effect of your hour at Dedborough?” She recognised, however, while she spoke, that his divination had failed, and she didn’t trouble him to confess it. “Directly you had gone she ‘turned down’ Lord John. Declined, I mean, the offer of his hand in marriage.” Hugh was clearly as much mystified as anything else. “He proposed there--?” “He had spoken, that day, _before_--before your talk with Lord Theign, who had every confidence in her accepting him. But you came, Mr. Crimble, you went; and when her suitor reappeared, just after you _had_ gone, for his answer--” “She wouldn’t have him?” Hugh asked with a precipitation of interest. But Lady Sandgate could humour almost any curiosity. “She wouldn’t look at him.” He bethought himself. “But had she said she would?” “So her father indignantly considers.” “That’s the _ground_ of his indignation?” “He had his reasons for counting on her, and it has determined a painful crisis.” Hugh Crimble turned this over--feeling apparently for something he didn’t find. “I’m sorry to hear such things, but where’s the connection with me?” “Ah, you know best yourself, and if you don’t see any---!” In that case, Lady Sandgate’s motion implied, she washed her hands of it. Hugh had for a moment the air of a young man treated to the sweet chance to guess a conundrum--which he gave up. “I really don’t see any, Lady Sandgate. But,”<|quote|>he a little inconsistently said,</|quote|>“I’m greatly obliged to you for telling me.” “Don’t mention it!--though I think it _is_ good of me,” she smiled, “on so short an acquaintance.” To which she added more gravely: “I leave you the situation--but I’m willing to let you know that I’m all on Grace’s side.” “So am I, _rather!_--please let me frankly say.” He clearly refreshed, he even almost charmed her. “It’s the very least you can say!--though I’m not sure whether you say it as the simplest or as the very subtlest of men. But in case you don’t know as I do how little the particular candidate I’ve named----” “Had a right or a claim to succeed with her?” he broke in--all quick intelligence here at least. “No, I don’t perhaps know as well as you do--but I think I know as well as I just yet require.” “There you are then! And if you did prevent,” his hostess maturely pursued, “what wouldn’t have been--well, good or nice, I’m quite on your side too.” Our young man seemed to feel the shade of ambiguity, but he reached at a meaning. “You’re with me in my plea for our defending at any cost of effort or ingenuity--” “The precious picture Lord Theign exposes?” --she took his presumed sense faster than he had taken hers. But she hung fire a moment with her reply to it. “Well, will you keep the secret of everything I’ve said or say?” “To the death, to the stake, Lady Sandgate!” “Then,” she momentously returned, “I only want, too, to make Bender impossible. If you ask me,” she pursued, “how I arrange that with my deep loyalty to Lord Theign----” “I don’t ask you anything of the sort,” he interrupted-- “I wouldn’t ask you for the world; and my own bright plan for achieving the _coup_ you mention------” “You’ll have time, at the most,” she said, consulting afresh her bracelet watch, “to explain to Lady Grace.” She reached an electric bell, which she touched--facing then her visitor again with an abrupt and slightly embarrassed change of tone. “You do think _my_ great portrait splendid?” He had strayed far from it and all too languidly came back. “Your Lawrence there? As I said, magnificent.” But the butler had come in, interrupting, straight from the lobby; of whom she made her request. “Let her ladyship know--Mr. Crimble.” Gotch looked hard at Hugh and the
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three times: at a ‘private view’ at the opera, in the lobby, and that sort of thing. But she hasn’t told you?” Lady Sandgate neither affirmed nor denied; she only turned on him her thick lustre. “I wanted to see how much _you’d_ tell.” She waited even as for more, but this not coming she helped herself. “Once again at dinner?” “Yes, but alas not near her!” “Once then at a private view?--when, with the squash they usually are, you might have been very near her indeed!” The young man, his hilarity quickened, took but a moment for the truth. “Yes--it _was_ a squash!” “And once,” his hostess pursued, “in the lobby of the opera?” “After ‘Tristan’--yes; but with some awful grand people I didn’t know.” She recognised; she estimated the grandeur. “Oh, the Pennimans are nobody! But now,” she asked, “you’ve come, you say, on ‘business’?” “Very important, please--which accounts for the hour I’ve ventured and the appearance I present.” “I don’t ask you too much to ‘account,’” Lady Sandgate kindly said; “but I can’t not wonder if she hasn’t told you what things have happened.” He cast about. “She has had no chance to tell me anything--beyond the fact of her being here.” “Without the reason?” “‘The reason’?” he echoed. She gave it up, going straighter. “She’s with me then as an old firm friend. Under my care and protection.” “I see” --he took it, with more penetration than enthusiasm, as a hint in respect to himself. “She puts you on your guard.” Lady Sandgate expressed it more graciously. “She puts me on my honour--or at least her father does.” “As to her seeing _me_” “As to _my_ seeing at least--what may happen to her.” “Because--you say--things _have_ happened?” His companion fairly sounded him. “You’ve only talked--when you’ve met--of ‘art’?” “Well,” he smiled, “‘art is long’!” “Then I hope it may see you through! But you should know first that Lord Theign is presently due--” “_Here_, back already from abroad?” --he was all alert. “He has not yet gone--he comes up this morning to start.” “And stops here on his way?” “To take the _train de luxe_ this afternoon to his annual Salsomaggiore. But with so little time to spare,” she went on reassuringly, “that, to simplify--as he wired me an hour ago from Dedborough--he has given rendezvous here to Mr. Bender, who is particularly to wait for him.” “And who may therefore arrive at any moment?” She looked at her bracelet watch. “Scarcely before noon. So you’ll just have your chance--” “Thank the powers then!” --Hugh grasped at it. “I shall have it best if you’ll be so good as to tell me first--well,” he faltered, “what it is that, to my great disquiet, you’ve further alluded to; what it is that has occurred.” Lady Sandgate took her time, but her good-nature and other sentiments pronounced. “Haven’t you at least guessed that she has fallen under her father’s extreme reprobation?” “Yes, so much as that--that she must have greatly annoyed him--I have been supposing. But isn’t it by her having asked me to act for her? I mean about the Mantovano--which I _have_ done.” Lady Sandgate wondered. “You’ve ‘acted’?” “It’s what I’ve come to tell her at last--and I’m all impatience.” “I see, I see” --she had caught a clue. “He hated that--yes; but you haven’t really made out,” she put to him, “the _other_ effect of your hour at Dedborough?” She recognised, however, while she spoke, that his divination had failed, and she didn’t trouble him to confess it. “Directly you had gone she ‘turned down’ Lord John. Declined, I mean, the offer of his hand in marriage.” Hugh was clearly as much mystified as anything else. “He proposed there--?” “He had spoken, that day, _before_--before your talk with Lord Theign, who had every confidence in her accepting him. But you came, Mr. Crimble, you went; and when her suitor reappeared, just after you _had_ gone, for his answer--” “She wouldn’t have him?” Hugh asked with a precipitation of interest. But Lady Sandgate could humour almost any curiosity. “She wouldn’t look at him.” He bethought himself. “But had she said she would?” “So her father indignantly considers.” “That’s the _ground_ of his indignation?” “He had his reasons for counting on her, and it has determined a painful crisis.” Hugh Crimble turned this over--feeling apparently for something he didn’t find. “I’m sorry to hear such things, but where’s the connection with me?” “Ah, you know best yourself, and if you don’t see any---!” In that case, Lady Sandgate’s motion implied, she washed her hands of it. Hugh had for a moment the air of a young man treated to the sweet chance to guess a conundrum--which he gave up. “I really don’t see any, Lady Sandgate. But,”<|quote|>he a little inconsistently said,</|quote|>“I’m greatly obliged to you for telling me.” “Don’t mention it!--though I think it _is_ good of me,” she smiled, “on so short an acquaintance.” To which she added more gravely: “I leave you the situation--but I’m willing to let you know that I’m all on Grace’s side.” “So am I, _rather!_--please let me frankly say.” He clearly refreshed, he even almost charmed her. “It’s the very least you can say!--though I’m not sure whether you say it as the simplest or as the very subtlest of men. But in case you don’t know as I do how little the particular candidate I’ve named----” “Had a right or a claim to succeed with her?” he broke in--all quick intelligence here at least. “No, I don’t perhaps know as well as you do--but I think I know as well as I just yet require.” “There you are then! And if you did prevent,” his hostess maturely pursued, “what wouldn’t have been--well, good or nice, I’m quite on your side too.” Our young man seemed to feel the shade of ambiguity, but he reached at a meaning. “You’re with me in my plea for our defending at any cost of effort or ingenuity--” “The precious picture Lord Theign exposes?” --she took his presumed sense faster than he had taken hers. But she hung fire a moment with her reply to it. “Well, will you keep the secret of everything I’ve said or say?” “To the death, to the stake, Lady Sandgate!” “Then,” she momentously returned, “I only want, too, to make Bender impossible. If you ask me,” she pursued, “how I arrange that with my deep loyalty to Lord Theign----” “I don’t ask you anything of the sort,” he interrupted-- “I wouldn’t ask you for the world; and my own bright plan for achieving the _coup_ you mention------” “You’ll have time, at the most,” she said, consulting afresh her bracelet watch, “to explain to Lady Grace.” She reached an electric bell, which she touched--facing then her visitor again with an abrupt and slightly embarrassed change of tone. “You do think _my_ great portrait splendid?” He had strayed far from it and all too languidly came back. “Your Lawrence there? As I said, magnificent.” But the butler had come in, interrupting, straight from the lobby; of whom she made her request. “Let her ladyship know--Mr. Crimble.” Gotch looked hard at Hugh and the crumpled hat--almost as if having an option. But he resigned himself to repeating, with a distinctness that scarce fell short of the invidious, “Mr. Crimble,” and departed on his errand. Lady Sandgate’s fair flush of diplomacy had meanwhile not faded. “Couldn’t you, with your immense cleverness and power, get the Government to do something?” “About your picture?” Hugh betrayed on this head a graceless detachment. “You too then want to sell?” Oh she righted herself. “Never to a private party!” “Mr. Bender’s not after it?” he asked--though scarce lighting his reluctant interest with a forced smile. “Most intensely after it. But never,” cried the proprietress, “to a bloated alien!” “Then I applaud your patriotism. Only why not,” he asked, “carrying that magnanimity a little further, set us all an example as splendid as the object itself?” “Give it you for nothing?” She threw up shocked hands. “Because I’m an aged female pauper and can’t make _every_ sacrifice.” Hugh pretended--none too convincingly--to think. “Will you let them have it very cheap?” “Yes--for less than such a bribe as Bender’s.” “Ah,” he said expressively, “that might be, and still----!” “Well,” she had a flare of fond confidence. “I’ll find out what he’ll offer--if you’ll on your side do what you can--and then ask them a third less.” And she followed it up--as if suddenly conceiving him a prig. “See here, Mr. Crimble, I’ve been--and this very first time I--charming to you.” “You have indeed,” he returned; “but you throw back on it a lurid light if it has all been for _that!_” “It has been--well, to keep things as I want them; and if I’ve given you precious information mightn’t you on your side--” “Estimate its value in cash?” --Hugh sharply took her up. “Ah, Lady Sandgate, I _am_ in your debt, but if you really bargain for your precious information I’d rather we assume that I haven’t enjoyed it.” She made him, however, in reply, a sign for silence; she had heard Lady Grace enter the other room from the back landing, and, reaching the nearer door, she disposed of the question with high gay bravery. “I won’t bargain with the Treasury!” --she had passed out by the time Lady Grace arrived. II As Hugh recognised in this friend’s entrance and face the light of welcome he went, full of his subject, straight to their main affair. “I haven’t been able
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‘turned down’ Lord John. Declined, I mean, the offer of his hand in marriage.” Hugh was clearly as much mystified as anything else. “He proposed there--?” “He had spoken, that day, _before_--before your talk with Lord Theign, who had every confidence in her accepting him. But you came, Mr. Crimble, you went; and when her suitor reappeared, just after you _had_ gone, for his answer--” “She wouldn’t have him?” Hugh asked with a precipitation of interest. But Lady Sandgate could humour almost any curiosity. “She wouldn’t look at him.” He bethought himself. “But had she said she would?” “So her father indignantly considers.” “That’s the _ground_ of his indignation?” “He had his reasons for counting on her, and it has determined a painful crisis.” Hugh Crimble turned this over--feeling apparently for something he didn’t find. “I’m sorry to hear such things, but where’s the connection with me?” “Ah, you know best yourself, and if you don’t see any---!” In that case, Lady Sandgate’s motion implied, she washed her hands of it. Hugh had for a moment the air of a young man treated to the sweet chance to guess a conundrum--which he gave up. “I really don’t see any, Lady Sandgate. But,”<|quote|>he a little inconsistently said,</|quote|>“I’m greatly obliged to you for telling me.” “Don’t mention it!--though I think it _is_ good of me,” she smiled, “on so short an acquaintance.” To which she added more gravely: “I leave you the situation--but I’m willing to let you know that I’m all on Grace’s side.” “So am I, _rather!_--please let me frankly say.” He clearly refreshed, he even almost charmed her. “It’s the very least you can say!--though I’m not sure whether you say it as the simplest or as the very subtlest of men. But in case you don’t know as I do how little the particular candidate I’ve named----” “Had a right or a claim to succeed with her?” he broke in--all quick intelligence here at least. “No, I don’t perhaps know as well as you do--but I think I know as well as I just yet require.” “There you are then! And if you did prevent,” his hostess maturely pursued, “what wouldn’t have been--well, good or nice, I’m quite on your side too.” Our young man seemed to feel the shade of ambiguity, but he reached at a meaning. “You’re with me in my plea for our defending at any cost of effort or ingenuity--” “The precious picture Lord Theign exposes?” --she took his presumed sense faster than he had taken hers. But she hung fire a moment with her reply to it. “Well, will you keep the secret of everything I’ve said or say?” “To the death, to the stake, Lady Sandgate!” “Then,” she momentously returned, “I only want, too, to make Bender impossible. If you ask me,” she pursued, “how I arrange that with my deep loyalty to Lord Theign----” “I don’t ask you anything of the sort,” he interrupted-- “I wouldn’t ask you for the world;
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The Outcry
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"in a little four-room house around the corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I pass by; and it's for rent. I'm tired looking after that big house. It never seemed like mine, anyway like home. It's too much trouble. I have to keep too many servants. I am tired bothering with them."
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Edna Pontellier
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two steps away," laughed Edna,<|quote|>"in a little four-room house around the corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I pass by; and it's for rent. I'm tired looking after that big house. It never seemed like mine, anyway like home. It's too much trouble. I have to keep too many servants. I am tired bothering with them."</|quote|>"That is not your true
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father in Mississippi? where?" "Just two steps away," laughed Edna,<|quote|>"in a little four-room house around the corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I pass by; and it's for rent. I'm tired looking after that big house. It never seemed like mine, anyway like home. It's too much trouble. I have to keep too many servants. I am tired bothering with them."</|quote|>"That is not your true reason, _ma belle_. There is
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hair. Edna drew her down upon the sofa, and taking a pin from her own hair, secured the shabby artificial flowers in their accustomed place. "Aren't you astonished?" "Passably. Where are you going? to New York? to Iberville? to your father in Mississippi? where?" "Just two steps away," laughed Edna,<|quote|>"in a little four-room house around the corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I pass by; and it's for rent. I'm tired looking after that big house. It never seemed like mine, anyway like home. It's too much trouble. I have to keep too many servants. I am tired bothering with them."</|quote|>"That is not your true reason, _ma belle_. There is no use in telling me lies. I don't know your reason, but you have not told me the truth." Edna did not protest or endeavor to justify herself. "The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine. Isn't
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she said, "Mademoiselle, I am going to move away from my house on Esplanade Street." "Ah!" ejaculated the musician, neither surprised nor especially interested. Nothing ever seemed to astonish her very much. She was endeavoring to adjust the bunch of violets which had become loose from its fastening in her hair. Edna drew her down upon the sofa, and taking a pin from her own hair, secured the shabby artificial flowers in their accustomed place. "Aren't you astonished?" "Passably. Where are you going? to New York? to Iberville? to your father in Mississippi? where?" "Just two steps away," laughed Edna,<|quote|>"in a little four-room house around the corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I pass by; and it's for rent. I'm tired looking after that big house. It never seemed like mine, anyway like home. It's too much trouble. I have to keep too many servants. I am tired bothering with them."</|quote|>"That is not your true reason, _ma belle_. There is no use in telling me lies. I don't know your reason, but you have not told me the truth." Edna did not protest or endeavor to justify herself. "The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine. Isn't that enough reason?" "They are your husband's," returned Mademoiselle, with a shrug and a malicious elevation of the eyebrows. "Oh! I see there is no deceiving you. Then let me tell you: It is a caprice. I have a little money of my own from my mother's estate, which my
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bang, and approaching, assisted in removing Edna's dripping mackintosh. "You are cold; you look miserable. The chocolate will soon be hot. But would you rather have a taste of brandy? I have scarcely touched the bottle which you brought me for my cold." A piece of red flannel was wrapped around Mademoiselle's throat; a stiff neck compelled her to hold her head on one side. "I will take some brandy," said Edna, shivering as she removed her gloves and overshoes. She drank the liquor from the glass as a man would have done. Then flinging herself upon the uncomfortable sofa she said, "Mademoiselle, I am going to move away from my house on Esplanade Street." "Ah!" ejaculated the musician, neither surprised nor especially interested. Nothing ever seemed to astonish her very much. She was endeavoring to adjust the bunch of violets which had become loose from its fastening in her hair. Edna drew her down upon the sofa, and taking a pin from her own hair, secured the shabby artificial flowers in their accustomed place. "Aren't you astonished?" "Passably. Where are you going? to New York? to Iberville? to your father in Mississippi? where?" "Just two steps away," laughed Edna,<|quote|>"in a little four-room house around the corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I pass by; and it's for rent. I'm tired looking after that big house. It never seemed like mine, anyway like home. It's too much trouble. I have to keep too many servants. I am tired bothering with them."</|quote|>"That is not your true reason, _ma belle_. There is no use in telling me lies. I don't know your reason, but you have not told me the truth." Edna did not protest or endeavor to justify herself. "The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine. Isn't that enough reason?" "They are your husband's," returned Mademoiselle, with a shrug and a malicious elevation of the eyebrows. "Oh! I see there is no deceiving you. Then let me tell you: It is a caprice. I have a little money of my own from my mother's estate, which my father sends me by driblets. I won a large sum this winter on the races, and I am beginning to sell my sketches. Laidpore is more and more pleased with my work; he says it grows in force and individuality. I cannot judge of that myself, but I feel that I have gained in ease and confidence. However, as I said, I have sold a good many through Laidpore. I can live in the tiny house for little or nothing, with one servant. Old Celestine, who works occasionally for me, says she will come stay with me and do my
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at first and brought the crimson into her face; in a way that pleased her at last, appealing to the animalism that stirred impatiently within her. There was nothing which so quieted the turmoil of Edna's senses as a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz. It was then, in the presence of that personality which was offensive to her, that the woman, by her divine art, seemed to reach Edna's spirit and set it free. It was misty, with heavy, lowering atmosphere, one afternoon, when Edna climbed the stairs to the pianist's apartments under the roof. Her clothes were dripping with moisture. She felt chilled and pinched as she entered the room. Mademoiselle was poking at a rusty stove that smoked a little and warmed the room indifferently. She was endeavoring to heat a pot of chocolate on the stove. The room looked cheerless and dingy to Edna as she entered. A bust of Beethoven, covered with a hood of dust, scowled at her from the mantelpiece. "Ah! here comes the sunlight!" exclaimed Mademoiselle, rising from her knees before the stove. "Now it will be warm and bright enough; I can let the fire alone." She closed the stove door with a bang, and approaching, assisted in removing Edna's dripping mackintosh. "You are cold; you look miserable. The chocolate will soon be hot. But would you rather have a taste of brandy? I have scarcely touched the bottle which you brought me for my cold." A piece of red flannel was wrapped around Mademoiselle's throat; a stiff neck compelled her to hold her head on one side. "I will take some brandy," said Edna, shivering as she removed her gloves and overshoes. She drank the liquor from the glass as a man would have done. Then flinging herself upon the uncomfortable sofa she said, "Mademoiselle, I am going to move away from my house on Esplanade Street." "Ah!" ejaculated the musician, neither surprised nor especially interested. Nothing ever seemed to astonish her very much. She was endeavoring to adjust the bunch of violets which had become loose from its fastening in her hair. Edna drew her down upon the sofa, and taking a pin from her own hair, secured the shabby artificial flowers in their accustomed place. "Aren't you astonished?" "Passably. Where are you going? to New York? to Iberville? to your father in Mississippi? where?" "Just two steps away," laughed Edna,<|quote|>"in a little four-room house around the corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I pass by; and it's for rent. I'm tired looking after that big house. It never seemed like mine, anyway like home. It's too much trouble. I have to keep too many servants. I am tired bothering with them."</|quote|>"That is not your true reason, _ma belle_. There is no use in telling me lies. I don't know your reason, but you have not told me the truth." Edna did not protest or endeavor to justify herself. "The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine. Isn't that enough reason?" "They are your husband's," returned Mademoiselle, with a shrug and a malicious elevation of the eyebrows. "Oh! I see there is no deceiving you. Then let me tell you: It is a caprice. I have a little money of my own from my mother's estate, which my father sends me by driblets. I won a large sum this winter on the races, and I am beginning to sell my sketches. Laidpore is more and more pleased with my work; he says it grows in force and individuality. I cannot judge of that myself, but I feel that I have gained in ease and confidence. However, as I said, I have sold a good many through Laidpore. I can live in the tiny house for little or nothing, with one servant. Old Celestine, who works occasionally for me, says she will come stay with me and do my work. I know I shall like it, like the feeling of freedom and independence." "What does your husband say?" "I have not told him yet. I only thought of it this morning. He will think I am demented, no doubt. Perhaps you think so." Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. "Your reason is not yet clear to me," she said. Neither was it quite clear to Edna herself; but it unfolded itself as she sat for a while in silence. Instinct had prompted her to put away her husband's bounty in casting off her allegiance. She did not know how it would be when he returned. There would have to be an understanding, an explanation. Conditions would some way adjust themselves, she felt; but whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another than herself. "I shall give a grand dinner before I leave the old house!" Edna exclaimed. "You will have to come to it, Mademoiselle. I will give you everything that you like to eat and to drink. We shall sing and laugh and be merry for once." And she uttered a sigh that came from the very depths of her being. If Mademoiselle happened to have
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so warmly. Then she leaned her head down on the mantelpiece. She felt somewhat like a woman who in a moment of passion is betrayed into an act of infidelity, and realizes the significance of the act without being wholly awakened from its glamour. The thought was passing vaguely through her mind, "What would he think?" She did not mean her husband; she was thinking of Robert Lebrun. Her husband seemed to her now like a person whom she had married without love as an excuse. She lit a candle and went up to her room. Alc e Arobin was absolutely nothing to her. Yet his presence, his manners, the warmth of his glances, and above all the touch of his lips upon her hand had acted like a narcotic upon her. She slept a languorous sleep, interwoven with vanishing dreams. XXVI Alc e Arobin wrote Edna an elaborate note of apology, palpitant with sincerity. It embarrassed her; for in a cooler, quieter moment it appeared to her absurd that she should have taken his action so seriously, so dramatically. She felt sure that the significance of the whole occurrence had lain in her own self-consciousness. If she ignored his note it would give undue importance to a trivial affair. If she replied to it in a serious spirit it would still leave in his mind the impression that she had in a susceptible moment yielded to his influence. After all, it was no great matter to have one's hand kissed. She was provoked at his having written the apology. She answered in as light and bantering a spirit as she fancied it deserved, and said she would be glad to have him look in upon her at work whenever he felt the inclination and his business gave him the opportunity. He responded at once by presenting himself at her home with all his disarming na vet . And then there was scarcely a day which followed that she did not see him or was not reminded of him. He was prolific in pretexts. His attitude became one of good-humored subservience and tacit adoration. He was ready at all times to submit to her moods, which were as often kind as they were cold. She grew accustomed to him. They became intimate and friendly by imperceptible degrees, and then by leaps. He sometimes talked in a way that astonished her at first and brought the crimson into her face; in a way that pleased her at last, appealing to the animalism that stirred impatiently within her. There was nothing which so quieted the turmoil of Edna's senses as a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz. It was then, in the presence of that personality which was offensive to her, that the woman, by her divine art, seemed to reach Edna's spirit and set it free. It was misty, with heavy, lowering atmosphere, one afternoon, when Edna climbed the stairs to the pianist's apartments under the roof. Her clothes were dripping with moisture. She felt chilled and pinched as she entered the room. Mademoiselle was poking at a rusty stove that smoked a little and warmed the room indifferently. She was endeavoring to heat a pot of chocolate on the stove. The room looked cheerless and dingy to Edna as she entered. A bust of Beethoven, covered with a hood of dust, scowled at her from the mantelpiece. "Ah! here comes the sunlight!" exclaimed Mademoiselle, rising from her knees before the stove. "Now it will be warm and bright enough; I can let the fire alone." She closed the stove door with a bang, and approaching, assisted in removing Edna's dripping mackintosh. "You are cold; you look miserable. The chocolate will soon be hot. But would you rather have a taste of brandy? I have scarcely touched the bottle which you brought me for my cold." A piece of red flannel was wrapped around Mademoiselle's throat; a stiff neck compelled her to hold her head on one side. "I will take some brandy," said Edna, shivering as she removed her gloves and overshoes. She drank the liquor from the glass as a man would have done. Then flinging herself upon the uncomfortable sofa she said, "Mademoiselle, I am going to move away from my house on Esplanade Street." "Ah!" ejaculated the musician, neither surprised nor especially interested. Nothing ever seemed to astonish her very much. She was endeavoring to adjust the bunch of violets which had become loose from its fastening in her hair. Edna drew her down upon the sofa, and taking a pin from her own hair, secured the shabby artificial flowers in their accustomed place. "Aren't you astonished?" "Passably. Where are you going? to New York? to Iberville? to your father in Mississippi? where?" "Just two steps away," laughed Edna,<|quote|>"in a little four-room house around the corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I pass by; and it's for rent. I'm tired looking after that big house. It never seemed like mine, anyway like home. It's too much trouble. I have to keep too many servants. I am tired bothering with them."</|quote|>"That is not your true reason, _ma belle_. There is no use in telling me lies. I don't know your reason, but you have not told me the truth." Edna did not protest or endeavor to justify herself. "The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine. Isn't that enough reason?" "They are your husband's," returned Mademoiselle, with a shrug and a malicious elevation of the eyebrows. "Oh! I see there is no deceiving you. Then let me tell you: It is a caprice. I have a little money of my own from my mother's estate, which my father sends me by driblets. I won a large sum this winter on the races, and I am beginning to sell my sketches. Laidpore is more and more pleased with my work; he says it grows in force and individuality. I cannot judge of that myself, but I feel that I have gained in ease and confidence. However, as I said, I have sold a good many through Laidpore. I can live in the tiny house for little or nothing, with one servant. Old Celestine, who works occasionally for me, says she will come stay with me and do my work. I know I shall like it, like the feeling of freedom and independence." "What does your husband say?" "I have not told him yet. I only thought of it this morning. He will think I am demented, no doubt. Perhaps you think so." Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. "Your reason is not yet clear to me," she said. Neither was it quite clear to Edna herself; but it unfolded itself as she sat for a while in silence. Instinct had prompted her to put away her husband's bounty in casting off her allegiance. She did not know how it would be when he returned. There would have to be an understanding, an explanation. Conditions would some way adjust themselves, she felt; but whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another than herself. "I shall give a grand dinner before I leave the old house!" Edna exclaimed. "You will have to come to it, Mademoiselle. I will give you everything that you like to eat and to drink. We shall sing and laugh and be merry for once." And she uttered a sigh that came from the very depths of her being. If Mademoiselle happened to have received a letter from Robert during the interval of Edna's visits, she would give her the letter unsolicited. And she would seat herself at the piano and play as her humor prompted her while the young woman read the letter. The little stove was roaring; it was red-hot, and the chocolate in the tin sizzled and sputtered. Edna went forward and opened the stove door, and Mademoiselle rising, took a letter from under the bust of Beethoven and handed it to Edna. "Another! so soon!" she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight. "Tell me, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters?" "Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me again if he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to belong to him." "Why do you show me his letters, then?" "Haven't you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you cannot deceive me," and Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument and began to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding it in her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an effulgence, warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It prepared her for joy and exultation. "Oh!" she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. "Why did you not tell me?" She went and grasped Mademoiselle's hands up from the keys. "Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?" "That he was coming back? No great news, _ma foi_. I wonder he did not come long ago." "But when, when?" cried Edna, impatiently. "He does not say when." "He says very soon.' You know as much about it as I do; it is all in the letter." "But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought" and she snatched the letter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way, looking for the reason, which was left untold. "If I were young and in love with a man," said Mademoiselle, turning on the stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked down at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, "it seems to
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a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz. It was then, in the presence of that personality which was offensive to her, that the woman, by her divine art, seemed to reach Edna's spirit and set it free. It was misty, with heavy, lowering atmosphere, one afternoon, when Edna climbed the stairs to the pianist's apartments under the roof. Her clothes were dripping with moisture. She felt chilled and pinched as she entered the room. Mademoiselle was poking at a rusty stove that smoked a little and warmed the room indifferently. She was endeavoring to heat a pot of chocolate on the stove. The room looked cheerless and dingy to Edna as she entered. A bust of Beethoven, covered with a hood of dust, scowled at her from the mantelpiece. "Ah! here comes the sunlight!" exclaimed Mademoiselle, rising from her knees before the stove. "Now it will be warm and bright enough; I can let the fire alone." She closed the stove door with a bang, and approaching, assisted in removing Edna's dripping mackintosh. "You are cold; you look miserable. The chocolate will soon be hot. But would you rather have a taste of brandy? I have scarcely touched the bottle which you brought me for my cold." A piece of red flannel was wrapped around Mademoiselle's throat; a stiff neck compelled her to hold her head on one side. "I will take some brandy," said Edna, shivering as she removed her gloves and overshoes. She drank the liquor from the glass as a man would have done. Then flinging herself upon the uncomfortable sofa she said, "Mademoiselle, I am going to move away from my house on Esplanade Street." "Ah!" ejaculated the musician, neither surprised nor especially interested. Nothing ever seemed to astonish her very much. She was endeavoring to adjust the bunch of violets which had become loose from its fastening in her hair. Edna drew her down upon the sofa, and taking a pin from her own hair, secured the shabby artificial flowers in their accustomed place. "Aren't you astonished?" "Passably. Where are you going? to New York? to Iberville? to your father in Mississippi? where?" "Just two steps away," laughed Edna,<|quote|>"in a little four-room house around the corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I pass by; and it's for rent. I'm tired looking after that big house. It never seemed like mine, anyway like home. It's too much trouble. I have to keep too many servants. I am tired bothering with them."</|quote|>"That is not your true reason, _ma belle_. There is no use in telling me lies. I don't know your reason, but you have not told me the truth." Edna did not protest or endeavor to justify herself. "The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine. Isn't that enough reason?" "They are your husband's," returned Mademoiselle, with a shrug and a malicious elevation of the eyebrows. "Oh! I see there is no deceiving you. Then let me tell you: It is a caprice. I have a little money of my own from my mother's estate, which my father sends me by driblets. I won a large sum this winter on the races, and I am beginning to sell my sketches. Laidpore is more and more pleased with my work; he says it grows in force and individuality. I cannot judge of that myself, but I feel that I have gained in ease and confidence. However, as I said, I have sold a good many through Laidpore. I can live in the tiny house for little or nothing, with one servant. Old Celestine, who works occasionally for me, says she will come stay with me and do my work. I know I shall like it, like the feeling of freedom and independence." "What does your husband say?" "I have not told him yet. I only thought of it this morning. He will think I am demented, no doubt. Perhaps you think so." Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. "Your reason is not yet clear to me," she said. Neither was it quite clear to Edna herself; but it unfolded itself as she sat for a while in silence. Instinct had prompted her to put away her husband's bounty in casting off her allegiance. She did not know how it would be when he returned. There would have to be an understanding, an explanation. Conditions would some way adjust themselves, she felt; but whatever came, she had
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The Awakening
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“You two start on home, Daisy,”
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Tom
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had had, were definitely gone.<|quote|>“You two start on home, Daisy,”</|quote|>said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s
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whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone.<|quote|>“You two start on home, Daisy,”</|quote|>said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.” She looked at Tom,
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afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room. The voice begged again to go. “Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.” Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone.<|quote|>“You two start on home, Daisy,”</|quote|>said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.” She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn. “Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.” They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from
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fantastic way. It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room. The voice begged again to go. “Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.” Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone.<|quote|>“You two start on home, Daisy,”</|quote|>said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.” She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn. “Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.” They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity. After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whisky in the towel. “Want any of this stuff? Jordan? … Nick?” I didn’t answer. “Nick?” He asked again. “What?” “Want any?” “No … I just remembered that today’s my birthday.” I was thirty. Before
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drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.” I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way. It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room. The voice begged again to go. “Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.” Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone.<|quote|>“You two start on home, Daisy,”</|quote|>said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.” She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn. “Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.” They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity. After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whisky in the towel. “Want any of this stuff? Jordan? … Nick?” I didn’t answer. “Nick?” He asked again. “What?” “Want any?” “No … I just remembered that today’s my birthday.” I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade. It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupé with him and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamour on the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty—the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning briefcase of enthusiasm, thinning hair.
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Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.” “You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily. “I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.” “What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.” “And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of you.” “He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.” “Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing. “Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.” That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face. “That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.” I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way. It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room. The voice begged again to go. “Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.” Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone.<|quote|>“You two start on home, Daisy,”</|quote|>said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.” She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn. “Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.” They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity. After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whisky in the towel. “Want any of this stuff? Jordan? … Nick?” I didn’t answer. “Nick?” He asked again. “What?” “Want any?” “No … I just remembered that today’s my birthday.” I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade. It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupé with him and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamour on the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty—the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning briefcase of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand. So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee joint beside the ash-heaps was the principal witness at the inquest. He had slept through the heat until after five, when he strolled over to the garage, and found George Wilson sick in his office—really sick, pale as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go to bed, but Wilson refused, saying that he’d miss a lot of business if he did. While his neighbour was trying to persuade him a violent racket broke out overhead. “I’ve got my wife locked in up there,” explained Wilson calmly. “She’s going to stay there till the day after tomorrow, and then we’re going to move away.” Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbours for four years, and Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a
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fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late. “I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance. “Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly. “No.” From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up on hot waves of air. “Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone … “Daisy?” “Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet. “Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.” Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed. “You loved me too?” he repeated. “Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.” The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby. “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now—” “Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.” “Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom. She turned to her husband. “As if it mattered to you,” she said. “Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.” “You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re not going to take care of her any more.” “I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why’s that?” “Daisy’s leaving you.” “Nonsense.” “I am, though,” she said with a visible effort. “She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. “Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.” “I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.” “Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.” “You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily. “I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.” “What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.” “And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of you.” “He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.” “Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing. “Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.” That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face. “That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.” I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way. It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room. The voice begged again to go. “Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.” Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone.<|quote|>“You two start on home, Daisy,”</|quote|>said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.” She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn. “Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.” They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity. After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whisky in the towel. “Want any of this stuff? Jordan? … Nick?” I didn’t answer. “Nick?” He asked again. “What?” “Want any?” “No … I just remembered that today’s my birthday.” I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade. It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupé with him and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamour on the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty—the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning briefcase of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand. So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee joint beside the ash-heaps was the principal witness at the inquest. He had slept through the heat until after five, when he strolled over to the garage, and found George Wilson sick in his office—really sick, pale as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go to bed, but Wilson refused, saying that he’d miss a lot of business if he did. While his neighbour was trying to persuade him a violent racket broke out overhead. “I’ve got my wife locked in up there,” explained Wilson calmly. “She’s going to stay there till the day after tomorrow, and then we’re going to move away.” Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbours for four years, and Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement. Generally he was one of these worn-out men: when he wasn’t working, he sat on a chair in the doorway and stared at the people and the cars that passed along the road. When anyone spoke to him he invariably laughed in an agreeable, colourless way. He was his wife’s man and not his own. So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what had happened, but Wilson wouldn’t say a word—instead he began to throw curious, suspicious glances at his visitor and ask him what he’d been doing at certain times on certain days. Just as the latter was getting uneasy, some workmen came past the door bound for his restaurant, and Michaelis took the opportunity to get away, intending to come back later. But he didn’t. He supposed he forgot to, that’s all. When he came outside again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation because he heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, loud and scolding, downstairs in the garage. “Beat me!” he heard her cry. “Throw me down and beat me, you dirty little coward!” A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her hands and shouting—before he could move from his door the business was over. The “death car” as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came out of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then disappeared around the next bend. Mavro Michaelis wasn’t even sure of its colour—he told the first policeman that it was light green. The other car, the one going toward New York, came to rest a hundred yards beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick dark blood with the dust. Michaelis and this man reached her first, but when they had torn open her shirtwaist, still damp with perspiration, they saw that her left breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to listen for the heart beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped a little at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ We saw the three or four automobiles and the crowd when we were still some distance away. “Wreck!” said Tom. “That’s good. Wilson’ll have a little business at last.” He slowed down, but still without any
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Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.” “You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily. “I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.” “What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.” “And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of you.” “He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.” “Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing. “Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.” That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face. “That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.” I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way. It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room. The voice begged again to go. “Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.” Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone.<|quote|>“You two start on home, Daisy,”</|quote|>said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.” She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn. “Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.” They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity. After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whisky in the towel. “Want any of this stuff? Jordan? … Nick?” I didn’t answer. “Nick?” He asked again. “What?” “Want any?” “No … I just remembered that today’s my birthday.” I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade. It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupé with him and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamour on the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty—the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning briefcase of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand. So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee joint beside the ash-heaps was the principal witness at the inquest. He had slept through the heat until
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The Great Gatsby
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Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge.
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No speaker
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do with it for _that_.”<|quote|>Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge.</|quote|>“Well, if it’s the biggest
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while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.”<|quote|>Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge.</|quote|>“Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it;
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happened--we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.” “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention----?” “Yes,” --he took it from her-- “the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.”<|quote|>Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge.</|quote|>“Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it
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fair and square, on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.” “Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.” “We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened--we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.” “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention----?” “Yes,” --he took it from her-- “the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.”<|quote|>Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge.</|quote|>“Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that
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proceedings. “He means that your own valuation is much too shockingly high.” “But how can I know _how_ much unless I find out what he’ll take?” The great collector’s spirit had, in spite of its volume, clearly not reached its limit of expansion. “Is he crazily waiting for the thing to be proved _not_ what Mr. Crimble claims?” “No, he’s waiting for nothing--since he holds that claim demolished by Pappendick’s tremendous negative, which you wrote to tell him of.” Vast, undeveloped and suddenly grave, Mr. Bender’s countenance showed like a barren tract under a black cloud. “I wrote to _report_, fair and square, on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.” “Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.” “We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened--we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.” “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention----?” “Yes,” --he took it from her-- “the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.”<|quote|>Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge.</|quote|>“Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too,
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for your comfort to hear from me that I’ve just given order to close our exhibition. From the present hour on, sir” --he put it with the firmness required to settle the futility of an appeal. Mr. Bender’s large surprise lost itself, however, promptly enough, in Mr. Bender’s larger ease. “Why, do you really mean it, Lord Theign?--removing already from view a work that gives innocent gratification to thousands?” “Well,” said his lordship curtly, “if thousands have seen it I’ve done what I wanted, and if they’ve been gratified I’m content--and invite _you_ to be.” Mr. Bender showed more keenness for this richer implication. “In other words it’s I who may remove the picture?” “Well--if you’ll take it on my estimate.” “But what, Lord Theign, all this time,” Mr. Bender almost pathetically pleaded, “_is_ your estimate?” The parting guest had another pause, which prolonged itself, after he had reached the door, in a deep solicitation of their hostess’s conscious eyes. This brief passage apparently inspired his answer. “Lady Sandgate will tell you.” The door closed behind him. The charming woman smiled then at her other friend, whose comprehensive presence appeared now to demand of her some account of these strange proceedings. “He means that your own valuation is much too shockingly high.” “But how can I know _how_ much unless I find out what he’ll take?” The great collector’s spirit had, in spite of its volume, clearly not reached its limit of expansion. “Is he crazily waiting for the thing to be proved _not_ what Mr. Crimble claims?” “No, he’s waiting for nothing--since he holds that claim demolished by Pappendick’s tremendous negative, which you wrote to tell him of.” Vast, undeveloped and suddenly grave, Mr. Bender’s countenance showed like a barren tract under a black cloud. “I wrote to _report_, fair and square, on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.” “Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.” “We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened--we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.” “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention----?” “Yes,” --he took it from her-- “the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.”<|quote|>Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge.</|quote|>“Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these
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that I hold up my head, on higher grounds, I grant that I always have. But how much longer possible when my children commit such vulgarities? Why in the name of goodness are such children? What the devil has got into them, and is it really the case that when Grace offers as a proof of her license and a specimen of her taste a son-in-law as you tell me I’m in danger of helplessly to swallow the dose?” “Do you find Mr. Crimble,” Lady Sandgate as if there might really be something to say, “so utterly out of the question?” “I found him on the two occasions before I went away in the last degree offensive and outrageous; but even if he charged one and one’s poor dear decent old defences with less rabid a fury everything about him would forbid _that_ kind of relation.” What kind of relation, if any, Hugh’s deficiencies might still render thinkable Lord Theign was kept from going on to mention by the voice of Mr. Gotch, who had thrown open the door to the not altogether assured sound of “Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” The guest in possession gave a cry of impatience, but Lady Sandgate said “Coming up?” “If his lordship will see him.” “Oh, he’s beyond his time,” his lordship pronounced-- “I can’t see him now!” “Ah, but _mustn’t_ you--and mayn’t _I_ then?” She waited, however, for no response to signify to her servant “Let him come,” and her companion could but exhale a groan of reluctant accommodation as if he wondered at the point she made of it. It enlightened him indeed perhaps a little that she went on while Gotch did her bidding. “Does the kind of relation you’d be condemned to with Mr. Crimble let you down, down, down, as you say, more than the relation you’ve been having with Mr. Bender?” Lord Theign had for it the most uninforming of stares. “Do you mean don’t I hate ‘em equally both?” She cut his further reply short, however, by a “Hush!” of warning--Mr. Bender was there and his introducer had left them. Lord Theign, full of his purpose of departure, sacrificed hereupon little to ceremony. “I’ve but a moment, to my regret, to give you, Mr. Bender, and if you’ve been unavoidably detained, as you great bustling people are so apt to be, it will perhaps still be soon enough for your comfort to hear from me that I’ve just given order to close our exhibition. From the present hour on, sir” --he put it with the firmness required to settle the futility of an appeal. Mr. Bender’s large surprise lost itself, however, promptly enough, in Mr. Bender’s larger ease. “Why, do you really mean it, Lord Theign?--removing already from view a work that gives innocent gratification to thousands?” “Well,” said his lordship curtly, “if thousands have seen it I’ve done what I wanted, and if they’ve been gratified I’m content--and invite _you_ to be.” Mr. Bender showed more keenness for this richer implication. “In other words it’s I who may remove the picture?” “Well--if you’ll take it on my estimate.” “But what, Lord Theign, all this time,” Mr. Bender almost pathetically pleaded, “_is_ your estimate?” The parting guest had another pause, which prolonged itself, after he had reached the door, in a deep solicitation of their hostess’s conscious eyes. This brief passage apparently inspired his answer. “Lady Sandgate will tell you.” The door closed behind him. The charming woman smiled then at her other friend, whose comprehensive presence appeared now to demand of her some account of these strange proceedings. “He means that your own valuation is much too shockingly high.” “But how can I know _how_ much unless I find out what he’ll take?” The great collector’s spirit had, in spite of its volume, clearly not reached its limit of expansion. “Is he crazily waiting for the thing to be proved _not_ what Mr. Crimble claims?” “No, he’s waiting for nothing--since he holds that claim demolished by Pappendick’s tremendous negative, which you wrote to tell him of.” Vast, undeveloped and suddenly grave, Mr. Bender’s countenance showed like a barren tract under a black cloud. “I wrote to _report_, fair and square, on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.” “Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.” “We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened--we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.” “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention----?” “Yes,” --he took it from her-- “the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.”<|quote|>Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge.</|quote|>“Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.” “Well,” she laughed, “I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.” “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?” She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?” “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the door?” She scarce required his assent to touch a bell. “I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with
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almost pathetically pleaded, “_is_ your estimate?” The parting guest had another pause, which prolonged itself, after he had reached the door, in a deep solicitation of their hostess’s conscious eyes. This brief passage apparently inspired his answer. “Lady Sandgate will tell you.” The door closed behind him. The charming woman smiled then at her other friend, whose comprehensive presence appeared now to demand of her some account of these strange proceedings. “He means that your own valuation is much too shockingly high.” “But how can I know _how_ much unless I find out what he’ll take?” The great collector’s spirit had, in spite of its volume, clearly not reached its limit of expansion. “Is he crazily waiting for the thing to be proved _not_ what Mr. Crimble claims?” “No, he’s waiting for nothing--since he holds that claim demolished by Pappendick’s tremendous negative, which you wrote to tell him of.” Vast, undeveloped and suddenly grave, Mr. Bender’s countenance showed like a barren tract under a black cloud. “I wrote to _report_, fair and square, on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.” “Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.” “We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened--we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.” “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention----?” “Yes,” --he took it from her-- “the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.”<|quote|>Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge.</|quote|>“Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his
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The Outcry
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"But is _that_ how Russian subjects ought to be treated? Why, when they settle here they dare not utter even a word they are ready even to deny the fact that they are Russians! At all events, at my hotel in Paris I received far more attention from the company after I had told them about the fracas with the sacristan. A fat Polish nobleman, who had been the most offensive of all who were present at the table d h te, at once went upstairs, while some of the Frenchmen were simply disgusted when I told them that two years ago I had encountered a man at whom, in 1812, a French hero fired for the mere fun of discharging his musket. That man was then a boy of ten and his family are still residing in Moscow."
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Alexis Ivanovitch
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tait pas si b te."<|quote|>"But is _that_ how Russian subjects ought to be treated? Why, when they settle here they dare not utter even a word they are ready even to deny the fact that they are Russians! At all events, at my hotel in Paris I received far more attention from the company after I had told them about the fracas with the sacristan. A fat Polish nobleman, who had been the most offensive of all who were present at the table d h te, at once went upstairs, while some of the Frenchmen were simply disgusted when I told them that two years ago I had encountered a man at whom, in 1812, a French hero fired for the mere fun of discharging his musket. That man was then a boy of ten and his family are still residing in Moscow."</|quote|>"Impossible!" the Frenchman spluttered. "No
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with a smile. "Cela n tait pas si b te."<|quote|>"But is _that_ how Russian subjects ought to be treated? Why, when they settle here they dare not utter even a word they are ready even to deny the fact that they are Russians! At all events, at my hotel in Paris I received far more attention from the company after I had told them about the fracas with the sacristan. A fat Polish nobleman, who had been the most offensive of all who were present at the table d h te, at once went upstairs, while some of the Frenchmen were simply disgusted when I told them that two years ago I had encountered a man at whom, in 1812, a French hero fired for the mere fun of discharging his musket. That man was then a boy of ten and his family are still residing in Moscow."</|quote|>"Impossible!" the Frenchman spluttered. "No French soldier would fire at
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if you care to see it," and I pulled out the document, and exhibited the Roman visa. "But" the General began. "What really saved you was the fact that you proclaimed yourself a heretic and a barbarian," remarked the Frenchman with a smile. "Cela n tait pas si b te."<|quote|>"But is _that_ how Russian subjects ought to be treated? Why, when they settle here they dare not utter even a word they are ready even to deny the fact that they are Russians! At all events, at my hotel in Paris I received far more attention from the company after I had told them about the fracas with the sacristan. A fat Polish nobleman, who had been the most offensive of all who were present at the table d h te, at once went upstairs, while some of the Frenchmen were simply disgusted when I told them that two years ago I had encountered a man at whom, in 1812, a French hero fired for the mere fun of discharging his musket. That man was then a boy of ten and his family are still residing in Moscow."</|quote|>"Impossible!" the Frenchman spluttered. "No French soldier would fire at a child!" "Nevertheless the incident was as I say," I replied. "A very respected ex-captain told me the story, and I myself could see the scar left on his cheek." The Frenchman then began chattering volubly, and the General supported
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all to me. In a word, I showed him that I was not going to give way. He looked at me with an air of infinite resentment. Then he snatched up my passport, and departed with it upstairs. A minute later the passport had been visaed! Here it is now, if you care to see it," and I pulled out the document, and exhibited the Roman visa. "But" the General began. "What really saved you was the fact that you proclaimed yourself a heretic and a barbarian," remarked the Frenchman with a smile. "Cela n tait pas si b te."<|quote|>"But is _that_ how Russian subjects ought to be treated? Why, when they settle here they dare not utter even a word they are ready even to deny the fact that they are Russians! At all events, at my hotel in Paris I received far more attention from the company after I had told them about the fracas with the sacristan. A fat Polish nobleman, who had been the most offensive of all who were present at the table d h te, at once went upstairs, while some of the Frenchmen were simply disgusted when I told them that two years ago I had encountered a man at whom, in 1812, a French hero fired for the mere fun of discharging his musket. That man was then a boy of ten and his family are still residing in Moscow."</|quote|>"Impossible!" the Frenchman spluttered. "No French soldier would fire at a child!" "Nevertheless the incident was as I say," I replied. "A very respected ex-captain told me the story, and I myself could see the scar left on his cheek." The Frenchman then began chattering volubly, and the General supported him; but I recommended the former to read, for example, extracts from the memoirs of General Perovski, who, in 1812, was a prisoner in the hands of the French. Finally Maria Philipovna said something to interrupt the conversation. The General was furious with me for having started the altercation with
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am going to _spit_ into that coffee! Yes, and if you do not get me my passport visaed this very minute, I shall take it to Monsignor myself."" "What? While he is engaged with a Cardinal?" "screeched the sacristan, again shrinking back in horror. Then, rushing to the door, he spread out his arms as though he would rather die than let me enter." Thereupon I declared that I was a heretic and a barbarian "Je suis h r tique et barbare," I said, "and that these archbishops and cardinals and monsignors, and the rest of them, meant nothing at all to me. In a word, I showed him that I was not going to give way. He looked at me with an air of infinite resentment. Then he snatched up my passport, and departed with it upstairs. A minute later the passport had been visaed! Here it is now, if you care to see it," and I pulled out the document, and exhibited the Roman visa. "But" the General began. "What really saved you was the fact that you proclaimed yourself a heretic and a barbarian," remarked the Frenchman with a smile. "Cela n tait pas si b te."<|quote|>"But is _that_ how Russian subjects ought to be treated? Why, when they settle here they dare not utter even a word they are ready even to deny the fact that they are Russians! At all events, at my hotel in Paris I received far more attention from the company after I had told them about the fracas with the sacristan. A fat Polish nobleman, who had been the most offensive of all who were present at the table d h te, at once went upstairs, while some of the Frenchmen were simply disgusted when I told them that two years ago I had encountered a man at whom, in 1812, a French hero fired for the mere fun of discharging his musket. That man was then a boy of ten and his family are still residing in Moscow."</|quote|>"Impossible!" the Frenchman spluttered. "No French soldier would fire at a child!" "Nevertheless the incident was as I say," I replied. "A very respected ex-captain told me the story, and I myself could see the scar left on his cheek." The Frenchman then began chattering volubly, and the General supported him; but I recommended the former to read, for example, extracts from the memoirs of General Perovski, who, in 1812, was a prisoner in the hands of the French. Finally Maria Philipovna said something to interrupt the conversation. The General was furious with me for having started the altercation with the Frenchman. On the other hand, Mr. Astley seemed to take great pleasure in my brush with Monsieur, and, rising from the table, proposed that we should go and have a drink together. The same afternoon, at four o clock, I went to have my customary talk with Polina Alexandrovna; and, the talk soon extended to a stroll. We entered the Park, and approached the Casino, where Polina seated herself upon a bench near the fountain, and sent Nadia away to a little distance to play with some other children. Mischa also I dispatched to play by the fountain, and
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and ask for Monsignor; after which I saw the sacristan make a low bow to the visitor, and then another bow as the visitor took his leave. I ventured to remind the good man of my own business also; whereupon, with an expression of, if anything, increased dryness, he again asked me to wait. Soon a third visitor arrived who, like myself, had come on business (he was an Austrian of some sort); and as soon as ever he had stated his errand he was conducted upstairs! This made me very angry. I rose, approached the sacristan, and told him that, since Monsignor was receiving callers, his lordship might just as well finish off my affair as well. Upon this the sacristan shrunk back in astonishment. It simply passed his understanding that any insignificant Russian should dare to compare himself with other visitors of Monsignor s! In a tone of the utmost effrontery, as though he were delighted to have a chance of insulting me, he looked me up and down, and then said:" "Do you suppose that Monsignor is going to put aside his coffee for _you?_" "But I only cried the louder:" "Let me tell you that I am going to _spit_ into that coffee! Yes, and if you do not get me my passport visaed this very minute, I shall take it to Monsignor myself."" "What? While he is engaged with a Cardinal?" "screeched the sacristan, again shrinking back in horror. Then, rushing to the door, he spread out his arms as though he would rather die than let me enter." Thereupon I declared that I was a heretic and a barbarian "Je suis h r tique et barbare," I said, "and that these archbishops and cardinals and monsignors, and the rest of them, meant nothing at all to me. In a word, I showed him that I was not going to give way. He looked at me with an air of infinite resentment. Then he snatched up my passport, and departed with it upstairs. A minute later the passport had been visaed! Here it is now, if you care to see it," and I pulled out the document, and exhibited the Roman visa. "But" the General began. "What really saved you was the fact that you proclaimed yourself a heretic and a barbarian," remarked the Frenchman with a smile. "Cela n tait pas si b te."<|quote|>"But is _that_ how Russian subjects ought to be treated? Why, when they settle here they dare not utter even a word they are ready even to deny the fact that they are Russians! At all events, at my hotel in Paris I received far more attention from the company after I had told them about the fracas with the sacristan. A fat Polish nobleman, who had been the most offensive of all who were present at the table d h te, at once went upstairs, while some of the Frenchmen were simply disgusted when I told them that two years ago I had encountered a man at whom, in 1812, a French hero fired for the mere fun of discharging his musket. That man was then a boy of ten and his family are still residing in Moscow."</|quote|>"Impossible!" the Frenchman spluttered. "No French soldier would fire at a child!" "Nevertheless the incident was as I say," I replied. "A very respected ex-captain told me the story, and I myself could see the scar left on his cheek." The Frenchman then began chattering volubly, and the General supported him; but I recommended the former to read, for example, extracts from the memoirs of General Perovski, who, in 1812, was a prisoner in the hands of the French. Finally Maria Philipovna said something to interrupt the conversation. The General was furious with me for having started the altercation with the Frenchman. On the other hand, Mr. Astley seemed to take great pleasure in my brush with Monsieur, and, rising from the table, proposed that we should go and have a drink together. The same afternoon, at four o clock, I went to have my customary talk with Polina Alexandrovna; and, the talk soon extended to a stroll. We entered the Park, and approached the Casino, where Polina seated herself upon a bench near the fountain, and sent Nadia away to a little distance to play with some other children. Mischa also I dispatched to play by the fountain, and in this fashion we that is to say, Polina and myself contrived to find ourselves alone. Of course, we began by talking on business matters. Polina seemed furious when I handed her only 700 g lden, for she had thought to receive from Paris, as the proceeds of the pledging of her diamonds, at least 2000 g lden, or even more. "Come what may, I _must_ have money," she said. "And get it somehow I will otherwise I shall be ruined." I asked her what had happened during my absence. "Nothing; except that two pieces of news have reached us from St. Petersburg. In the first place, my grandmother is very ill, and unlikely to last another couple of days. We had this from Timothy Petrovitch himself, and he is a reliable person. Every moment we are expecting to receive news of the end." "All of you are on the tiptoe of expectation?" I queried. "Of course all of us, and every minute of the day. For a year-and-a-half now we have been looking for this." "Looking for it?" "Yes, looking for it. I am not her blood relation, you know I am merely the General s step-daughter. Yet I
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general conversation. Above everything I wanted to pick a quarrel with the Frenchman; and, with that end in view I turned to the General, and exclaimed in an overbearing sort of way indeed, I think that I actually interrupted him that that summer it had been almost impossible for a Russian to dine anywhere at tables d h te. The General bent upon me a glance of astonishment. "If one is a man of self-respect," I went on, "one risks abuse by so doing, and is forced to put up with insults of every kind. Both at Paris and on the Rhine, and even in Switzerland there are so many Poles, with their sympathisers, the French, at these tables d h te that one cannot get a word in edgeways if one happens only to be a Russian." This I said in French. The General eyed me doubtfully, for he did not know whether to be angry or merely to feel surprised that I should so far forget myself. "Of course, one always learns _something everywhere_," said the Frenchman in a careless, contemptuous sort of tone. "In Paris, too, I had a dispute with a Pole," I continued, "and then with a French officer who supported him. After that a section of the Frenchmen present took my part. They did so as soon as I told them the story of how once I threatened to spit into Monsignor s coffee." "To spit into it?" the General inquired with grave disapproval in his tone, and a stare, of astonishment, while the Frenchman looked at me unbelievingly. "Just so," I replied. "You must know that, on one occasion, when, for two days, I had felt certain that at any moment I might have to depart for Rome on business, I repaired to the Embassy of the Holy See in Paris, to have my passport visaed. There I encountered a sacristan of about fifty, and a man dry and cold of mien. After listening politely, but with great reserve, to my account of myself, this sacristan asked me to wait a little. I was in a great hurry to depart, but of course I sat down, pulled out a copy of _L Opinion Nationale_, and fell to reading an extraordinary piece of invective against Russia which it happened to contain. As I was thus engaged I heard some one enter an adjoining room and ask for Monsignor; after which I saw the sacristan make a low bow to the visitor, and then another bow as the visitor took his leave. I ventured to remind the good man of my own business also; whereupon, with an expression of, if anything, increased dryness, he again asked me to wait. Soon a third visitor arrived who, like myself, had come on business (he was an Austrian of some sort); and as soon as ever he had stated his errand he was conducted upstairs! This made me very angry. I rose, approached the sacristan, and told him that, since Monsignor was receiving callers, his lordship might just as well finish off my affair as well. Upon this the sacristan shrunk back in astonishment. It simply passed his understanding that any insignificant Russian should dare to compare himself with other visitors of Monsignor s! In a tone of the utmost effrontery, as though he were delighted to have a chance of insulting me, he looked me up and down, and then said:" "Do you suppose that Monsignor is going to put aside his coffee for _you?_" "But I only cried the louder:" "Let me tell you that I am going to _spit_ into that coffee! Yes, and if you do not get me my passport visaed this very minute, I shall take it to Monsignor myself."" "What? While he is engaged with a Cardinal?" "screeched the sacristan, again shrinking back in horror. Then, rushing to the door, he spread out his arms as though he would rather die than let me enter." Thereupon I declared that I was a heretic and a barbarian "Je suis h r tique et barbare," I said, "and that these archbishops and cardinals and monsignors, and the rest of them, meant nothing at all to me. In a word, I showed him that I was not going to give way. He looked at me with an air of infinite resentment. Then he snatched up my passport, and departed with it upstairs. A minute later the passport had been visaed! Here it is now, if you care to see it," and I pulled out the document, and exhibited the Roman visa. "But" the General began. "What really saved you was the fact that you proclaimed yourself a heretic and a barbarian," remarked the Frenchman with a smile. "Cela n tait pas si b te."<|quote|>"But is _that_ how Russian subjects ought to be treated? Why, when they settle here they dare not utter even a word they are ready even to deny the fact that they are Russians! At all events, at my hotel in Paris I received far more attention from the company after I had told them about the fracas with the sacristan. A fat Polish nobleman, who had been the most offensive of all who were present at the table d h te, at once went upstairs, while some of the Frenchmen were simply disgusted when I told them that two years ago I had encountered a man at whom, in 1812, a French hero fired for the mere fun of discharging his musket. That man was then a boy of ten and his family are still residing in Moscow."</|quote|>"Impossible!" the Frenchman spluttered. "No French soldier would fire at a child!" "Nevertheless the incident was as I say," I replied. "A very respected ex-captain told me the story, and I myself could see the scar left on his cheek." The Frenchman then began chattering volubly, and the General supported him; but I recommended the former to read, for example, extracts from the memoirs of General Perovski, who, in 1812, was a prisoner in the hands of the French. Finally Maria Philipovna said something to interrupt the conversation. The General was furious with me for having started the altercation with the Frenchman. On the other hand, Mr. Astley seemed to take great pleasure in my brush with Monsieur, and, rising from the table, proposed that we should go and have a drink together. The same afternoon, at four o clock, I went to have my customary talk with Polina Alexandrovna; and, the talk soon extended to a stroll. We entered the Park, and approached the Casino, where Polina seated herself upon a bench near the fountain, and sent Nadia away to a little distance to play with some other children. Mischa also I dispatched to play by the fountain, and in this fashion we that is to say, Polina and myself contrived to find ourselves alone. Of course, we began by talking on business matters. Polina seemed furious when I handed her only 700 g lden, for she had thought to receive from Paris, as the proceeds of the pledging of her diamonds, at least 2000 g lden, or even more. "Come what may, I _must_ have money," she said. "And get it somehow I will otherwise I shall be ruined." I asked her what had happened during my absence. "Nothing; except that two pieces of news have reached us from St. Petersburg. In the first place, my grandmother is very ill, and unlikely to last another couple of days. We had this from Timothy Petrovitch himself, and he is a reliable person. Every moment we are expecting to receive news of the end." "All of you are on the tiptoe of expectation?" I queried. "Of course all of us, and every minute of the day. For a year-and-a-half now we have been looking for this." "Looking for it?" "Yes, looking for it. I am not her blood relation, you know I am merely the General s step-daughter. Yet I am certain that the old lady has remembered me in her will." "Yes, I believe that you _will_ come in for a good deal," I said with some assurance. "Yes, for she is fond of me. But how come you to think so?" I answered this question with another one. "That Marquis of yours," I said, "is _he_ also familiar with your family secrets?" "And why are you yourself so interested in them?" was her retort as she eyed me with dry grimness. "Never mind. If I am not mistaken, the General has succeeded in borrowing money of the Marquis." "It may be so." "Is it likely that the Marquis would have lent the money if he had not known something or other about your grandmother? Did you notice, too, that three times during luncheon, when speaking of her, he called her La Baboulenka ?" [1]. "What loving, friendly behaviour, to be sure!" [1] Dear little Grandmother. "Yes, that is true. As soon as ever he learnt that I was likely to inherit something from her he began to pay me his addresses. I thought you ought to know that." "Then he has only just begun his courting? Why, I thought he had been doing so a long while!" "You _know_ he has not," retorted Polina angrily. "But where on earth did you pick up this Englishman?" She said this after a pause. "I _knew_ you would ask about him!" Whereupon I told her of my previous encounters with Astley while travelling. "He is very shy," I said, "and susceptible. Also, he is in love with you." "Yes, he _is_ in love with me," she replied. "And he is ten times richer than the Frenchman. In fact, what does the Frenchman possess? To me it seems at least doubtful that he possesses anything at all." "Oh, no, there is no doubt about it. He does possess some ch teau or other. Last night the General told me that for certain. _Now_ are you satisfied?" "Nevertheless, in your place I should marry the Englishman." "And why?" asked Polina. "Because, though the Frenchman is the handsomer of the two, he is also the baser; whereas the Englishman is not only a man of honour, but ten times the wealthier of the pair." "Yes? But then the Frenchman is a marquis, and the cleverer of the two," remarked Polina imperturbably. "Is that so?"
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of myself, this sacristan asked me to wait a little. I was in a great hurry to depart, but of course I sat down, pulled out a copy of _L Opinion Nationale_, and fell to reading an extraordinary piece of invective against Russia which it happened to contain. As I was thus engaged I heard some one enter an adjoining room and ask for Monsignor; after which I saw the sacristan make a low bow to the visitor, and then another bow as the visitor took his leave. I ventured to remind the good man of my own business also; whereupon, with an expression of, if anything, increased dryness, he again asked me to wait. Soon a third visitor arrived who, like myself, had come on business (he was an Austrian of some sort); and as soon as ever he had stated his errand he was conducted upstairs! This made me very angry. I rose, approached the sacristan, and told him that, since Monsignor was receiving callers, his lordship might just as well finish off my affair as well. Upon this the sacristan shrunk back in astonishment. It simply passed his understanding that any insignificant Russian should dare to compare himself with other visitors of Monsignor s! In a tone of the utmost effrontery, as though he were delighted to have a chance of insulting me, he looked me up and down, and then said:" "Do you suppose that Monsignor is going to put aside his coffee for _you?_" "But I only cried the louder:" "Let me tell you that I am going to _spit_ into that coffee! Yes, and if you do not get me my passport visaed this very minute, I shall take it to Monsignor myself."" "What? While he is engaged with a Cardinal?" "screeched the sacristan, again shrinking back in horror. Then, rushing to the door, he spread out his arms as though he would rather die than let me enter." Thereupon I declared that I was a heretic and a barbarian "Je suis h r tique et barbare," I said, "and that these archbishops and cardinals and monsignors, and the rest of them, meant nothing at all to me. In a word, I showed him that I was not going to give way. He looked at me with an air of infinite resentment. Then he snatched up my passport, and departed with it upstairs. A minute later the passport had been visaed! Here it is now, if you care to see it," and I pulled out the document, and exhibited the Roman visa. "But" the General began. "What really saved you was the fact that you proclaimed yourself a heretic and a barbarian," remarked the Frenchman with a smile. "Cela n tait pas si b te."<|quote|>"But is _that_ how Russian subjects ought to be treated? Why, when they settle here they dare not utter even a word they are ready even to deny the fact that they are Russians! At all events, at my hotel in Paris I received far more attention from the company after I had told them about the fracas with the sacristan. A fat Polish nobleman, who had been the most offensive of all who were present at the table d h te, at once went upstairs, while some of the Frenchmen were simply disgusted when I told them that two years ago I had encountered a man at whom, in 1812, a French hero fired for the mere fun of discharging his musket. That man was then a boy of ten and his family are still residing in Moscow."</|quote|>"Impossible!" the Frenchman spluttered. "No French soldier would fire at a child!" "Nevertheless the incident was as I say," I replied. "A very respected ex-captain told me the story, and I myself could see the scar left on his cheek." The Frenchman then began chattering volubly, and the General supported him; but I recommended the former to read, for example, extracts from the memoirs of General Perovski, who, in 1812, was a prisoner in the hands of the French. Finally Maria Philipovna said something to interrupt the conversation. The General was furious with me for having started the altercation with the Frenchman. On the other hand, Mr. Astley seemed to take great pleasure in my brush with Monsieur, and, rising from the table, proposed that we should go and have a drink together. The same afternoon, at four o clock, I went to have my customary talk with Polina Alexandrovna; and, the talk soon extended to a stroll. We entered the Park, and approached the Casino, where Polina seated herself upon a bench near the fountain, and sent Nadia away to a little distance to play with some other children. Mischa also I dispatched to play by the fountain, and in this fashion we that is to say, Polina and myself contrived to find ourselves alone. Of course, we began by talking on business matters. Polina seemed furious when I handed her only 700 g lden, for she had thought to receive from Paris, as the proceeds of the pledging of her diamonds, at least 2000 g lden, or even more. "Come what may, I _must_ have money," she said. "And get it somehow I will otherwise I shall be ruined." I asked her what had happened during my absence. "Nothing; except that two pieces of news have reached us from St. Petersburg. In the first place, my grandmother is very ill, and unlikely to last another couple of days. We had this from Timothy Petrovitch himself, and he is a reliable person. Every moment we are expecting to receive news of the end." "All of you are on the tiptoe of expectation?" I queried. "Of course all of us, and every minute of the day. For a year-and-a-half now we have been looking for this." "Looking for it?" "Yes, looking for it. I am not her blood relation, you know I am merely the General s step-daughter. Yet I am certain that the old lady has remembered me in her will." "Yes, I believe that you _will_ come in for a good deal,"
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The Gambler
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Brett exclaimed.
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No speaker
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just a little tight." "Tight!"<|quote|>Brett exclaimed.</|quote|>"You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing,"
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remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!"<|quote|>Brett exclaimed.</|quote|>"You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former
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then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!"<|quote|>Brett exclaimed.</|quote|>"You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink." "Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said. "I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too. I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going down
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hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone." "How did you go bankrupt?" Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!"<|quote|>Brett exclaimed.</|quote|>"You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink." "Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said. "I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too. I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going down and see these bulls unloaded or not?" "Let's go down." We called the waiter, paid, and started to walk through the town. I started off walking with Brett, but Robert Cohn came up and joined her on the other side. The three of us walked along, past the Ayuntamiento with
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"Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said. "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have been grand for the tailor." "Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me now," Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone." "How did you go bankrupt?" Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!"<|quote|>Brett exclaimed.</|quote|>"You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink." "Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said. "I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too. I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going down and see these bulls unloaded or not?" "Let's go down." We called the waiter, paid, and started to walk through the town. I started off walking with Brett, but Robert Cohn came up and joined her on the other side. The three of us walked along, past the Ayuntamiento with the banners hung from the balcony, down past the market and down past the steep street that led to the bridge across the Arga. There were many people walking to go and see the bulls, and carriages drove down the hill and across the bridge, the drivers, the horses, and the whips rising above the walking people in the street. Across the bridge we turned up a road to the corrals. We passed a wine-shop with a sign in the window: Good Wine 30 Centimes A Liter. "That's where we'll go when funds get low," Brett said. The woman standing
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a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket." He stopped for us to laugh. "Is that all?" "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right." "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter." We were all laughing. "Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening I found the box in my pocket." What's this? "I said." Medals? "Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know, they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one to each girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. Dashing fellow." "Tell the rest," Brett said. "Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said. "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have been grand for the tailor." "Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me now," Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone." "How did you go bankrupt?" Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!"<|quote|>Brett exclaimed.</|quote|>"You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink." "Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said. "I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too. I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going down and see these bulls unloaded or not?" "Let's go down." We called the waiter, paid, and started to walk through the town. I started off walking with Brett, but Robert Cohn came up and joined her on the other side. The three of us walked along, past the Ayuntamiento with the banners hung from the balcony, down past the market and down past the steep street that led to the bridge across the Arga. There were many people walking to go and see the bulls, and carriages drove down the hill and across the bridge, the drivers, the horses, and the whips rising above the walking people in the street. Across the bridge we turned up a road to the corrals. We passed a wine-shop with a sign in the window: Good Wine 30 Centimes A Liter. "That's where we'll go when funds get low," Brett said. The woman standing in the door of the wine-shop looked at us as we passed. She called to some one in the house and three girls came to the window and stared. They were staring at Brett. At the gate of the corrals two men took tickets from the people that went in. We went in through the gate. There were trees inside and a low, stone house. At the far end was the stone wall of the corrals, with apertures in the stone that were like loopholes running all along the face of each corral. A ladder led up to the top of the wall, and people were climbing up the ladder and spreading down to stand on the walls that separated the two corrals. As we came up the ladder, walking across the grass under the trees, we passed the big, gray painted cages with the bulls in them. There was one bull in each travelling-box. They had come by train from a bull-breeding ranch in Castile, and had been unloaded off flat-cars at the station and brought up here to be let out of their cages into the corrals. Each cage was stencilled with the name and the brand of
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chaps!" she called. Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an intensity of feeling into shaking hands. Robert Cohn shook hands because we were back. "Where the hell have you been?" I asked. "I brought them up here," Cohn said. "What rot," Brett said. "We'd have gotten here earlier if you hadn't come." "You'd never have gotten here." "What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill." "Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you." "It wasn't bad. We missed you." "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them." "You bring us. What rot." "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?" "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris," Bill said. "Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back." "Don't be an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals." "You must have some." "I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:" 'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.' "So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket." He stopped for us to laugh. "Is that all?" "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right." "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter." We were all laughing. "Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening I found the box in my pocket." What's this? "I said." Medals? "Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know, they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one to each girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. Dashing fellow." "Tell the rest," Brett said. "Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said. "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have been grand for the tailor." "Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me now," Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone." "How did you go bankrupt?" Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!"<|quote|>Brett exclaimed.</|quote|>"You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink." "Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said. "I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too. I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going down and see these bulls unloaded or not?" "Let's go down." We called the waiter, paid, and started to walk through the town. I started off walking with Brett, but Robert Cohn came up and joined her on the other side. The three of us walked along, past the Ayuntamiento with the banners hung from the balcony, down past the market and down past the steep street that led to the bridge across the Arga. There were many people walking to go and see the bulls, and carriages drove down the hill and across the bridge, the drivers, the horses, and the whips rising above the walking people in the street. Across the bridge we turned up a road to the corrals. We passed a wine-shop with a sign in the window: Good Wine 30 Centimes A Liter. "That's where we'll go when funds get low," Brett said. The woman standing in the door of the wine-shop looked at us as we passed. She called to some one in the house and three girls came to the window and stared. They were staring at Brett. At the gate of the corrals two men took tickets from the people that went in. We went in through the gate. There were trees inside and a low, stone house. At the far end was the stone wall of the corrals, with apertures in the stone that were like loopholes running all along the face of each corral. A ladder led up to the top of the wall, and people were climbing up the ladder and spreading down to stand on the walls that separated the two corrals. As we came up the ladder, walking across the grass under the trees, we passed the big, gray painted cages with the bulls in them. There was one bull in each travelling-box. They had come by train from a bull-breeding ranch in Castile, and had been unloaded off flat-cars at the station and brought up here to be let out of their cages into the corrals. Each cage was stencilled with the name and the brand of the bull-breeder. We climbed up and found a place on the wall looking down into the corral. The stone walls were whitewashed, and there was straw on the ground and wooden feed-boxes and water-troughs set against the wall. "Look up there," I said. Beyond the river rose the plateau of the town. All along the old walls and ramparts people were standing. The three lines of fortifications made three black lines of people. Above the walls there were heads in the windows of the houses. At the far end of the plateau boys had climbed into the trees. "They must think something is going to happen," Brett said. "They want to see the bulls." Mike and Bill were on the other wall across the pit of the corral. They waved to us. People who had come late were standing behind us, pressing against us when other people crowded them. "Why don't they start?" Robert Cohn asked. A single mule was hitched to one of the cages and dragged it up against the gate in the corral wall. The men shoved and lifted it with crowbars into position against the gate. Men were standing on the wall ready to pull up the gate of the corral and then the gate of the cage. At the other end of the corral a gate opened and two steers came in, swaying their heads and trotting, their lean flanks swinging. They stood together at the far end, their heads toward the gate where the bull would enter. "They don't look happy," Brett said. The men on top of the wall leaned back and pulled up the door of the corral. Then they pulled up the door of the cage. I leaned way over the wall and tried to see into the cage. It was dark. Some one rapped on the cage with an iron bar. Inside something seemed to explode. The bull, striking into the wood from side to side with his horns, made a great noise. Then I saw a dark muzzle and the shadow of horns, and then, with a clattering on the wood in the hollow box, the bull charged and came out into the corral, skidding with his forefeet in the straw as he stopped, his head up, the great hump of muscle on his neck swollen tight, his body muscles quivering as he looked up at the crowd on
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taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket." He stopped for us to laugh. "Is that all?" "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right." "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter." We were all laughing. "Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening I found the box in my pocket." What's this? "I said." Medals? "Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know, they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one to each girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. Dashing fellow." "Tell the rest," Brett said. "Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said. "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have been grand for the tailor." "Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me now," Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone." "How did you go bankrupt?" Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!"<|quote|>Brett exclaimed.</|quote|>"You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink." "Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said. "I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too. I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going down and see these bulls unloaded or not?" "Let's go down." We called the waiter, paid, and started to walk through the town. I started off walking with Brett, but Robert Cohn came up and joined her on the other side. The three of us walked along, past the Ayuntamiento with the banners hung from the balcony, down past the market and down past the steep street that led to the bridge across the Arga. There were many people walking to go and see the bulls, and carriages drove down the hill and across the bridge, the drivers, the horses, and the whips rising above the walking people in the street. Across the bridge we turned up a road to the corrals. We passed a wine-shop with a sign in the window: Good Wine 30 Centimes A Liter. "That's where we'll go when funds get low," Brett said. The woman standing in the door of the wine-shop looked at us as we passed. She called to some one in the house and three girls came to the window and stared. They were staring at Brett. At the gate of the corrals two men took tickets from the people that went in. We went in through the gate. There were trees inside and a low, stone house. At the far end was the stone wall of the corrals, with apertures in the stone that were like loopholes running all along the face of each corral. A ladder led up to the top of the wall, and people were climbing up the ladder and spreading down to stand on the walls that separated the two corrals. As we came up the ladder, walking across the grass under the trees, we passed
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The Sun Also Rises
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"said I,"
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Miss Bates
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instrument will be worth having.'--But,<|quote|>"said I,"</|quote|>I shall be more sure
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'Miss Woodhouse's opinion of the instrument will be worth having.'--But,<|quote|>"said I,"</|quote|>I shall be more sure of succeeding if one of
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Woodhouse will allow me just to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother will be so very happy to see her--and now we are such a nice party, she cannot refuse.--'Aye, pray do,' "said Mr. Frank Churchill," 'Miss Woodhouse's opinion of the instrument will be worth having.'--But,<|quote|>"said I,"</|quote|>I shall be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me.--'Oh,' "said he," 'wait half a minute, till I have finished my job;' "--For, would you believe it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging manner in the world, fastening in the rivet of
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I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well; and Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse?--I am so glad to hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.--" Oh! then, "said I," I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me just to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother will be so very happy to see her--and now we are such a nice party, she cannot refuse.--'Aye, pray do,' "said Mr. Frank Churchill," 'Miss Woodhouse's opinion of the instrument will be worth having.'--But,<|quote|>"said I,"</|quote|>I shall be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me.--'Oh,' "said he," 'wait half a minute, till I have finished my job;' "--For, would you believe it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging manner in the world, fastening in the rivet of my mother's spectacles.--The rivet came out, you know, this morning.--So very obliging!--For my mother had no use of her spectacles--could not put them on. And, by the bye, every body ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane said so. I meant to take them over to
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sent to Mrs. Goddard's." Voices approached the shop--or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door. "My dear Miss Woodhouse," said the latter, "I am just run across to entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while, and give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith. How do you do, Miss Smith?--Very well I thank you.--And I begged Mrs. Weston to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding." "I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are--" "Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well; and Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse?--I am so glad to hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.--" Oh! then, "said I," I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me just to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother will be so very happy to see her--and now we are such a nice party, she cannot refuse.--'Aye, pray do,' "said Mr. Frank Churchill," 'Miss Woodhouse's opinion of the instrument will be worth having.'--But,<|quote|>"said I,"</|quote|>I shall be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me.--'Oh,' "said he," 'wait half a minute, till I have finished my job;' "--For, would you believe it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging manner in the world, fastening in the rivet of my mother's spectacles.--The rivet came out, you know, this morning.--So very obliging!--For my mother had no use of her spectacles--could not put them on. And, by the bye, every body ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane said so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I did, but something or other hindered me all the morning; first one thing, then another, there is no saying what, you know. At one time Patty came to say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping." Oh, "said I," Patty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet of your mistress's spectacles out. "Then the baked apples came home, Mrs. Wallis sent them by her boy; they are extremely civil and obliging to us, the Wallises, always--I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallis can be uncivil and
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of the parcel. "Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard's, ma'am?" asked Mrs. Ford.--" "Yes--no--yes, to Mrs. Goddard's. Only my pattern gown is at Hartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please. But then, Mrs. Goddard will want to see it.--And I could take the pattern gown home any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly--so it had better go to Hartfield--at least the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels, Mrs. Ford, could not you?" "It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two parcels." "No more it is." "No trouble in the world, ma'am," said the obliging Mrs. Ford. "Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one. Then, if you please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard's--I do not know--No, I think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield, and take it home with me at night. What do you advise?" "That you do not give another half-second to the subject. To Hartfield, if you please, Mrs. Ford." "Aye, that will be much best," said Harriet, quite satisfied, "I should not at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard's." Voices approached the shop--or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door. "My dear Miss Woodhouse," said the latter, "I am just run across to entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while, and give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith. How do you do, Miss Smith?--Very well I thank you.--And I begged Mrs. Weston to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding." "I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are--" "Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well; and Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse?--I am so glad to hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.--" Oh! then, "said I," I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me just to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother will be so very happy to see her--and now we are such a nice party, she cannot refuse.--'Aye, pray do,' "said Mr. Frank Churchill," 'Miss Woodhouse's opinion of the instrument will be worth having.'--But,<|quote|>"said I,"</|quote|>I shall be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me.--'Oh,' "said he," 'wait half a minute, till I have finished my job;' "--For, would you believe it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging manner in the world, fastening in the rivet of my mother's spectacles.--The rivet came out, you know, this morning.--So very obliging!--For my mother had no use of her spectacles--could not put them on. And, by the bye, every body ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane said so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I did, but something or other hindered me all the morning; first one thing, then another, there is no saying what, you know. At one time Patty came to say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping." Oh, "said I," Patty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet of your mistress's spectacles out. "Then the baked apples came home, Mrs. Wallis sent them by her boy; they are extremely civil and obliging to us, the Wallises, always--I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallis can be uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never known any thing but the greatest attention from them. And it cannot be for the value of our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread, you know? Only three of us.--besides dear Jane at present--and she really eats nothing--makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite frightened if you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she eats--so I say one thing and then I say another, and it passes off. But about the middle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes so well as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome, for I took the opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I happened to meet him in the street. Not that I had any doubt before--I have so often heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it is the only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly wholesome. We have apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes an excellent apple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and these ladies will oblige us." Emma would be "very happy to wait on Mrs.
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I may be allowed, I hope," said Frank Churchill, "to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield--if you are going home." Mrs. Weston was disappointed. "I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very much pleased." "Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps--I may be equally in the way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me. My aunt always sends me off when she is shopping. She says I fidget her to death; and Miss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same. What am I to do?" "I am here on no business of my own," said Emma; "I am only waiting for my friend. She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go home. But you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument." "Well--if you advise it.--But" (with a smile) "if Colonel Campbell should have employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have an indifferent tone--what shall I say? I shall be no support to Mrs. Weston. She might do very well by herself. A disagreeable truth would be palatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the world at a civil falsehood." "I do not believe any such thing," replied Emma.--" "I am persuaded that you can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax's opinion last night." "Do come with me," said Mrs. Weston, "if it be not very disagreeable to you. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterwards. We will follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It will be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you meant it." He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him, returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates's door. Emma watched them in, and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,--trying, with all the force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain muslin it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At last it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel. "Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard's, ma'am?" asked Mrs. Ford.--" "Yes--no--yes, to Mrs. Goddard's. Only my pattern gown is at Hartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please. But then, Mrs. Goddard will want to see it.--And I could take the pattern gown home any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly--so it had better go to Hartfield--at least the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels, Mrs. Ford, could not you?" "It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two parcels." "No more it is." "No trouble in the world, ma'am," said the obliging Mrs. Ford. "Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one. Then, if you please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard's--I do not know--No, I think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield, and take it home with me at night. What do you advise?" "That you do not give another half-second to the subject. To Hartfield, if you please, Mrs. Ford." "Aye, that will be much best," said Harriet, quite satisfied, "I should not at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard's." Voices approached the shop--or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door. "My dear Miss Woodhouse," said the latter, "I am just run across to entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while, and give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith. How do you do, Miss Smith?--Very well I thank you.--And I begged Mrs. Weston to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding." "I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are--" "Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well; and Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse?--I am so glad to hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.--" Oh! then, "said I," I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me just to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother will be so very happy to see her--and now we are such a nice party, she cannot refuse.--'Aye, pray do,' "said Mr. Frank Churchill," 'Miss Woodhouse's opinion of the instrument will be worth having.'--But,<|quote|>"said I,"</|quote|>I shall be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me.--'Oh,' "said he," 'wait half a minute, till I have finished my job;' "--For, would you believe it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging manner in the world, fastening in the rivet of my mother's spectacles.--The rivet came out, you know, this morning.--So very obliging!--For my mother had no use of her spectacles--could not put them on. And, by the bye, every body ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane said so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I did, but something or other hindered me all the morning; first one thing, then another, there is no saying what, you know. At one time Patty came to say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping." Oh, "said I," Patty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet of your mistress's spectacles out. "Then the baked apples came home, Mrs. Wallis sent them by her boy; they are extremely civil and obliging to us, the Wallises, always--I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallis can be uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never known any thing but the greatest attention from them. And it cannot be for the value of our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread, you know? Only three of us.--besides dear Jane at present--and she really eats nothing--makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite frightened if you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she eats--so I say one thing and then I say another, and it passes off. But about the middle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes so well as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome, for I took the opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I happened to meet him in the street. Not that I had any doubt before--I have so often heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it is the only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly wholesome. We have apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes an excellent apple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and these ladies will oblige us." Emma would be "very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.," and they did at last move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss Bates than, "How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not see you before. I hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from town. Jane came back delighted yesterday. Thank ye, the gloves do very well--only a little too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in." "What was I talking of?" said she, beginning again when they were all in the street. Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix. "I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.--Oh! my mother's spectacles. So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill!" 'Oh!' "said he," 'I do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind excessively.' "--Which you know shewed him to be so very.... Indeed I must say that, much as I had heard of him before and much as I had expected, he very far exceeds any thing.... I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston, most warmly. He seems every thing the fondest parent could..." . 'Oh!' "said he," 'I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that sort excessively.' "I never shall forget his manner. And when I brought out the baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would be so very obliging as to take some," 'Oh!' "said he directly," 'there is nothing in the way of fruit half so good, and these are the finest-looking home-baked apples I ever saw in my life.' "That, you know, was so very.... And I am sure, by his manner, it was no compliment. Indeed they are very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full justice--only we do not have them baked more than twice, and Mr. Woodhouse made us promise to have them done three times--but Miss Woodhouse will be so good as not to mention it. The apples themselves are the very finest sort for baking, beyond a doubt; all from Donwell--some of Mr. Knightley's most liberal supply. He sends us a sack every year; and certainly there never was such a keeping apple anywhere as one of his trees--I believe there is two of them. My mother says the orchard was always famous in her younger days. But I was really quite shocked the other day--for Mr. Knightley called
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am persuaded that you can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax's opinion last night." "Do come with me," said Mrs. Weston, "if it be not very disagreeable to you. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterwards. We will follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It will be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you meant it." He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him, returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates's door. Emma watched them in, and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,--trying, with all the force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain muslin it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At last it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel. "Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard's, ma'am?" asked Mrs. Ford.--" "Yes--no--yes, to Mrs. Goddard's. Only my pattern gown is at Hartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please. But then, Mrs. Goddard will want to see it.--And I could take the pattern gown home any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly--so it had better go to Hartfield--at least the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels, Mrs. Ford, could not you?" "It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two parcels." "No more it is." "No trouble in the world, ma'am," said the obliging Mrs. Ford. "Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one. Then, if you please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard's--I do not know--No, I think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield, and take it home with me at night. What do you advise?" "That you do not give another half-second to the subject. To Hartfield, if you please, Mrs. Ford." "Aye, that will be much best," said Harriet, quite satisfied, "I should not at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard's." Voices approached the shop--or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door. "My dear Miss Woodhouse," said the latter, "I am just run across to entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while, and give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith. How do you do, Miss Smith?--Very well I thank you.--And I begged Mrs. Weston to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding." "I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are--" "Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well; and Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse?--I am so glad to hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.--" Oh! then, "said I," I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me just to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother will be so very happy to see her--and now we are such a nice party, she cannot refuse.--'Aye, pray do,' "said Mr. Frank Churchill," 'Miss Woodhouse's opinion of the instrument will be worth having.'--But,<|quote|>"said I,"</|quote|>I shall be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me.--'Oh,' "said he," 'wait half a minute, till I have finished my job;' "--For, would you believe it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging manner in the world, fastening in the rivet of my mother's spectacles.--The rivet came out, you know, this morning.--So very obliging!--For my mother had no use of her spectacles--could not put them on. And, by the bye, every body ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane said so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I did, but something or other hindered me all the morning; first one thing, then another, there is no saying what, you know. At one time Patty came to say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping." Oh, "said I," Patty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet of your mistress's spectacles out. "Then the baked apples came home, Mrs. Wallis sent them by her boy; they are extremely civil and obliging to us, the Wallises, always--I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallis can be uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never known any thing but the greatest attention from them. And it cannot be for the value of our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread, you know? Only three of us.--besides dear Jane at present--and she really eats nothing--makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite frightened if you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she eats--so I say one thing and then
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Emma
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"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains, has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says."
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Jane
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taking out the letter, said,<|quote|>"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains, has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says."</|quote|>She then read the first
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gained their own room, Jane taking out the letter, said,<|quote|>"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains, has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says."</|quote|>She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the
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Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained their own room, Jane taking out the letter, said,<|quote|>"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains, has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says."</|quote|>She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine that day in Grosvenor street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next was in these words. "I do not pretend
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paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained their own room, Jane taking out the letter, said,<|quote|>"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains, has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says."</|quote|>She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine that day in Grosvenor street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next was in these words. "I do not pretend to regret any thing I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend; but we will hope at some future period, to enjoy many returns of the delightful intercourse we have known, and in the mean while may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and
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leisure for a full discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk, he particularly attended to her. His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the compliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an occasion of introducing him to her father and mother. Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and was opened immediately. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little, hot pressed paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained their own room, Jane taking out the letter, said,<|quote|>"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains, has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says."</|quote|>She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine that day in Grosvenor street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next was in these words. "I do not pretend to regret any thing I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend; but we will hope at some future period, to enjoy many returns of the delightful intercourse we have known, and in the mean while may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that." To these high flown expressions, Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must soon cease to regard it, in the enjoyment of his. "It is unlucky," said she, after a short pause, "that you should not be able to see your friends before
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was a seasonable relief to them all, and especially to her friend. The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill humour or ill health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he still meant to stay. After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball. He joined them on their entering the town and attended them to their aunt's, where his regret and vexation, and the concern of every body was well talked over.--To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his absence _had_ been self imposed. "I found," said he, "as the time drew near, that I had better not meet Mr. Darcy;--that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself." She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk, he particularly attended to her. His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the compliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an occasion of introducing him to her father and mother. Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and was opened immediately. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little, hot pressed paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained their own room, Jane taking out the letter, said,<|quote|>"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains, has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says."</|quote|>She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine that day in Grosvenor street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next was in these words. "I do not pretend to regret any thing I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend; but we will hope at some future period, to enjoy many returns of the delightful intercourse we have known, and in the mean while may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that." To these high flown expressions, Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must soon cease to regard it, in the enjoyment of his. "It is unlucky," said she, after a short pause, "that you should not be able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks forward, may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful intercourse you have known as friends, will be renewed with yet greater satisfaction as sisters?--Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by them." "Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you--" "When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which took him to London, might be concluded in three or four days, but as we are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when Charles gets to town, he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintance are already there for the winter; I wish I could hear that you, my dearest friend, had any intention of making one in the croud, but of that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which
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Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet thus began the projected conversation.--" "Oh! Mr. Collins!" "-- "My dear Madam," replied he, "let us be for ever silent on this point. Far be it from me," he presently continued in a voice that marked his displeasure, "to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation to inevitable evils is the duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a young man who has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment; and I trust I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I have often observed that resignation is never so perfect as when the blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as shewing any disrespect to your family, my dear Madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to your daughter's favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my behalf. My conduct may I fear be objectionable in having accepted my dismission from your daughter's lips instead of your own. But we are all liable to error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. My object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my _manner_ has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologise." CHAPTER XXI. The discussion of Mr. Collins's offer was now nearly at an end, and Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily attending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusion of her mother. As for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly expressed, not by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to her, and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of himself, were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose civility in listening to him, was a seasonable relief to them all, and especially to her friend. The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill humour or ill health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he still meant to stay. After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball. He joined them on their entering the town and attended them to their aunt's, where his regret and vexation, and the concern of every body was well talked over.--To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his absence _had_ been self imposed. "I found," said he, "as the time drew near, that I had better not meet Mr. Darcy;--that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself." She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk, he particularly attended to her. His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the compliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an occasion of introducing him to her father and mother. Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and was opened immediately. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little, hot pressed paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained their own room, Jane taking out the letter, said,<|quote|>"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains, has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says."</|quote|>She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine that day in Grosvenor street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next was in these words. "I do not pretend to regret any thing I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend; but we will hope at some future period, to enjoy many returns of the delightful intercourse we have known, and in the mean while may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that." To these high flown expressions, Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must soon cease to regard it, in the enjoyment of his. "It is unlucky," said she, after a short pause, "that you should not be able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks forward, may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful intercourse you have known as friends, will be renewed with yet greater satisfaction as sisters?--Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by them." "Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you--" "When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which took him to London, might be concluded in three or four days, but as we are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when Charles gets to town, he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintance are already there for the winter; I wish I could hear that you, my dearest friend, had any intention of making one in the croud, but of that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three, of whom we shall deprive you." "It is evident by this," added Jane, "that he comes back no more this winter." "It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean he _should_." "Why will you think so? It must be his own doing.--He is his own master. But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_." "Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister, and to confess the truth, _we_ are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself, is heightened into something still more interesting, from the hope we dare to entertain of her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already, he will have frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing, her relations all wish the connection as much as his own, and a sister's partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most capable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to favour an attachment and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness of so many?" "What think you of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?" "--said Jane as she finished it. "Is it not clear enough?--Does it not expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference, and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?" "Yes, there can; for mine is totally different.--Will you hear it?" "Most willingly." "You shall have it in few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to town in the
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to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball. He joined them on their entering the town and attended them to their aunt's, where his regret and vexation, and the concern of every body was well talked over.--To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his absence _had_ been self imposed. "I found," said he, "as the time drew near, that I had better not meet Mr. Darcy;--that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself." She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk, he particularly attended to her. His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the compliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an occasion of introducing him to her father and mother. Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and was opened immediately. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little, hot pressed paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained their own room, Jane taking out the letter, said,<|quote|>"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains, has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says."</|quote|>She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine that day in Grosvenor street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next was in these words. "I do not pretend to regret any thing I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend; but we will hope at some future period, to enjoy many returns of the delightful intercourse we have known, and in the mean while may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that." To these high flown expressions, Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must soon cease to regard it, in the enjoyment of his. "It is unlucky," said she, after a short pause, "that you should not be able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks forward, may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful intercourse you have known as friends, will be renewed with yet greater satisfaction as sisters?--Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by them." "Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you--" "When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which took him to London, might be concluded in three or four days, but as we are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when Charles gets to town, he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintance are already there for the winter; I wish I could hear that you, my dearest friend, had any intention of making one in the croud, but of that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three, of whom we shall deprive you." "It is evident by this," added Jane, "that he comes back no more this winter." "It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean he _should_." "Why will you think so? It must be his own doing.--He is his own master. But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_." "Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his
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Pride And Prejudice
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"Tired?"
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Tony Last
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* * * * *<|quote|>"Tired?"</|quote|>"Mmm. Little bit." "You gave
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It's rather a sudden change." * * * * *<|quote|>"Tired?"</|quote|>"Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout
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the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * *<|quote|>"Tired?"</|quote|>"Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more." "She's awful." "One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So
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Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * *<|quote|>"Tired?"</|quote|>"Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more." "She's awful." "One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing,
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quite embarrassing." "I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?" "No, let's leave it." When they were dressing, Tony said, "Brenda, who _is_ this joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * *<|quote|>"Tired?"</|quote|>"Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more." "She's awful." "One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling." "Good night." * * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then."
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the smoking-room. "You've made a wild success with John Andrew. He won't go to sleep until he's seen you again." They went up together, and Jenny said, "They're both such dears." "Did you and Tony get on? I was so sorry not to be here when you arrived." "He was _so_ sympathetic and gentle... and so wistful." They sat on John's small bed in the night-nursery. He threw the clothes back and crawled out, nestling against Jenny. "Back to bed," she said, "or I shall spank you." "Would you do it hard? I shouldn't mind." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what a terrible effect you seem to have. He's never like this as a rule." When they had gone nanny threw open another window. "Poof!" she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right." "She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her... quite embarrassing." "I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?" "No, let's leave it." When they were dressing, Tony said, "Brenda, who _is_ this joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * *<|quote|>"Tired?"</|quote|>"Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more." "She's awful." "One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling." "Good night." * * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake." "I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now." "Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor-car accident?" "Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident... but come in. It's cold with the door open. Look, there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?" Johnny climbed on to the bed. "What are you going to do to-day?" "I don't know yet. I haven't been told." "Well, I'll tell you. We'll go to church in the morning because I have to and then we'll go and look at Thunderclap and I'll show you the place we jump and then you can come with me while I have dinner because I have it early and afterwards we can go down to Bruton Wood and we needn't take nanny because it makes
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to their hind legs and salute--" "Oh, but they _shouldn't_," said John. "It's _very_ bad horsemanship indeed. Ben says so." "They're the most wonderful horsemen in the world. Everyone knows that." "Oh, no, they can't be, if they do _that_. It's one of the _worst_ things. Were they natives?" "Yes, of course." "Ben says natives aren't humans at all really." "Ah, but he's thinking of Negroes, I expect. These are pure Semitic type." "What's that?" "The same as Jews." "Ben says Jews are worse than natives." "Oh dear, what a very severe boy you are. I was like that once. Life teaches one to be tolerant." "It hasn't taught Ben," said John. "When's mummy coming? I thought she'd be here, otherwise I wouldn't have stopped painting my picture." But when nanny came to fetch him, John, without invitation, went over and kissed Jenny good night. "Good night, Johnny-boy," she said. "What did you call me?" "Johnny-boy." "You are funny with names." Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said, "Nanny, I do think that Princess is beautiful, don't you?" Nanny sniffed. "It would be a dull world if we all thought alike," she said. "She's more beautiful than Miss Tendril, even. I think she's the most beautiful lady I've ever seen... D'you think she'd like to watch me have my bath?" Downstairs, Jenny said, "What a heavenly child... I love children. That has been my great tragedy. It was when he found I couldn't have children that the Moulay first showed the Other Side of his Nature. It wasn't my fault... you see my womb is out of place... I don't know why I'm telling you all this, but I feel you'll understand. It's such a _waste of time_, isn't it, when one knows one is going to like someone and one goes on _pretending_... I know at once if someone is going to be a real friend..." Polly and Brenda arrived just before seven. Brenda went straight up to the nursery. "Oh, mummy," said John, "there's such a beautiful lady downstairs. Do ask her to come and say good night. Nanny doesn't think she'd want to." "Did daddy seem to like her?" "He didn't talk much... She doesn't know anything about horses or natives but she _is_ beautiful. Please tell her to come up." Brenda went downstairs and found Jenny with Polly and Tony in the smoking-room. "You've made a wild success with John Andrew. He won't go to sleep until he's seen you again." They went up together, and Jenny said, "They're both such dears." "Did you and Tony get on? I was so sorry not to be here when you arrived." "He was _so_ sympathetic and gentle... and so wistful." They sat on John's small bed in the night-nursery. He threw the clothes back and crawled out, nestling against Jenny. "Back to bed," she said, "or I shall spank you." "Would you do it hard? I shouldn't mind." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what a terrible effect you seem to have. He's never like this as a rule." When they had gone nanny threw open another window. "Poof!" she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right." "She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her... quite embarrassing." "I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?" "No, let's leave it." When they were dressing, Tony said, "Brenda, who _is_ this joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * *<|quote|>"Tired?"</|quote|>"Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more." "She's awful." "One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling." "Good night." * * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake." "I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now." "Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor-car accident?" "Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident... but come in. It's cold with the door open. Look, there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?" Johnny climbed on to the bed. "What are you going to do to-day?" "I don't know yet. I haven't been told." "Well, I'll tell you. We'll go to church in the morning because I have to and then we'll go and look at Thunderclap and I'll show you the place we jump and then you can come with me while I have dinner because I have it early and afterwards we can go down to Bruton Wood and we needn't take nanny because it makes her so muddy and you can see where they dug out a fox in the drain just outside the wood, he nearly got away, and then you can come and have tea in the nursery and I've got a little gramophone Uncle Reggie gave me for Christmas and it plays "When Father Papered the Parlour", do you know that song? Ben can sing it and I've got some books to show you and a picture I did of the battle of Marston Moor." "I think that sounds a lovely day. But don't you think I ought to spend some time with daddy and mummy and Lady Cockpurse?" "Oh, _them_... besides, it's all my foot about Lady Cockpurse having a tail. Please, you _will_ spend the day with me?" "Well, we'll see." * * * * * "She's gone to church with him. That's a good sign, isn't it?" "Well, not really, Polly. He likes going alone, or with me. It's the time he gossips to the village." "She won't stop him." "I'm afraid you don't understand the old boy altogether. He's much odder than you'd think." * * * * * "I could see from your sermon that you knew the East, Rector." "Yes, yes, most of my life." "It has an uncanny fascination, hasn't it?" "Oh, come on," said John, pulling at her coat. "We must go and see Thunderclap." So Tony returned alone with the buttonholes. After luncheon Brenda said, "Why don't you show Jenny the house?" "Oh yes, _do_." When they reached the morning-room he said, "Brenda's having it done up." There were planks and ladders and heaps of plaster about. "Oh, Teddy, what a shame. I do hate seeing things modernized." "It isn't a room we used very much." "No, but still..." She stirred the mouldings of fleur-de-lis that littered the floor, fragments of tarnished gilding and dusty stencil-work. "You know, Brenda's been a wonderful friend to me. I wouldn't say anything against her... but ever since I came here I've been wondering whether she really understands this beautiful place and all it means to you." "Tell me more about your terrible life," said Tony, leading her back to the central hall. "You _are_ shy of talking about yourself, aren't you, Teddy? It's a mistake, you know, to keep things bottled up. I've been very unhappy too." Tony looked about him desperately in search of help;
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Nature. It wasn't my fault... you see my womb is out of place... I don't know why I'm telling you all this, but I feel you'll understand. It's such a _waste of time_, isn't it, when one knows one is going to like someone and one goes on _pretending_... I know at once if someone is going to be a real friend..." Polly and Brenda arrived just before seven. Brenda went straight up to the nursery. "Oh, mummy," said John, "there's such a beautiful lady downstairs. Do ask her to come and say good night. Nanny doesn't think she'd want to." "Did daddy seem to like her?" "He didn't talk much... She doesn't know anything about horses or natives but she _is_ beautiful. Please tell her to come up." Brenda went downstairs and found Jenny with Polly and Tony in the smoking-room. "You've made a wild success with John Andrew. He won't go to sleep until he's seen you again." They went up together, and Jenny said, "They're both such dears." "Did you and Tony get on? I was so sorry not to be here when you arrived." "He was _so_ sympathetic and gentle... and so wistful." They sat on John's small bed in the night-nursery. He threw the clothes back and crawled out, nestling against Jenny. "Back to bed," she said, "or I shall spank you." "Would you do it hard? I shouldn't mind." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what a terrible effect you seem to have. He's never like this as a rule." When they had gone nanny threw open another window. "Poof!" she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right." "She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her... quite embarrassing." "I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?" "No, let's leave it." When they were dressing, Tony said, "Brenda, who _is_ this joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * *<|quote|>"Tired?"</|quote|>"Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more." "She's awful." "One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling." "Good night." * * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell."
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Jem Wimble
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FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY.<|quote|>"Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell."</|quote|>"Well, you told me to
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GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY.<|quote|>"Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell."</|quote|>"Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't,
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THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY.<|quote|>"Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell."</|quote|>"Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle
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THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY.<|quote|>"Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell."</|quote|>"Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left." "Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared." "Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I
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THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY.<|quote|>"Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell."</|quote|>"Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left." "Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared." "Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be
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THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY.<|quote|>"Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell."</|quote|>"Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left." "Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared." "Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the crane which raised them into the warehouse. "Lookye here, Mike Bannock, I never did knock a man down with this here wooden bar, but if you gets stirring Mas' Don again, has it you do, right across the back. Spang!" "Be quiet, Jem, and put the bar down," said LinDon Lavington, a dark, well set-up lad of seventeen, as he sat upon the head of a sugar-hogshead with his arms folded, slowly swinging his legs. "No, I sha'n't put the bar down, Mas' Don. Your uncle left me in charge of the yard, and--what yer sitting on the sugar-barrel for when there's a 'bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are." Don got off
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THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY.<|quote|>"Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell."</|quote|>"Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left." "Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared." "Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the crane which raised them into the warehouse. "Lookye here, Mike Bannock, I never did knock a man down with this here wooden bar, but if you gets stirring Mas' Don again, has it you do, right across the back. Spang!" "Be quiet, Jem, and put the bar down," said LinDon Lavington, a dark, well set-up lad of seventeen, as he sat upon the head of a sugar-hogshead with his arms folded, slowly swinging his legs. "No, I sha'n't put the bar down, Mas' Don. Your uncle left me in charge of the yard, and--what yer sitting on the sugar-barrel for when there's a 'bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are." Don got off the barrel, and made a face, as he proved with one hand the truth of the man's words, and then rubbed his treacly fingers against the warehouse wall. "Your mother'll make a row about that, just as my Sally does when I get molasses on my clothes." "You should teach her to lick it off, Jemmy Wimble," said the rough-looking, red-faced labourer, who had lowered down a sugar-hogshead so rapidly, that he had been within an inch of making it unnecessary to write Don Lavington's life, from the fact of there being no life to write. "You mind your own business, Mike," said Jem, indignantly. "That's what I'm a-doing of, and a-waiting for orders, Mr Jem Wimble. He's hen-pecked, Mas' Don, that what's the matter with him. Been married only three months, and he's hen-pecked. Haw-haw-haw! Poor old cock-bird! Hen-pecked! Haw-haw-haw!" Jem Wimble, general worker in the warehouse and yard of Josiah Christmas, West India merchant, of River Street, Bristol, gave Mike the labourer an angry look, as he turned as red as a blushing girl. "Lookye here," he cried angrily, as Don, who had reseated himself, this time on a hogshead crammed full of compressed tobacco-leaves from Baltimore, swung his legs, and looked on in a half-moody, half-amused way; "the best thing that could happen for Christmas' Ward and for Bristol City, would be for the press-gang to get hold o' you, and take you off to sea." "Haw-haw-haw!" laughed the swarthy, red-faced fellow. "Why don't you give 'em the word, and have me pressed?" "No coming back to be begged on then by Miss Kitty and Mas' Don, after being drunk for a week. You're a bad 'un, that's what you are, Mike Bannock, and I wish the master wouldn't have you here." "Not such a hard nut as you are, Jemmy," said the man with a chuckle. "Sailors won't take me--don't want cripples to go aloft. Lookye here, Mas' Don, there's a leg." As he spoke, the great idle-looking fellow limped slowly, with an exaggerated display of lameness, to and fro past the door of the office. "Get out, Mike," said Don, as the man stopped. "I believe that's nearly all sham." "That's a true word, Mas' Don," cried Jem. "He's only lame when he thinks about it. And now do please go on totting up, and let's get these casks shifted 'fore your uncle comes back."
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THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY.<|quote|>"Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell."</|quote|>"Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left." "Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared." "Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the crane which raised them into the warehouse. "Lookye here, Mike Bannock, I never did knock a man down with this here wooden bar, but if you gets stirring Mas' Don again, has it you do, right across the back. Spang!" "Be quiet, Jem, and put the bar down," said LinDon Lavington, a dark, well set-up lad of seventeen, as he sat upon the head of a sugar-hogshead with his arms folded, slowly swinging his legs. "No, I sha'n't put the bar down, Mas' Don. Your uncle left me in charge of the yard, and--what yer sitting on the sugar-barrel for when there's a 'bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are." Don got off the barrel, and made a face, as he proved with one hand the truth of the man's words, and then rubbed his treacly fingers against the warehouse wall. "Your mother'll make a row about that, just as my Sally does when I get molasses on my clothes." "You should teach her to lick it off, Jemmy Wimble," said the rough-looking, red-faced labourer, who had lowered down a sugar-hogshead so rapidly, that he had been within an inch of making it unnecessary to write Don Lavington's life, from the fact of there being no life to write. "You mind your own business, Mike," said Jem, indignantly. "That's what I'm a-doing of, and a-waiting for orders, Mr Jem Wimble. He's hen-pecked, Mas' Don, that what's the matter with him. Been
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Don Lavington
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“Oh, that will be all right, Mrs. Herron. I think we’ll manage to get a good effect,”
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Lena
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with her than anybody else.”<|quote|>“Oh, that will be all right, Mrs. Herron. I think we’ll manage to get a good effect,”</|quote|>Lena replied blandly. I thought
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knew you could do more with her than anybody else.”<|quote|>“Oh, that will be all right, Mrs. Herron. I think we’ll manage to get a good effect,”</|quote|>Lena replied blandly. I thought her manner with her customers
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awkward, overgrown daughter. The woman detained Lena at the door to say apologetically:— “You’ll try to keep it under fifty for me, won’t you, Miss Lingard? You see, she’s really too young to come to an expensive dressmaker, but I knew you could do more with her than anybody else.”<|quote|>“Oh, that will be all right, Mrs. Herron. I think we’ll manage to get a good effect,”</|quote|>Lena replied blandly. I thought her manner with her customers very good, and wondered where she had learned such self-possession. Sometimes after my morning classes were over, I used to encounter Lena downtown, in her velvet suit and a little black hat, with a veil tied smoothly over her face,
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that Lena “had style,” and overlooked her habitual inaccuracies. She never, I discovered, finished anything by the time she had promised, and she frequently spent more money on materials than her customer had authorized. Once, when I arrived at six o’clock, Lena was ushering out a fidgety mother and her awkward, overgrown daughter. The woman detained Lena at the door to say apologetically:— “You’ll try to keep it under fifty for me, won’t you, Miss Lingard? You see, she’s really too young to come to an expensive dressmaker, but I knew you could do more with her than anybody else.”<|quote|>“Oh, that will be all right, Mrs. Herron. I think we’ll manage to get a good effect,”</|quote|>Lena replied blandly. I thought her manner with her customers very good, and wondered where she had learned such self-possession. Sometimes after my morning classes were over, I used to encounter Lena downtown, in her velvet suit and a little black hat, with a veil tied smoothly over her face, looking as fresh as the spring morning. Maybe she would be carrying home a bunch of jonquils or a hyacinth plant. When we passed a candy store her footsteps would hesitate and linger. “Don’t let me go in,” she would murmur. “Get me by if you can.” She was very
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already making clothes for the women of “the young married set.” She evidently had great natural aptitude for her work. She knew, as she said, “what people looked well in.” She never tired of poring over fashion books. Sometimes in the evening I would find her alone in her work-room, draping folds of satin on a wire figure, with a quite blissful expression of countenance. I could n’t help thinking that the years when Lena literally had n’t enough clothes to cover herself might have something to do with her untiring interest in dressing the human figure. Her clients said that Lena “had style,” and overlooked her habitual inaccuracies. She never, I discovered, finished anything by the time she had promised, and she frequently spent more money on materials than her customer had authorized. Once, when I arrived at six o’clock, Lena was ushering out a fidgety mother and her awkward, overgrown daughter. The woman detained Lena at the door to say apologetically:— “You’ll try to keep it under fifty for me, won’t you, Miss Lingard? You see, she’s really too young to come to an expensive dressmaker, but I knew you could do more with her than anybody else.”<|quote|>“Oh, that will be all right, Mrs. Herron. I think we’ll manage to get a good effect,”</|quote|>Lena replied blandly. I thought her manner with her customers very good, and wondered where she had learned such self-possession. Sometimes after my morning classes were over, I used to encounter Lena downtown, in her velvet suit and a little black hat, with a veil tied smoothly over her face, looking as fresh as the spring morning. Maybe she would be carrying home a bunch of jonquils or a hyacinth plant. When we passed a candy store her footsteps would hesitate and linger. “Don’t let me go in,” she would murmur. “Get me by if you can.” She was very fond of sweets, and was afraid of growing too plump. We had delightful Sunday breakfasts together at Lena’s. At the back of her long work-room was a bay-window, large enough to hold a box-couch and a reading-table. We breakfasted in this recess, after drawing the curtains that shut out the long room, with cutting-tables and wire women and sheet-draped garments on the walls. The sunlight poured in, making everything on the table shine and glitter and the flame of the alcohol lamp disappear altogether. Lena’s curly black water-spaniel, Prince, breakfasted with us. He sat beside her on the couch and
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after the rain, of the new leaves and the blossoms together, blew into my face with a sort of bitter sweetness. I tramped through the puddles and under the showery trees, mourning for Marguerite Gauthier as if she had died only yesterday, sighing with the spirit of 1840, which had sighed so much, and which had reached me only that night, across long years and several languages, through the person of an infirm old actress. The idea is one that no circumstances can frustrate. Wherever and whenever that piece is put on, it is April. IV HOW well I remember the stiff little parlor where I used to wait for Lena: the hard horsehair furniture, bought at some auction sale, the long mirror, the fashion-plates on the wall. If I sat down even for a moment I was sure to find threads and bits of colored silk clinging to my clothes after I went away. Lena’s success puzzled me. She was so easy-going; had none of the push and self-assertiveness that get people ahead in business. She had come to Lincoln, a country girl, with no introductions except to some cousins of Mrs. Thomas who lived there, and she was already making clothes for the women of “the young married set.” She evidently had great natural aptitude for her work. She knew, as she said, “what people looked well in.” She never tired of poring over fashion books. Sometimes in the evening I would find her alone in her work-room, draping folds of satin on a wire figure, with a quite blissful expression of countenance. I could n’t help thinking that the years when Lena literally had n’t enough clothes to cover herself might have something to do with her untiring interest in dressing the human figure. Her clients said that Lena “had style,” and overlooked her habitual inaccuracies. She never, I discovered, finished anything by the time she had promised, and she frequently spent more money on materials than her customer had authorized. Once, when I arrived at six o’clock, Lena was ushering out a fidgety mother and her awkward, overgrown daughter. The woman detained Lena at the door to say apologetically:— “You’ll try to keep it under fifty for me, won’t you, Miss Lingard? You see, she’s really too young to come to an expensive dressmaker, but I knew you could do more with her than anybody else.”<|quote|>“Oh, that will be all right, Mrs. Herron. I think we’ll manage to get a good effect,”</|quote|>Lena replied blandly. I thought her manner with her customers very good, and wondered where she had learned such self-possession. Sometimes after my morning classes were over, I used to encounter Lena downtown, in her velvet suit and a little black hat, with a veil tied smoothly over her face, looking as fresh as the spring morning. Maybe she would be carrying home a bunch of jonquils or a hyacinth plant. When we passed a candy store her footsteps would hesitate and linger. “Don’t let me go in,” she would murmur. “Get me by if you can.” She was very fond of sweets, and was afraid of growing too plump. We had delightful Sunday breakfasts together at Lena’s. At the back of her long work-room was a bay-window, large enough to hold a box-couch and a reading-table. We breakfasted in this recess, after drawing the curtains that shut out the long room, with cutting-tables and wire women and sheet-draped garments on the walls. The sunlight poured in, making everything on the table shine and glitter and the flame of the alcohol lamp disappear altogether. Lena’s curly black water-spaniel, Prince, breakfasted with us. He sat beside her on the couch and behaved very well until the Polish violin-teacher across the hall began to practice, when Prince would growl and sniff the air with disgust. Lena’s landlord, old Colonel Raleigh, had given her the dog, and at first she was not at all pleased. She had spent too much of her life taking care of animals to have much sentiment about them. But Prince was a knowing little beast, and she grew fond of him. After breakfast I made him do his lessons; play dead dog, shake hands, stand up like a soldier. We used to put my cadet cap on his head—I had to take military drill at the University—and give him a yard-measure to hold with his front leg. His gravity made us laugh immoderately. Lena’s talk always amused me. Ántonia had never talked like the people about her. Even after she learned to speak English readily there was always something impulsive and foreign in her speech. But Lena had picked up all the conventional expressions she heard at Mrs. Thomas’s dressmaking shop. Those formal phrases, the very flower of small-town proprieties, and the flat commonplaces, nearly all hypocritical in their origin, became very funny, very engaging, when they were
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have been further in person, voice, and temperament from Dumas’ appealing heroine than the veteran actress who first acquainted me with her. Her conception of the character was as heavy and uncompromising as her diction; she bore hard on the idea and on the consonants. At all times she was highly tragic, devoured by remorse. Lightness of stress or behavior was far from her. Her voice was heavy and deep: “Ar-r-r-mond!” she would begin, as if she were summoning him to the bar of Judgment. But the lines were enough. She had only to utter them. They created the character in spite of her. The heartless world which Marguerite re-entered with Varville had never been so glittering and reckless as on the night when it gathered in Olympe’s salon for the fourth act. There were chandeliers hung from the ceiling, I remember, many servants in livery, gaming-tables where the men played with piles of gold, and a staircase down which the guests made their entrance. After all the others had gathered round the card tables, and young Duval had been warned by Prudence, Marguerite descended the staircase with Varville; such a cloak, such a fan, such jewels—and her face! One knew at a glance how it was with her. When Armand, with the terrible words, “Look, all of you, I owe this woman nothing!” flung the gold and bank-notes at the half-swooning Marguerite, Lena cowered beside me and covered her face with her hands. The curtain rose on the bedroom scene. By this time there was n’t a nerve in me that had n’t been twisted. Nanine alone could have made me cry. I loved Nanine tenderly; and Gaston, how one clung to that good fellow! The New Year’s presents were not too much; nothing could be too much now. I wept unrestrainedly. Even the handkerchief in my breast-pocket, worn for elegance and not at all for use, was wet through by the time that moribund woman sank for the last time into the arms of her lover. When we reached the door of the theater, the streets were shining with rain. I had prudently brought along Mrs. Harling’s useful Commencement present, and I took Lena home under its shelter. After leaving her, I walked slowly out into the country part of the town where I lived. The lilacs were all blooming in the yards, and the smell of them after the rain, of the new leaves and the blossoms together, blew into my face with a sort of bitter sweetness. I tramped through the puddles and under the showery trees, mourning for Marguerite Gauthier as if she had died only yesterday, sighing with the spirit of 1840, which had sighed so much, and which had reached me only that night, across long years and several languages, through the person of an infirm old actress. The idea is one that no circumstances can frustrate. Wherever and whenever that piece is put on, it is April. IV HOW well I remember the stiff little parlor where I used to wait for Lena: the hard horsehair furniture, bought at some auction sale, the long mirror, the fashion-plates on the wall. If I sat down even for a moment I was sure to find threads and bits of colored silk clinging to my clothes after I went away. Lena’s success puzzled me. She was so easy-going; had none of the push and self-assertiveness that get people ahead in business. She had come to Lincoln, a country girl, with no introductions except to some cousins of Mrs. Thomas who lived there, and she was already making clothes for the women of “the young married set.” She evidently had great natural aptitude for her work. She knew, as she said, “what people looked well in.” She never tired of poring over fashion books. Sometimes in the evening I would find her alone in her work-room, draping folds of satin on a wire figure, with a quite blissful expression of countenance. I could n’t help thinking that the years when Lena literally had n’t enough clothes to cover herself might have something to do with her untiring interest in dressing the human figure. Her clients said that Lena “had style,” and overlooked her habitual inaccuracies. She never, I discovered, finished anything by the time she had promised, and she frequently spent more money on materials than her customer had authorized. Once, when I arrived at six o’clock, Lena was ushering out a fidgety mother and her awkward, overgrown daughter. The woman detained Lena at the door to say apologetically:— “You’ll try to keep it under fifty for me, won’t you, Miss Lingard? You see, she’s really too young to come to an expensive dressmaker, but I knew you could do more with her than anybody else.”<|quote|>“Oh, that will be all right, Mrs. Herron. I think we’ll manage to get a good effect,”</|quote|>Lena replied blandly. I thought her manner with her customers very good, and wondered where she had learned such self-possession. Sometimes after my morning classes were over, I used to encounter Lena downtown, in her velvet suit and a little black hat, with a veil tied smoothly over her face, looking as fresh as the spring morning. Maybe she would be carrying home a bunch of jonquils or a hyacinth plant. When we passed a candy store her footsteps would hesitate and linger. “Don’t let me go in,” she would murmur. “Get me by if you can.” She was very fond of sweets, and was afraid of growing too plump. We had delightful Sunday breakfasts together at Lena’s. At the back of her long work-room was a bay-window, large enough to hold a box-couch and a reading-table. We breakfasted in this recess, after drawing the curtains that shut out the long room, with cutting-tables and wire women and sheet-draped garments on the walls. The sunlight poured in, making everything on the table shine and glitter and the flame of the alcohol lamp disappear altogether. Lena’s curly black water-spaniel, Prince, breakfasted with us. He sat beside her on the couch and behaved very well until the Polish violin-teacher across the hall began to practice, when Prince would growl and sniff the air with disgust. Lena’s landlord, old Colonel Raleigh, had given her the dog, and at first she was not at all pleased. She had spent too much of her life taking care of animals to have much sentiment about them. But Prince was a knowing little beast, and she grew fond of him. After breakfast I made him do his lessons; play dead dog, shake hands, stand up like a soldier. We used to put my cadet cap on his head—I had to take military drill at the University—and give him a yard-measure to hold with his front leg. His gravity made us laugh immoderately. Lena’s talk always amused me. Ántonia had never talked like the people about her. Even after she learned to speak English readily there was always something impulsive and foreign in her speech. But Lena had picked up all the conventional expressions she heard at Mrs. Thomas’s dressmaking shop. Those formal phrases, the very flower of small-town proprieties, and the flat commonplaces, nearly all hypocritical in their origin, became very funny, very engaging, when they were uttered in Lena’s soft voice, with her caressing intonation and arch naïveté. Nothing could be more diverting than to hear Lena, who was almost as candid as Nature, call a leg a “limb” or a house a “home.” We used to linger a long while over our coffee in that sunny corner. Lena was never so pretty as in the morning; she wakened fresh with the world every day, and her eyes had a deeper color then, like the blue flowers that are never so blue as when they first open. I could sit idle all through a Sunday morning and look at her. Ole Benson’s behavior was now no mystery to me. “There was never any harm in Ole,” she said once. “People need n’t have troubled themselves. He just liked to come over and sit on the draw-side and forget about his bad luck. I liked to have him. Any company’s welcome when you’re off with cattle all the time.” “But was n’t he always glum?” I asked. “People said he never talked at all.” “Sure he talked, in Norwegian. He’d been a sailor on an English boat and had seen lots of queer places. He had wonderful tattoos. We used to sit and look at them for hours; there was n’t much to look at out there. He was like a picture book. He had a ship and a strawberry girl on one arm, and on the other a girl standing before a little house, with a fence and gate and all, waiting for her sweetheart. Farther up his arm, her sailor had come back and was kissing her. ‘The Sailor’s Return,’ he called it.” I admitted it was no wonder Ole liked to look at a pretty girl once in a while, with such a fright at home. “You know,” Lena said confidentially, “he married Mary because he thought she was strong-minded and would keep him straight. He never could keep straight on shore. The last time he landed in Liverpool he’d been out on a two years’ voyage. He was paid off one morning, and by the next he had n’t a cent left, and his watch and compass were gone. He’d got with some women, and they’d taken everything. He worked his way to this country on a little passenger boat. Mary was a stewardess, and she tried to convert him on the way
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with the terrible words, “Look, all of you, I owe this woman nothing!” flung the gold and bank-notes at the half-swooning Marguerite, Lena cowered beside me and covered her face with her hands. The curtain rose on the bedroom scene. By this time there was n’t a nerve in me that had n’t been twisted. Nanine alone could have made me cry. I loved Nanine tenderly; and Gaston, how one clung to that good fellow! The New Year’s presents were not too much; nothing could be too much now. I wept unrestrainedly. Even the handkerchief in my breast-pocket, worn for elegance and not at all for use, was wet through by the time that moribund woman sank for the last time into the arms of her lover. When we reached the door of the theater, the streets were shining with rain. I had prudently brought along Mrs. Harling’s useful Commencement present, and I took Lena home under its shelter. After leaving her, I walked slowly out into the country part of the town where I lived. The lilacs were all blooming in the yards, and the smell of them after the rain, of the new leaves and the blossoms together, blew into my face with a sort of bitter sweetness. I tramped through the puddles and under the showery trees, mourning for Marguerite Gauthier as if she had died only yesterday, sighing with the spirit of 1840, which had sighed so much, and which had reached me only that night, across long years and several languages, through the person of an infirm old actress. The idea is one that no circumstances can frustrate. Wherever and whenever that piece is put on, it is April. IV HOW well I remember the stiff little parlor where I used to wait for Lena: the hard horsehair furniture, bought at some auction sale, the long mirror, the fashion-plates on the wall. If I sat down even for a moment I was sure to find threads and bits of colored silk clinging to my clothes after I went away. Lena’s success puzzled me. She was so easy-going; had none of the push and self-assertiveness that get people ahead in business. She had come to Lincoln, a country girl, with no introductions except to some cousins of Mrs. Thomas who lived there, and she was already making clothes for the women of “the young married set.” She evidently had great natural aptitude for her work. She knew, as she said, “what people looked well in.” She never tired of poring over fashion books. Sometimes in the evening I would find her alone in her work-room, draping folds of satin on a wire figure, with a quite blissful expression of countenance. I could n’t help thinking that the years when Lena literally had n’t enough clothes to cover herself might have something to do with her untiring interest in dressing the human figure. Her clients said that Lena “had style,” and overlooked her habitual inaccuracies. She never, I discovered, finished anything by the time she had promised, and she frequently spent more money on materials than her customer had authorized. Once, when I arrived at six o’clock, Lena was ushering out a fidgety mother and her awkward, overgrown daughter. The woman detained Lena at the door to say apologetically:— “You’ll try to keep it under fifty for me, won’t you, Miss Lingard? You see, she’s really too young to come to an expensive dressmaker, but I knew you could do more with her than anybody else.”<|quote|>“Oh, that will be all right, Mrs. Herron. I think we’ll manage to get a good effect,”</|quote|>Lena replied blandly. I thought her manner with her customers very good, and wondered where she had learned such self-possession. Sometimes after my morning classes were over, I used to encounter Lena downtown, in her velvet suit and a little black hat, with a veil tied smoothly over her face, looking as fresh as the spring morning. Maybe she would be carrying home a bunch of jonquils or a hyacinth plant. When we passed a candy store her footsteps would hesitate and linger. “Don’t let me go in,” she would murmur. “Get me by if you can.” She was very fond of sweets, and was afraid of growing too plump. We had delightful Sunday breakfasts together at Lena’s. At the back of her long work-room was a bay-window, large enough to hold a box-couch and a reading-table. We breakfasted in this recess, after drawing the curtains that shut out the long room, with cutting-tables and wire women and sheet-draped garments on the walls. The sunlight poured in, making everything on the table shine and glitter and the flame of the alcohol lamp disappear altogether. Lena’s curly black water-spaniel, Prince, breakfasted with us. He sat beside her on the couch and behaved very well until the Polish violin-teacher across the hall began to practice, when Prince would growl and sniff the air with disgust. Lena’s landlord, old Colonel Raleigh, had given her the dog, and at first she was not at all pleased. She had spent too much of her life taking care of animals to have much sentiment about them. But Prince was a knowing little beast, and she grew fond of him. After breakfast I made him do his lessons; play dead dog, shake hands, stand up like a soldier. We used to put my cadet cap on
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My Antonia
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Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream.
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No speaker
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you'd scrounge it from somewhere."<|quote|>Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream.</|quote|>"Haie, what would you do
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won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere."<|quote|>Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream.</|quote|>"Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?"
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back and swears: "Damned lousy war----" "It's all very well for you to talk," I tell him. "You've a wife and children." "True," he nods, "and I have to see to it that they've something to eat." We laugh. "They won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere."<|quote|>Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream.</|quote|>"Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?" "Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say. "How does it come about exactly?" "How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again. It is too
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then considers for a while and says: "You might get drunk first, of course, but then you'd take the next train for home and mother. Peace-time, man, Albert----" He fumbles in his oil-cloth pocket-book for a photograph and suddenly shows it all round. "My old people!" Then he puts it back and swears: "Damned lousy war----" "It's all very well for you to talk," I tell him. "You've a wife and children." "True," he nods, "and I have to see to it that they've something to eat." We laugh. "They won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere."<|quote|>Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream.</|quote|>"Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?" "Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say. "How does it come about exactly?" "How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again. It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head: "You mean when the war's over?" "Exactly. You've said it." "Well, there'd be women of course, eh?" --Haie licks his lips. "Sure." "By Jove yes," says Haie, his face melting, "then I'd grab some good buxom dame, some real kitchen wench with
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somewhere or other, probably the pioneer-cook-house, Kropp has bagged for himself a mess-tin full of beans. Müller squints hungrily into it but checks himself and says: "Albert, what would you do if it were suddenly peace-time again?" "There won't be any civil life," says Albert bluntly. "Well, but if--" persists Müller, "what would you do?" "Clear out of this!" growls Kropp. "Of course. And then what?" "Get drunk," says Albert. "Don't talk rot, I mean seriously----" "So do I," says Kropp, "what else should a man do?" Kat becomes interested. He levies tribute on Kropp's tin of beans, swallows some, then considers for a while and says: "You might get drunk first, of course, but then you'd take the next train for home and mother. Peace-time, man, Albert----" He fumbles in his oil-cloth pocket-book for a photograph and suddenly shows it all round. "My old people!" Then he puts it back and swears: "Damned lousy war----" "It's all very well for you to talk," I tell him. "You've a wife and children." "True," he nods, "and I have to see to it that they've something to eat." We laugh. "They won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere."<|quote|>Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream.</|quote|>"Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?" "Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say. "How does it come about exactly?" "How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again. It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head: "You mean when the war's over?" "Exactly. You've said it." "Well, there'd be women of course, eh?" --Haie licks his lips. "Sure." "By Jove yes," says Haie, his face melting, "then I'd grab some good buxom dame, some real kitchen wench with plenty to get hold of, you know, and jump straight into bed. Just you think, boys, a real feather-bed with a spring mattress; I wouldn't put trousers on again for a week." Everyone is silent. The picture is too good. Our flesh creeps. At last Müller pulls himself together and says: "And then what?" A pause. Then Haie explains rather awkwardly: "If I were a non-com. I'd stay with the Prussians and serve out my time." "Haie, you've got a screw loose, surely!" I say. "Have you ever dug peat?" he retorts good-naturedly. "You try it." Then he pulls a
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our shirts on our knees, our bodies naked to the warm air and our hands at work. Haie has a particularly fine brand of louse: they have a red cross on their heads. He suggests that he brought them back with him from the hospital at Thourhout, where they attended personally on a surgeon-general. He says he means to use the fat that slowly accumulates in the tin-lid for polishing his boots, and roars with laughter for half an hour at his own joke. But he hasn't much success to-day; we are too preoccupied with another affair. The rumour has materialized. Himmelstoss has come. He appeared yesterday; we've already heard the well-known voice. He seems to have overdone it with a couple of young recruits on the ploughed field at home, and unknown to him the son of the local magistrate was watching. That cooked his goose. He will meet some surprises here. Tjaden has been meditating for hours what to say to him. Haie gazes thoughtfully at his great paws and winks at me. The thrashing was the high water mark of his life. He tells me he often dreams of it. Kropp and Müller are amusing themselves. From somewhere or other, probably the pioneer-cook-house, Kropp has bagged for himself a mess-tin full of beans. Müller squints hungrily into it but checks himself and says: "Albert, what would you do if it were suddenly peace-time again?" "There won't be any civil life," says Albert bluntly. "Well, but if--" persists Müller, "what would you do?" "Clear out of this!" growls Kropp. "Of course. And then what?" "Get drunk," says Albert. "Don't talk rot, I mean seriously----" "So do I," says Kropp, "what else should a man do?" Kat becomes interested. He levies tribute on Kropp's tin of beans, swallows some, then considers for a while and says: "You might get drunk first, of course, but then you'd take the next train for home and mother. Peace-time, man, Albert----" He fumbles in his oil-cloth pocket-book for a photograph and suddenly shows it all round. "My old people!" Then he puts it back and swears: "Damned lousy war----" "It's all very well for you to talk," I tell him. "You've a wife and children." "True," he nods, "and I have to see to it that they've something to eat." We laugh. "They won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere."<|quote|>Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream.</|quote|>"Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?" "Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say. "How does it come about exactly?" "How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again. It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head: "You mean when the war's over?" "Exactly. You've said it." "Well, there'd be women of course, eh?" --Haie licks his lips. "Sure." "By Jove yes," says Haie, his face melting, "then I'd grab some good buxom dame, some real kitchen wench with plenty to get hold of, you know, and jump straight into bed. Just you think, boys, a real feather-bed with a spring mattress; I wouldn't put trousers on again for a week." Everyone is silent. The picture is too good. Our flesh creeps. At last Müller pulls himself together and says: "And then what?" A pause. Then Haie explains rather awkwardly: "If I were a non-com. I'd stay with the Prussians and serve out my time." "Haie, you've got a screw loose, surely!" I say. "Have you ever dug peat?" he retorts good-naturedly. "You try it." Then he pulls a spoon out of the top of his boot and reaches over into Kropp's mess-tin. "It can't be worse than digging trenches," I venture. Haie chews and grins: "It lasts longer though. And there's no getting out of it either." "But, man, surely it's better at home." "Some ways," says he, and with open mouth sinks into a day-dream. You can see what he is thinking. There is the mean little hut on the moors, the hard work on the heath from morning till night in the heat, the miserable pay, the dirty labourer's clothes. "In the army in peace time you've nothing to trouble about," he goes on, "your food's found every day, or else you kick up a row; you've a bed, every week clean under-wear like a perfect gent, you do your non-com.'s duty, you have a good suit of clothes; in the evening you're a free man and go off to the pub." Haie is extraordinarily set on his idea. He's in love with it. "And when your twelve years are up you get your pension and become a village bobby, and you can walk about the whole day." He's already sweating on it. "And just you
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trenches appear heads. We get a stretcher. Kat shakes his head. "Such a kid----" He repeats it: "Young innocents----" * * Our losses are less than was to be expected--five killed and eight wounded. It was in fact quite a short bombardment. Two of our dead lie in the upturned graves. We had merely to throw the earth in on them. We go back. We trot off silently in single file one behind the other. The wounded are taken to the dressing-station. The morning is cloudy. The bearers make a fuss about numbers and tickets, the wounded whimper. It begins to rain. An hour later we reach our lorries and climb in. There is more room now than there was. The rain becomes heavier. We take out waterproof sheets and spread them over our heads. The rain rattles down, and flows off at the sides in streams. The lorries bump through the holes, and we rock to and fro in a half-sleep. Two men in the front of the lorry have long forked poles. They watch for telephone wires which hang crosswise over the road so densely that they might easily pull our heads off. The two fellows take them at the right moment on their poles and lift them over behind us. We hear their call "Mind--wire--," dip the knee in a half-sleep and straighten up again. Monotonously the lorries sway, monotonously come the calls, monotonously falls the rain. It falls on our heads and on the heads of the dead up in the line, on the body of the little recruit with the wound that is so much too big for his hip; it falls on Kemmerich's grave; it falls in our hearts. An explosion sounds somewhere. We wince, our eyes become tense, our hands are ready to vault over the side of the lorry into the ditch by the road. It goes no farther--only the monotonous cry: "Mind--wire," --our knees bend--we are again half asleep. CHAPTER V Killing each separate louse is a tedious business when a man has hundreds. The little beasts are hard and the everlasting cracking with one's fingernails very soon becomes wearisome. So Tjaden has rigged up the lid of a boot-polish tin with a piece of wire over the lighted stump of a candle. The lice are simply thrown into this little pan. Crack! and they're done for. We sit around with our shirts on our knees, our bodies naked to the warm air and our hands at work. Haie has a particularly fine brand of louse: they have a red cross on their heads. He suggests that he brought them back with him from the hospital at Thourhout, where they attended personally on a surgeon-general. He says he means to use the fat that slowly accumulates in the tin-lid for polishing his boots, and roars with laughter for half an hour at his own joke. But he hasn't much success to-day; we are too preoccupied with another affair. The rumour has materialized. Himmelstoss has come. He appeared yesterday; we've already heard the well-known voice. He seems to have overdone it with a couple of young recruits on the ploughed field at home, and unknown to him the son of the local magistrate was watching. That cooked his goose. He will meet some surprises here. Tjaden has been meditating for hours what to say to him. Haie gazes thoughtfully at his great paws and winks at me. The thrashing was the high water mark of his life. He tells me he often dreams of it. Kropp and Müller are amusing themselves. From somewhere or other, probably the pioneer-cook-house, Kropp has bagged for himself a mess-tin full of beans. Müller squints hungrily into it but checks himself and says: "Albert, what would you do if it were suddenly peace-time again?" "There won't be any civil life," says Albert bluntly. "Well, but if--" persists Müller, "what would you do?" "Clear out of this!" growls Kropp. "Of course. And then what?" "Get drunk," says Albert. "Don't talk rot, I mean seriously----" "So do I," says Kropp, "what else should a man do?" Kat becomes interested. He levies tribute on Kropp's tin of beans, swallows some, then considers for a while and says: "You might get drunk first, of course, but then you'd take the next train for home and mother. Peace-time, man, Albert----" He fumbles in his oil-cloth pocket-book for a photograph and suddenly shows it all round. "My old people!" Then he puts it back and swears: "Damned lousy war----" "It's all very well for you to talk," I tell him. "You've a wife and children." "True," he nods, "and I have to see to it that they've something to eat." We laugh. "They won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere."<|quote|>Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream.</|quote|>"Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?" "Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say. "How does it come about exactly?" "How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again. It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head: "You mean when the war's over?" "Exactly. You've said it." "Well, there'd be women of course, eh?" --Haie licks his lips. "Sure." "By Jove yes," says Haie, his face melting, "then I'd grab some good buxom dame, some real kitchen wench with plenty to get hold of, you know, and jump straight into bed. Just you think, boys, a real feather-bed with a spring mattress; I wouldn't put trousers on again for a week." Everyone is silent. The picture is too good. Our flesh creeps. At last Müller pulls himself together and says: "And then what?" A pause. Then Haie explains rather awkwardly: "If I were a non-com. I'd stay with the Prussians and serve out my time." "Haie, you've got a screw loose, surely!" I say. "Have you ever dug peat?" he retorts good-naturedly. "You try it." Then he pulls a spoon out of the top of his boot and reaches over into Kropp's mess-tin. "It can't be worse than digging trenches," I venture. Haie chews and grins: "It lasts longer though. And there's no getting out of it either." "But, man, surely it's better at home." "Some ways," says he, and with open mouth sinks into a day-dream. You can see what he is thinking. There is the mean little hut on the moors, the hard work on the heath from morning till night in the heat, the miserable pay, the dirty labourer's clothes. "In the army in peace time you've nothing to trouble about," he goes on, "your food's found every day, or else you kick up a row; you've a bed, every week clean under-wear like a perfect gent, you do your non-com.'s duty, you have a good suit of clothes; in the evening you're a free man and go off to the pub." Haie is extraordinarily set on his idea. He's in love with it. "And when your twelve years are up you get your pension and become a village bobby, and you can walk about the whole day." He's already sweating on it. "And just you think how you'd be treated. Here a dram, there a pint. Everybody wants to be well in with a bobby." "You'll never be a non-com. though, Haie," interrupts Kat. Haie looks at him sadly and is silent. His thoughts still linger over the clear evenings in autumn, the Sundays in the heather, the village bells, the afternoons and evenings with the servant girls, the fried bacon and barley, the care-free evening hours in the ale-house---- He can't part with all these dreams so abruptly; he merely growls: "What silly questions you do ask." He pulls his shirt over his head and buttons up his tunic. "What would you do, Tjaden?" asks Kropp. Tjaden thinks only of one thing. "See to it that Himmelstoss doesn't get past me." Apparently he would like most to have him in a cage and sail into him with a club every morning. To Kropp he says warmly: "If I were in your place I'd see to it that I became a lieutenant. Then you could grind him till the water in his backside boils." "And you, Detering?" asks Müller like an inquisitor. He's a born schoolmaster with all his questions. Detering is sparing with his words. But on this subject he speaks. He looks at the sky and says only the one sentence: "I would go straight on with the harvesting." Then he gets up and walks off. He is worried. His wife has to look after the farm. They've already taken away two of his horses. Every day he reads the papers that come, to see whether it is raining in his little corner of Oldenburg. They haven't brought the hay in yet. At this moment Himmelstoss appears. He comes straight up to our group. Tjaden's face turns red. He stretches his length on the grass and shuts his eyes in embarrassment. Himmelstoss is a little hesitant, his gait becomes slower. Then he marches up to us. No one makes any motion to stand up. Kropp looks up at him with interest. He continues to stand in front of us and wait. As no one says anything he launches a "Well?" A couple of seconds go by. Apparently Himmelstoss doesn't quite know what to do. He would like most to set us all on the run again. But he seems to have learned already that the front line isn't a parade ground. He tries
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a couple of young recruits on the ploughed field at home, and unknown to him the son of the local magistrate was watching. That cooked his goose. He will meet some surprises here. Tjaden has been meditating for hours what to say to him. Haie gazes thoughtfully at his great paws and winks at me. The thrashing was the high water mark of his life. He tells me he often dreams of it. Kropp and Müller are amusing themselves. From somewhere or other, probably the pioneer-cook-house, Kropp has bagged for himself a mess-tin full of beans. Müller squints hungrily into it but checks himself and says: "Albert, what would you do if it were suddenly peace-time again?" "There won't be any civil life," says Albert bluntly. "Well, but if--" persists Müller, "what would you do?" "Clear out of this!" growls Kropp. "Of course. And then what?" "Get drunk," says Albert. "Don't talk rot, I mean seriously----" "So do I," says Kropp, "what else should a man do?" Kat becomes interested. He levies tribute on Kropp's tin of beans, swallows some, then considers for a while and says: "You might get drunk first, of course, but then you'd take the next train for home and mother. Peace-time, man, Albert----" He fumbles in his oil-cloth pocket-book for a photograph and suddenly shows it all round. "My old people!" Then he puts it back and swears: "Damned lousy war----" "It's all very well for you to talk," I tell him. "You've a wife and children." "True," he nods, "and I have to see to it that they've something to eat." We laugh. "They won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere."<|quote|>Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream.</|quote|>"Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?" "Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say. "How does it come about exactly?" "How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again. It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head: "You mean when the war's over?" "Exactly. You've said it." "Well, there'd be women of course, eh?" --Haie licks his lips. "Sure." "By Jove yes," says Haie, his face melting, "then I'd grab some good buxom dame, some real kitchen wench with plenty to get hold of, you know, and jump straight into bed. Just you think, boys, a real feather-bed with a spring mattress; I wouldn't put trousers on again for a week." Everyone is silent. The picture is too good. Our flesh creeps. At last Müller pulls himself together and says: "And then what?" A pause. Then Haie explains rather awkwardly: "If I were a non-com. I'd stay with the Prussians and serve out my time." "Haie, you've got a screw loose, surely!" I say. "Have you ever dug peat?" he retorts good-naturedly. "You try it." Then he pulls a spoon out of
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All Quiet on the Western Front
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The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals.
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No speaker
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of English words like that."<|quote|>The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals.</|quote|>"Lots of 'em would desert,"
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laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that."<|quote|>The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals.</|quote|>"Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as
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careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that."<|quote|>The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals.</|quote|>"Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're
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up your minds to come and join us?" he said, laughing; and Don shook his head. "Ah, well! I won't persuade you, my lad. P'r'aps you're best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me." "How should we find you?" said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that."<|quote|>The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals.</|quote|>"Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things.
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was too much of a boy. "Never mind, Mas' Don. You'll grow into a man some day," Jem used to say. The Maoris were quite friendly, and the very stringent rules made at first were relaxed. The officers and men who went ashore were always armed, and limits were placed to the number of savages allowed to visit the ship; but the boarding netting was dispensed with, and it was not deemed necessary to double the sentries. More than once parties of men were allowed on shore, and upon these occasions Don and Jem encountered the tattooed Englishman. "Haven't made up your minds to come and join us?" he said, laughing; and Don shook his head. "Ah, well! I won't persuade you, my lad. P'r'aps you're best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me." "How should we find you?" said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that."<|quote|>The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals.</|quote|>"Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you
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were going to be punished for doing nothing." "N-o, Jem," said Don hesitatingly. "And for being hit as the captain hit you." "N-no, Jem; but--but somehow--There, don't say any more about it now." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. BEFORE THE CAPTAIN. Bosun Jones was right in his hint. The captain forgot all about Don's offence as soon as he was comfortable and rested. He had struck out in his hasty irritation, but his anger soon passed, and had the matter been brought to his notice again, he would have laughed, and said that it was the boy's nature to resent being struck, and that he would make the better sailor. The time passed pleasantly enough in the beautiful harbour, and every day a boat went ashore with a surveying or exploring party, all of whom were examined and cross-examined by their messmates on their return, as to the habits of the New Zealand savages, and many a yarn was invented about the Maoris' acts. Both Don and Jem found their messmates rough, but good-tempered enough, and the days glided by rapidly; but the opportunity was never given Don for joining one of the exploring parties. In every case he was told he was too much of a boy. "Never mind, Mas' Don. You'll grow into a man some day," Jem used to say. The Maoris were quite friendly, and the very stringent rules made at first were relaxed. The officers and men who went ashore were always armed, and limits were placed to the number of savages allowed to visit the ship; but the boarding netting was dispensed with, and it was not deemed necessary to double the sentries. More than once parties of men were allowed on shore, and upon these occasions Don and Jem encountered the tattooed Englishman. "Haven't made up your minds to come and join us?" he said, laughing; and Don shook his head. "Ah, well! I won't persuade you, my lad. P'r'aps you're best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me." "How should we find you?" said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that."<|quote|>The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals.</|quote|>"Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me." "Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting." Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore. "This is what I hate in being a sailor," grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of
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means death." "Does it, sir?" "Does it, sir! Why, goodness me, my lad, you must be half mad." "People are sometimes, sir, when they are hit." "Yes, that's true enough; but you must master your temper. Save all that sort of thing up till you fight the French, and then you will be allowed to grow quite mad if you like. Now once more, about that boathook. You did not lose it?" "Yes, sir; we did lose it." "Ah, I thought so." "Because the great fish carried it off." "Humph! Well, go and get yourself dry. If you are lucky, you will hear no more about this, only have the cost of the boathook deducted out of your pay, and perhaps the captain will have forgotten all about your conduct by to-morrow." "What did he say to you?" said Jem, as Don went below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem. "Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?" "Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget that he hit me," said Don sternly. "Now, now, Mas' Don, you mustn't speak like that." "And you must not speak like that, Jem,--_Master Don_. You'll have some of the men hear you." "Well, I'll mind; but you mustn't think any more about that, my lad. He's captain, and can do as he likes. You were going to hit him, weren't you?" "Yes, Jem, I'm afraid I was. I always feel like that if I'm hurt." "But you mustn't now you're a sailor. Say, my lad, things looks rather ugly, somehow. Think the captain will punish you?" "We shall see, Jem." "But hadn't we better--I say, my lad," he whispered, "we could swim ashore." "And the shark?" "Ugh! I forgot him. Well, take a boat, and get right away, for I've been thinking, Mas' Don, it's a very horrid thing to have hit your officer." "But I didn't hit him. He hit me." "But you were going to, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Strikes me the time's come for running away." Don shook his head. "Why, you was red hot on it the other day, my lad." "Yes, but I've been thinking a great deal about it since, Jem; and it seems to me that it would be too cowardly to run now we are king's sailors." "But not if you were going to be punished for doing nothing." "N-o, Jem," said Don hesitatingly. "And for being hit as the captain hit you." "N-no, Jem; but--but somehow--There, don't say any more about it now." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. BEFORE THE CAPTAIN. Bosun Jones was right in his hint. The captain forgot all about Don's offence as soon as he was comfortable and rested. He had struck out in his hasty irritation, but his anger soon passed, and had the matter been brought to his notice again, he would have laughed, and said that it was the boy's nature to resent being struck, and that he would make the better sailor. The time passed pleasantly enough in the beautiful harbour, and every day a boat went ashore with a surveying or exploring party, all of whom were examined and cross-examined by their messmates on their return, as to the habits of the New Zealand savages, and many a yarn was invented about the Maoris' acts. Both Don and Jem found their messmates rough, but good-tempered enough, and the days glided by rapidly; but the opportunity was never given Don for joining one of the exploring parties. In every case he was told he was too much of a boy. "Never mind, Mas' Don. You'll grow into a man some day," Jem used to say. The Maoris were quite friendly, and the very stringent rules made at first were relaxed. The officers and men who went ashore were always armed, and limits were placed to the number of savages allowed to visit the ship; but the boarding netting was dispensed with, and it was not deemed necessary to double the sentries. More than once parties of men were allowed on shore, and upon these occasions Don and Jem encountered the tattooed Englishman. "Haven't made up your minds to come and join us?" he said, laughing; and Don shook his head. "Ah, well! I won't persuade you, my lad. P'r'aps you're best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me." "How should we find you?" said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that."<|quote|>The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals.</|quote|>"Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me." "Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting." Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore. "This is what I hate in being a sailor," grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. Getting tired of it?" "Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home." That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears
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Jem,--_Master Don_. You'll have some of the men hear you." "Well, I'll mind; but you mustn't think any more about that, my lad. He's captain, and can do as he likes. You were going to hit him, weren't you?" "Yes, Jem, I'm afraid I was. I always feel like that if I'm hurt." "But you mustn't now you're a sailor. Say, my lad, things looks rather ugly, somehow. Think the captain will punish you?" "We shall see, Jem." "But hadn't we better--I say, my lad," he whispered, "we could swim ashore." "And the shark?" "Ugh! I forgot him. Well, take a boat, and get right away, for I've been thinking, Mas' Don, it's a very horrid thing to have hit your officer." "But I didn't hit him. He hit me." "But you were going to, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Strikes me the time's come for running away." Don shook his head. "Why, you was red hot on it the other day, my lad." "Yes, but I've been thinking a great deal about it since, Jem; and it seems to me that it would be too cowardly to run now we are king's sailors." "But not if you were going to be punished for doing nothing." "N-o, Jem," said Don hesitatingly. "And for being hit as the captain hit you." "N-no, Jem; but--but somehow--There, don't say any more about it now." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. BEFORE THE CAPTAIN. Bosun Jones was right in his hint. The captain forgot all about Don's offence as soon as he was comfortable and rested. He had struck out in his hasty irritation, but his anger soon passed, and had the matter been brought to his notice again, he would have laughed, and said that it was the boy's nature to resent being struck, and that he would make the better sailor. The time passed pleasantly enough in the beautiful harbour, and every day a boat went ashore with a surveying or exploring party, all of whom were examined and cross-examined by their messmates on their return, as to the habits of the New Zealand savages, and many a yarn was invented about the Maoris' acts. Both Don and Jem found their messmates rough, but good-tempered enough, and the days glided by rapidly; but the opportunity was never given Don for joining one of the exploring parties. In every case he was told he was too much of a boy. "Never mind, Mas' Don. You'll grow into a man some day," Jem used to say. The Maoris were quite friendly, and the very stringent rules made at first were relaxed. The officers and men who went ashore were always armed, and limits were placed to the number of savages allowed to visit the ship; but the boarding netting was dispensed with, and it was not deemed necessary to double the sentries. More than once parties of men were allowed on shore, and upon these occasions Don and Jem encountered the tattooed Englishman. "Haven't made up your minds to come and join us?" he said, laughing; and Don shook his head. "Ah, well! I won't persuade you, my lad. P'r'aps you're best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me." "How should we find you?" said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that."<|quote|>The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals.</|quote|>"Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me." "Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting." Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore. "This is what I hate in being a sailor," grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship
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Don Lavington
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"Of course,"
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Tony Last
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like it," said Mrs Rattery.<|quote|>"Of course,"</|quote|>Tony began, after a pause,
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like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery.<|quote|>"Of course,"</|quote|>Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children
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some more. "Bring me one too, will you?" Tony said, "I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery.<|quote|>"Of course,"</|quote|>Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're
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hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience. "Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?" Tony said, "I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery.<|quote|>"Of course,"</|quote|>Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's,
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anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?" * * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience. "Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?" Tony said, "I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery.<|quote|>"Of course,"</|quote|>Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. "What a time she is taking over Daisy." "She is very thorough," said Polly, "and it tickles rather." Presently Daisy emerged. "What was she like?" they asked. "I
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oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking-glass, Jock behind her on the divan. "What's your name?" she asked over her shoulder. He told her. "Oh yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last... such a quaint old place." "I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning." Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?" * * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience. "Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?" Tony said, "I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery.<|quote|>"Of course,"</|quote|>Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. "What a time she is taking over Daisy." "She is very thorough," said Polly, "and it tickles rather." Presently Daisy emerged. "What was she like?" they asked. "I mustn't tell or it spoils it all," said Daisy. They had dealt cards for precedence. It was Brenda's turn now. She went next door to Mrs Northcote, who was sitting at a stool beside an armchair. She was a dowdy, middle-aged woman with a slightly genteel accent. Brenda sat down and took off her shoe and stocking. Mrs Northcote laid the foot on her knee and gazed at it with great solemnity; then she picked it up and began tracing the small creases of the sole with the point of a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen. Next door they said, "Where's Mr Beaver to-day?" "He's flown over to France with his mother to see some new wallpapers. She's been worrying all day thinking he's had an accident." "It's all very touching, isn't it? Though I can't see his point myself..." "You must never do anything on Thursdays," said Mrs Northcote. "Nothing?" "Nothing important. You are intellectual, imaginative, sympathetic, easily led by others, impulsive, affectionate. You are highly artistic and are not giving full scope to your capabilities." "Isn't there anything about love?" "I am coming to love. All these lines from the
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Brenda was not one to remember, as she came in and out, to change the indicator. He found her front door on the second floor. After the first flight the staircase changed from marble to a faded carpet that had been there before Mrs Beaver undertook the reconstruction. Jock pressed the bell and heard it ringing just inside the door. Nobody came to open it. It was past five, and he had not expected to find Brenda at home. He had decided on the road up that after trying the flat, he would go to his club and ring up various friends of Brenda's who might know where she was. He rang again, from habit, and waited a little; then turned to go. But at that moment the door next to Brenda's opened and a dark lady in a dress of crimson velvet looked out at him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone. "Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?" "I am. Is she a friend of yours?" "Oh, _such_ a friend," said Princess Abdul Akbar. "Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?" "I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?" "I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside." The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held a Tibetan Buddha of pale soapstone; six ivory elephants from Bombay stood along the top of the radiator. Other cultures, too, were represented by a set of Lalique bottles and powder boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking-glass, Jock behind her on the divan. "What's your name?" she asked over her shoulder. He told her. "Oh yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last... such a quaint old place." "I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning." Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?" * * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience. "Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?" Tony said, "I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery.<|quote|>"Of course,"</|quote|>Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. "What a time she is taking over Daisy." "She is very thorough," said Polly, "and it tickles rather." Presently Daisy emerged. "What was she like?" they asked. "I mustn't tell or it spoils it all," said Daisy. They had dealt cards for precedence. It was Brenda's turn now. She went next door to Mrs Northcote, who was sitting at a stool beside an armchair. She was a dowdy, middle-aged woman with a slightly genteel accent. Brenda sat down and took off her shoe and stocking. Mrs Northcote laid the foot on her knee and gazed at it with great solemnity; then she picked it up and began tracing the small creases of the sole with the point of a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen. Next door they said, "Where's Mr Beaver to-day?" "He's flown over to France with his mother to see some new wallpapers. She's been worrying all day thinking he's had an accident." "It's all very touching, isn't it? Though I can't see his point myself..." "You must never do anything on Thursdays," said Mrs Northcote. "Nothing?" "Nothing important. You are intellectual, imaginative, sympathetic, easily led by others, impulsive, affectionate. You are highly artistic and are not giving full scope to your capabilities." "Isn't there anything about love?" "I am coming to love. All these lines from the great toe to the instep represent lovers." "Yes, go on some more about that..." Princess Abdul Akbar was announced. "Where's Brenda?" she said. "I thought she'd be here." "Mrs Northcote's doing her now." "Jock Menzies wants to see her. He's downstairs." "Darling Jock... Why on earth didn't you bring him up?" "No, it's something terribly important. He's got to see Brenda alone." "My dear, how mysterious. Well, she won't be long now. We can't disturb them. It would upset Mrs Northcote." Jenny told them the news. On the other side of the door, Brenda's leg was beginning to feel slightly chilly. "Four men dominate your fate," Mrs Northcote was saying, "one is loyal and tender but he has not yet disclosed his love, one is passionate and overpowering, you are a little afraid of him." "Dear me," said Brenda. "How very exciting. Who _can_ they be?" "One you must avoid; he bodes no good for you, he is steely hearted and rapacious." "I bet that's my Mr Beaver, bless him." Downstairs Jock was waiting in the small front room where Polly's guests usually assembled before luncheon. It was five past six. Soon Brenda pulled on her stocking, stepped into her shoe and joined the ladies. "_Most_ enjoyable," she pronounced. "Why, how odd you all look." "Jock Grant-Menzies wants to see you downstairs." "Jock? How very extraordinary. It isn't anything awful, is it?" "You'd better go and see him." Suddenly Brenda became frightened by the strange air of the room and the unfamiliar expression in her friends' faces. She ran downstairs to the room where Jock was waiting. "What is it, Jock? Tell me quickly, I'm scared. It's nothing awful, is it?" "I'm afraid it is. There's been a very serious accident." "John?" "Yes." "Dead?" He nodded. She sat down on a hard little Empire chair against the wall, perfectly still with her hands folded in her lap, like a small well-brought-up child introduced into a room full of grown-ups. She said, "Tell me what happened. Why do you know about it first?" "I've been down at Hetton since the week-end." "Hetton?" "Don't you remember? John was going hunting to-day." She frowned, not at once taking in what he was saying. "John... John Andrew... I... oh, thank God..." Then she burst into tears. She wept helplessly, turning round in the chair and pressing her forehead against its gilt back. Upstairs Mrs
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from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking-glass, Jock behind her on the divan. "What's your name?" she asked over her shoulder. He told her. "Oh yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last... such a quaint old place." "I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning." Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?" * * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience. "Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?" Tony said, "I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery.<|quote|>"Of course,"</|quote|>Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. "What a time she is taking over Daisy." "She is very thorough," said Polly, "and it tickles rather." Presently Daisy emerged. "What was she like?" they asked. "I mustn't tell or it spoils it all," said Daisy. They had dealt cards for precedence. It was Brenda's turn now. She went next door to Mrs Northcote, who was sitting at a stool beside an armchair. She was a dowdy, middle-aged woman with a slightly genteel accent. Brenda sat down and took off her shoe and stocking. Mrs Northcote laid the foot on her knee and gazed at it with great solemnity; then she picked it up and began tracing the small creases of the sole with the point of a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen. Next door they said, "Where's Mr Beaver to-day?" "He's flown over to France with his mother to see some new wallpapers. She's been worrying all day thinking he's had an accident." "It's all very touching, isn't it? Though I can't see his point myself..." "You must never do anything on Thursdays," said Mrs Northcote. "Nothing?" "Nothing important. You are intellectual, imaginative, sympathetic, easily led by others, impulsive, affectionate. You are highly artistic and are not giving full scope to your capabilities." "Isn't there anything about love?" "I am coming to love. All these lines from the great toe to the instep represent lovers." "Yes, go on some more about that..." Princess Abdul Akbar was announced. "Where's Brenda?" she said. "I thought she'd be here." "Mrs Northcote's doing her now." "Jock Menzies wants to see her. He's downstairs." "Darling Jock... Why on earth didn't you bring him up?" "No, it's
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Christmas weather,"
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Mr. Elton
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a good deal of it."<|quote|>"Christmas weather,"</|quote|>observed Mr. Elton. "Quite seasonable;
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I think we shall have a good deal of it."<|quote|>"Christmas weather,"</|quote|>observed Mr. Elton. "Quite seasonable; and extremely fortunate we may
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a breath of air can find its way unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very cold afternoon--but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.--Ha! snows a little I see." "Yes," said John Knightley, "and I think we shall have a good deal of it."<|quote|>"Christmas weather,"</|quote|>observed Mr. Elton. "Quite seasonable; and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin yesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been much snow on the ground; but now it is of
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enjoyment. "What an excellent device," said he, "the use of a sheepskin for carriages. How very comfortable they make it;--impossible to feel cold with such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have rendered a gentleman's carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very cold afternoon--but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.--Ha! snows a little I see." "Yes," said John Knightley, "and I think we shall have a good deal of it."<|quote|>"Christmas weather,"</|quote|>observed Mr. Elton. "Quite seasonable; and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin yesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week. Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for only one
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as you probably heard." "Yes--I imagined--that is--I did not--" "He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow morning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is impossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party to-day!" "Dreadful!--Exactly so, indeed.--She will be missed every moment." This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really estimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things, and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment. "What an excellent device," said he, "the use of a sheepskin for carriages. How very comfortable they make it;--impossible to feel cold with such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have rendered a gentleman's carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very cold afternoon--but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.--Ha! snows a little I see." "Yes," said John Knightley, "and I think we shall have a good deal of it."<|quote|>"Christmas weather,"</|quote|>observed Mr. Elton. "Quite seasonable; and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin yesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week. Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not get away till that very day se'nnight." Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but said only, coolly, "I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls." At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much astonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings. Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party. "We are sure of excellent fires," continued he, "and every thing in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;--Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond praise, and he
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Mr. Elton was all obligation and cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities indeed, that she began to think he must have received a different account of Harriet from what had reached her. She had sent while dressing, and the answer had been, "Much the same--not better." "_My_ report from Mrs. Goddard's," said she presently, "was not so pleasant as I had hoped--'Not better' was _my_ answer." His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of sentiment as he answered. "Oh! no--I am grieved to find--I was on the point of telling you that when I called at Mrs. Goddard's door, which I did the very last thing before I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better, by no means better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned--I had flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I knew had been given her in the morning." Emma smiled and answered--" "My visit was of use to the nervous part of her complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat; it is a most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you probably heard." "Yes--I imagined--that is--I did not--" "He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow morning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is impossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party to-day!" "Dreadful!--Exactly so, indeed.--She will be missed every moment." This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really estimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things, and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment. "What an excellent device," said he, "the use of a sheepskin for carriages. How very comfortable they make it;--impossible to feel cold with such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have rendered a gentleman's carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very cold afternoon--but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.--Ha! snows a little I see." "Yes," said John Knightley, "and I think we shall have a good deal of it."<|quote|>"Christmas weather,"</|quote|>observed Mr. Elton. "Quite seasonable; and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin yesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week. Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not get away till that very day se'nnight." Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but said only, coolly, "I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls." At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much astonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings. Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party. "We are sure of excellent fires," continued he, "and every thing in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;--Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so hospitable, and so fond of society;--it will be a small party, but where small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any. Mr. Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably; and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me," (turning with a soft air to Emma,) "I think I shall certainly have your approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings." "I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir--I never dine with any body." "Indeed!" (in a tone of wonder and pity,) "I had no idea that the law had been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment." "My first enjoyment," replied John Knightley, as they passed through the sweep-gate, "will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again." CHAPTER XIV Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton
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in such weather, with the sacrifice of his children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least, which Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like; he anticipated nothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase; and the whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his discontent. "A man," said he, "must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as this, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest absurdity--Actually snowing at this moment!--The folly of not allowing people to be comfortable at home--and the folly of people's not staying comfortably at home when they can! If we were obliged to go out such an evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we should deem it;--and here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of the voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view or his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter that he can;--here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in another man's house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said and heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow. Going in dismal weather, to return probably in worse;--four horses and four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had at home." Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no doubt he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the "Very true, my love," which must have been usually administered by his travelling companion; but she had resolution enough to refrain from making any answer at all. She could not be complying, she dreaded being quarrelsome; her heroism reached only to silence. She allowed him to talk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up, without opening her lips. They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr. Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly. Emma thought with pleasure of some change of subject. Mr. Elton was all obligation and cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities indeed, that she began to think he must have received a different account of Harriet from what had reached her. She had sent while dressing, and the answer had been, "Much the same--not better." "_My_ report from Mrs. Goddard's," said she presently, "was not so pleasant as I had hoped--'Not better' was _my_ answer." His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of sentiment as he answered. "Oh! no--I am grieved to find--I was on the point of telling you that when I called at Mrs. Goddard's door, which I did the very last thing before I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better, by no means better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned--I had flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I knew had been given her in the morning." Emma smiled and answered--" "My visit was of use to the nervous part of her complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat; it is a most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you probably heard." "Yes--I imagined--that is--I did not--" "He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow morning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is impossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party to-day!" "Dreadful!--Exactly so, indeed.--She will be missed every moment." This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really estimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things, and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment. "What an excellent device," said he, "the use of a sheepskin for carriages. How very comfortable they make it;--impossible to feel cold with such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have rendered a gentleman's carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very cold afternoon--but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.--Ha! snows a little I see." "Yes," said John Knightley, "and I think we shall have a good deal of it."<|quote|>"Christmas weather,"</|quote|>observed Mr. Elton. "Quite seasonable; and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin yesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week. Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not get away till that very day se'nnight." Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but said only, coolly, "I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls." At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much astonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings. Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party. "We are sure of excellent fires," continued he, "and every thing in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;--Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so hospitable, and so fond of society;--it will be a small party, but where small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any. Mr. Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably; and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me," (turning with a soft air to Emma,) "I think I shall certainly have your approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings." "I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir--I never dine with any body." "Indeed!" (in a tone of wonder and pity,) "I had no idea that the law had been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment." "My first enjoyment," replied John Knightley, as they passed through the sweep-gate, "will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again." CHAPTER XIV Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the place.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons. Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each. This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton's oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the utmost. The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and Isabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and welcome her dear Emma. Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her. The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and solicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal suggestion of
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cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you probably heard." "Yes--I imagined--that is--I did not--" "He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow morning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is impossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party to-day!" "Dreadful!--Exactly so, indeed.--She will be missed every moment." This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really estimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things, and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment. "What an excellent device," said he, "the use of a sheepskin for carriages. How very comfortable they make it;--impossible to feel cold with such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have rendered a gentleman's carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very cold afternoon--but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.--Ha! snows a little I see." "Yes," said John Knightley, "and I think we shall have a good deal of it."<|quote|>"Christmas weather,"</|quote|>observed Mr. Elton. "Quite seasonable; and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin yesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week. Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not get away till that very day se'nnight." Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but said only, coolly, "I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls." At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much astonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings. Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party. "We are sure of excellent fires," continued he, "and every thing in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;--Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so hospitable, and so fond of society;--it will be a small party, but where small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any. Mr. Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably; and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me," (turning with a soft air to Emma,) "I think I shall certainly have your approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings." "I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir--I never dine with any body." "Indeed!" (in a tone of wonder and pity,) "I had no idea that the law had been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment." "My first enjoyment," replied John
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Emma
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They listened, and could hear a burst of shouting and laughing.
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No speaker
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shot the lot. Hark, there!"<|quote|>They listened, and could hear a burst of shouting and laughing.</|quote|>"That's them sentries gone down
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with all my heart I'd shot the lot. Hark, there!"<|quote|>They listened, and could hear a burst of shouting and laughing.</|quote|>"That's them sentries gone down now to the feast. I
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able to bear myself--I felt so miserable because I knew I must have shot some of those chaps." "So did I, Jem," sighed Don; "so did I." "Well, just now, Mas' Don, I'm just 'tother way; ay, for I wish with all my heart I'd shot the lot. Hark, there!"<|quote|>They listened, and could hear a burst of shouting and laughing.</|quote|>"That's them sentries gone down now to the feast. I say, Mas' Don, look at these here fellows." "Yes, Jem, I've been looking at them. It's horrible, and we must escape." They sat gazing at their guards again, to see that they were flushed, their eyes full, heavy, and starting,
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and then went and leaned their backs against the palisading of the _pah_, and partially supported themselves upon their spears. "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem with a shudder as he turned away. "You wretches! Mas' Don, I felt as I lay here last night, all dull and miserable and sick, and hardly able to bear myself--I felt so miserable because I knew I must have shot some of those chaps." "So did I, Jem," sighed Don; "so did I." "Well, just now, Mas' Don, I'm just 'tother way; ay, for I wish with all my heart I'd shot the lot. Hark, there!"<|quote|>They listened, and could hear a burst of shouting and laughing.</|quote|>"That's them sentries gone down now to the feast. I say, Mas' Don, look at these here fellows." "Yes, Jem, I've been looking at them. It's horrible, and we must escape." They sat gazing at their guards again, to see that they were flushed, their eyes full, heavy, and starting, and that they were absolutely stupefied and torpid as some huge serpent which has finished a meal. "They must be all drunk, Jem," whispered Don, with a fresh shudder of horror and loathing. "No, Mas' Don, 'tarn't that," said Jem, with a look of disgust. "Old Mike used to tell
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food or water; and the sounds of merriment and feasting came loudly to where they were. The sun was descending rapidly when about half-a-dozen of the conquering tribe came up to the _pah_, with the result that those who were on guard suddenly grew wildly excited, and giving up their duties to the new comers, uttered eager shouts and rushed off in a way that was frantic in the extreme. Don and Jem again exchanged looks full of misery and despair, and then gazed with wonder and loathing at the new comers, who walked slowly about for a few minutes, and then went and leaned their backs against the palisading of the _pah_, and partially supported themselves upon their spears. "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem with a shudder as he turned away. "You wretches! Mas' Don, I felt as I lay here last night, all dull and miserable and sick, and hardly able to bear myself--I felt so miserable because I knew I must have shot some of those chaps." "So did I, Jem," sighed Don; "so did I." "Well, just now, Mas' Don, I'm just 'tother way; ay, for I wish with all my heart I'd shot the lot. Hark, there!"<|quote|>They listened, and could hear a burst of shouting and laughing.</|quote|>"That's them sentries gone down now to the feast. I say, Mas' Don, look at these here fellows." "Yes, Jem, I've been looking at them. It's horrible, and we must escape." They sat gazing at their guards again, to see that they were flushed, their eyes full, heavy, and starting, and that they were absolutely stupefied and torpid as some huge serpent which has finished a meal. "They must be all drunk, Jem," whispered Don, with a fresh shudder of horror and loathing. "No, Mas' Don, 'tarn't that," said Jem, with a look of disgust. "Old Mike used to tell us stories, and most of 'em was yarns as I didn't believe; but he told us one thing as I do believe now. He said as some of the blacks in Africa would go with the hunters who killed the hippipperpothy-mouses, and when they'd killed one, they'd light a fire, and then cut off long strips of the big beast, hold 'em in the flame for a bit, and then eat 'em, and cut off more strips and eat them, and go on eating all day till they could hardly see or move." "Yes, I remember, Jem; and he said
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he gazed, he shuddered, and tried to look elsewhere. But he could not look elsewhere, only hard at Jem, who also shuddered, and looked shame-faced and horrified. For they were reading each other's thoughts only too correctly, and the effect of that perusal was to make big drops of perspiration roll down Jem's face, and to turn Don deadly pale. At last each snatched his eyes away, Jem to watch the prisoners, Don to close his, and sit trembling and listening to the bursts of merriment which came up. At such times, in spite of their efforts, they could not imitate the apathy of the New Zealanders, but gazed wildly at each other, trying to make themselves believe that what they imagined was false, or else the prisoners would have shown some sign of excitement. At last Jem ceased to make any pretence about the matter. He stared speechlessly and full of misery at Don, who let his eyes rest wildly on Jem's for a time before dropping his head upon his chest, and sitting motionless. All through the rest of that hour, and hour after hour, till towards evening, did the wretched prisoners sit in despair and misery without food or water; and the sounds of merriment and feasting came loudly to where they were. The sun was descending rapidly when about half-a-dozen of the conquering tribe came up to the _pah_, with the result that those who were on guard suddenly grew wildly excited, and giving up their duties to the new comers, uttered eager shouts and rushed off in a way that was frantic in the extreme. Don and Jem again exchanged looks full of misery and despair, and then gazed with wonder and loathing at the new comers, who walked slowly about for a few minutes, and then went and leaned their backs against the palisading of the _pah_, and partially supported themselves upon their spears. "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem with a shudder as he turned away. "You wretches! Mas' Don, I felt as I lay here last night, all dull and miserable and sick, and hardly able to bear myself--I felt so miserable because I knew I must have shot some of those chaps." "So did I, Jem," sighed Don; "so did I." "Well, just now, Mas' Don, I'm just 'tother way; ay, for I wish with all my heart I'd shot the lot. Hark, there!"<|quote|>They listened, and could hear a burst of shouting and laughing.</|quote|>"That's them sentries gone down now to the feast. I say, Mas' Don, look at these here fellows." "Yes, Jem, I've been looking at them. It's horrible, and we must escape." They sat gazing at their guards again, to see that they were flushed, their eyes full, heavy, and starting, and that they were absolutely stupefied and torpid as some huge serpent which has finished a meal. "They must be all drunk, Jem," whispered Don, with a fresh shudder of horror and loathing. "No, Mas' Don, 'tarn't that," said Jem, with a look of disgust. "Old Mike used to tell us stories, and most of 'em was yarns as I didn't believe; but he told us one thing as I do believe now. He said as some of the blacks in Africa would go with the hunters who killed the hippipperpothy-mouses, and when they'd killed one, they'd light a fire, and then cut off long strips of the big beast, hold 'em in the flame for a bit, and then eat 'em, and cut off more strips and eat them, and go on eating all day till they could hardly see or move." "Yes, I remember, Jem; and he said the men ate till they were drunk; and you said it was all nonsense, for a man couldn't get drunk without drink." "Yes, Mas' Don; but I was all wrong, and Mike was right. Those wretches there are as much like Mike Bannock was when he bored a hole in the rum puncheon as can be. Eating too much makes people as stupid as drinking; and knowing what I do, I wishes I was in Africa and not here." "Knowing what you do, Jem?" "Yes, Mas' Don, knowing what I do. It's what you know too. I can see you do." Don shuddered. "Don't, Jem, don't; it's too horrid even to think about." "Yes, dear lad, but we must think about it. These here people's used to it, and done it theirselves, I daresay; and they don't seem to mind; but we do. Ah, Mas' Don, I'd rather ha' been a sailor all my life, or been had by the sharks when we was swimming ashore; for I feel as if I can't stand this. There, listen!" There was a sound of shouting and singing from the beach below, and one of the guards tossed up his spear in a
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poke with the butt, another a sharp blow over the head, evidently with the intention of producing silence; but in the case of the younger children his movements had the opposite effect, and this roused the ire of some of the women, who spoke out angrily enough to make the tall, blue-faced savage give a threatening gesture with his spear. Just at that moment, however, a loud shouting and singing arose, which took the man's attention, and he and his fellows mounted on a stage at one corner of the _pah_ to stand leaning upon their spears, gazing down at the festivities being carried on at the edge of the sands below. For some time past it had seemed to Don that the plundering party had fired the village, for a tall column of smoke had risen up, and this had died down and risen again as combustible matter had caught. The fire was too far below to be seen, but the smoke rose in clouds as the work of destruction seemed to be going on. The singing and shouting increased, and once or twice the other prisoners appeared to take an excited interest in the sounds that came up to them; but they only sank directly after into a state of moody apathy, letting their chins go down upon their chests, and many of them dropping off to sleep. The noise and shouting had been going on for some time, and then ceased, to be succeeded by a low, busy murmur, as of a vast swarm of bees; and now, after sitting very silent and thoughtful, watching the faint smoke which came up from the fire, and eagerly drinking in the various sounds, Don turned his eyes in a curiously furtive manner to steal a look at Jem. He did not move his head, but proceeded with the greatest caution, so as to try and read his companion's countenance, when, to his surprise, he found that Jem was stealing a look at him, and both, as it were, snatched their eyes away, and began looking at the prisoners. But at that time it was as if the eyes of both were filled with some strange attractive force, which made them turn and gaze in a peculiarly hard, wild way. Don seemed to be reading Jem's thoughts as his sight plunged deeply into the eyes of his companion, and as he gazed, he shuddered, and tried to look elsewhere. But he could not look elsewhere, only hard at Jem, who also shuddered, and looked shame-faced and horrified. For they were reading each other's thoughts only too correctly, and the effect of that perusal was to make big drops of perspiration roll down Jem's face, and to turn Don deadly pale. At last each snatched his eyes away, Jem to watch the prisoners, Don to close his, and sit trembling and listening to the bursts of merriment which came up. At such times, in spite of their efforts, they could not imitate the apathy of the New Zealanders, but gazed wildly at each other, trying to make themselves believe that what they imagined was false, or else the prisoners would have shown some sign of excitement. At last Jem ceased to make any pretence about the matter. He stared speechlessly and full of misery at Don, who let his eyes rest wildly on Jem's for a time before dropping his head upon his chest, and sitting motionless. All through the rest of that hour, and hour after hour, till towards evening, did the wretched prisoners sit in despair and misery without food or water; and the sounds of merriment and feasting came loudly to where they were. The sun was descending rapidly when about half-a-dozen of the conquering tribe came up to the _pah_, with the result that those who were on guard suddenly grew wildly excited, and giving up their duties to the new comers, uttered eager shouts and rushed off in a way that was frantic in the extreme. Don and Jem again exchanged looks full of misery and despair, and then gazed with wonder and loathing at the new comers, who walked slowly about for a few minutes, and then went and leaned their backs against the palisading of the _pah_, and partially supported themselves upon their spears. "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem with a shudder as he turned away. "You wretches! Mas' Don, I felt as I lay here last night, all dull and miserable and sick, and hardly able to bear myself--I felt so miserable because I knew I must have shot some of those chaps." "So did I, Jem," sighed Don; "so did I." "Well, just now, Mas' Don, I'm just 'tother way; ay, for I wish with all my heart I'd shot the lot. Hark, there!"<|quote|>They listened, and could hear a burst of shouting and laughing.</|quote|>"That's them sentries gone down now to the feast. I say, Mas' Don, look at these here fellows." "Yes, Jem, I've been looking at them. It's horrible, and we must escape." They sat gazing at their guards again, to see that they were flushed, their eyes full, heavy, and starting, and that they were absolutely stupefied and torpid as some huge serpent which has finished a meal. "They must be all drunk, Jem," whispered Don, with a fresh shudder of horror and loathing. "No, Mas' Don, 'tarn't that," said Jem, with a look of disgust. "Old Mike used to tell us stories, and most of 'em was yarns as I didn't believe; but he told us one thing as I do believe now. He said as some of the blacks in Africa would go with the hunters who killed the hippipperpothy-mouses, and when they'd killed one, they'd light a fire, and then cut off long strips of the big beast, hold 'em in the flame for a bit, and then eat 'em, and cut off more strips and eat them, and go on eating all day till they could hardly see or move." "Yes, I remember, Jem; and he said the men ate till they were drunk; and you said it was all nonsense, for a man couldn't get drunk without drink." "Yes, Mas' Don; but I was all wrong, and Mike was right. Those wretches there are as much like Mike Bannock was when he bored a hole in the rum puncheon as can be. Eating too much makes people as stupid as drinking; and knowing what I do, I wishes I was in Africa and not here." "Knowing what you do, Jem?" "Yes, Mas' Don, knowing what I do. It's what you know too. I can see you do." Don shuddered. "Don't, Jem, don't; it's too horrid even to think about." "Yes, dear lad, but we must think about it. These here people's used to it, and done it theirselves, I daresay; and they don't seem to mind; but we do. Ah, Mas' Don, I'd rather ha' been a sailor all my life, or been had by the sharks when we was swimming ashore; for I feel as if I can't stand this. There, listen!" There was a sound of shouting and singing from the beach below, and one of the guards tossed up his spear in a sleepy way, and shouted too, but only to subside again into a sluggish state of torpidity. "Why, Mas' Don, by-and-by they'll all be asleep, and if we tried, you and me might get our arms and legs undone, and take a spear apiece, and kill the lot. What do you say?" "The same as you will, if you think, Jem," replied Don. "No." "No, it is, Mas' Don, of course. Englishmen couldn't do such a thing as that." "But only let us have a fair chance at them again, Jem, and I don't think we shall feel very sorry if we slay a few." "Sorry?" said Jem, between his teeth. "I mean a hundred of 'em at least, as soon as we can get away; and get away we will." They sat listening till the horrible feast below was at an end, and everything became so silent that they concluded that the enemy must be asleep, and began to wonder that the prisoners should all crouch together in so apathetic a state. But all at once, when everything seemed most still, and half the prisoners were dozing, there came the heavy trampling of feet; the guards roused up, and in the dim light of the late evening, the bonds which secured the captives' feet were loosened, and, like a herd of cattle, they were driven down from the platform upon which the _pah_ was constructed, and along the slope to the sands, where the canoes rode lightly on the swell. Into these they were forced to climb, some getting in with alacrity, others slowly and painfully; two or three falling helplessly in the water, and then, half drowned, being dragged in over the side. "Not a bit sorry I killed some of 'em," muttered Jem. "They arn't men, Mas' Don, but savage beasts." It did not take long, for there was plenty of room in the little fleet of canoes. The prisoners were divided, some being placed in the canoes with the plunder, and treated as if they were spoil. Others were divided among the long canoes, manned by the enemy, whose own wounded men, even to the worst, did not hesitate to take to a paddle, and fill their places. Some of the children whimpered, but an apathetic state of misery and dejection seemed to have affected even them, while in one or two cases, a blow from a
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the fire, and eagerly drinking in the various sounds, Don turned his eyes in a curiously furtive manner to steal a look at Jem. He did not move his head, but proceeded with the greatest caution, so as to try and read his companion's countenance, when, to his surprise, he found that Jem was stealing a look at him, and both, as it were, snatched their eyes away, and began looking at the prisoners. But at that time it was as if the eyes of both were filled with some strange attractive force, which made them turn and gaze in a peculiarly hard, wild way. Don seemed to be reading Jem's thoughts as his sight plunged deeply into the eyes of his companion, and as he gazed, he shuddered, and tried to look elsewhere. But he could not look elsewhere, only hard at Jem, who also shuddered, and looked shame-faced and horrified. For they were reading each other's thoughts only too correctly, and the effect of that perusal was to make big drops of perspiration roll down Jem's face, and to turn Don deadly pale. At last each snatched his eyes away, Jem to watch the prisoners, Don to close his, and sit trembling and listening to the bursts of merriment which came up. At such times, in spite of their efforts, they could not imitate the apathy of the New Zealanders, but gazed wildly at each other, trying to make themselves believe that what they imagined was false, or else the prisoners would have shown some sign of excitement. At last Jem ceased to make any pretence about the matter. He stared speechlessly and full of misery at Don, who let his eyes rest wildly on Jem's for a time before dropping his head upon his chest, and sitting motionless. All through the rest of that hour, and hour after hour, till towards evening, did the wretched prisoners sit in despair and misery without food or water; and the sounds of merriment and feasting came loudly to where they were. The sun was descending rapidly when about half-a-dozen of the conquering tribe came up to the _pah_, with the result that those who were on guard suddenly grew wildly excited, and giving up their duties to the new comers, uttered eager shouts and rushed off in a way that was frantic in the extreme. Don and Jem again exchanged looks full of misery and despair, and then gazed with wonder and loathing at the new comers, who walked slowly about for a few minutes, and then went and leaned their backs against the palisading of the _pah_, and partially supported themselves upon their spears. "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem with a shudder as he turned away. "You wretches! Mas' Don, I felt as I lay here last night, all dull and miserable and sick, and hardly able to bear myself--I felt so miserable because I knew I must have shot some of those chaps." "So did I, Jem," sighed Don; "so did I." "Well, just now, Mas' Don, I'm just 'tother way; ay, for I wish with all my heart I'd shot the lot. Hark, there!"<|quote|>They listened, and could hear a burst of shouting and laughing.</|quote|>"That's them sentries gone down now to the feast. I say, Mas' Don, look at these here fellows." "Yes, Jem, I've been looking at them. It's horrible, and we must escape." They sat gazing at their guards again, to see that they were flushed, their eyes full, heavy, and starting, and that they were absolutely stupefied and torpid as some huge serpent which has finished a meal. "They must be all drunk, Jem," whispered Don, with a fresh shudder of horror and loathing. "No, Mas' Don, 'tarn't that," said Jem, with a look of disgust. "Old Mike used to tell us stories, and most of 'em was yarns as I didn't believe; but he told us one thing as I do believe now. He said as some of the blacks in Africa would go with the hunters who killed the hippipperpothy-mouses, and when they'd killed one, they'd light a fire, and then cut off long strips of the big beast, hold 'em in the flame for a bit, and then eat 'em, and cut off more strips and eat them, and go on eating all day till they could hardly see or move." "Yes, I remember, Jem; and he said the men ate till they were drunk; and you said it was all nonsense, for a man couldn't get drunk without drink." "Yes, Mas' Don; but I was all wrong, and Mike was right. Those wretches there are as much like Mike Bannock was when he bored a hole in the rum puncheon as can be. Eating too much makes people as stupid as drinking; and knowing what I do, I wishes I was in Africa and not here." "Knowing what you do, Jem?" "Yes, Mas' Don, knowing what I do. It's what you know too. I can see you do." Don shuddered. "Don't, Jem, don't; it's too horrid even to think about." "Yes, dear lad, but we must think about it. These here people's used to it, and done it theirselves, I daresay; and they don't seem to mind; but we do. Ah, Mas' Don, I'd rather ha' been a sailor all my life, or been had by the sharks when we was swimming ashore; for I feel as if I can't stand this. There, listen!" There was a sound of shouting and singing from the beach below, and one of the guards tossed up his spear in a sleepy way, and shouted too, but only to subside again into a sluggish state of torpidity. "Why, Mas' Don, by-and-by they'll all be asleep, and if we tried, you and me might get our arms and legs undone, and take a spear apiece, and kill the lot. What do you say?" "The same as you will, if you think, Jem," replied Don. "No." "No, it is, Mas' Don, of course. Englishmen couldn't do such a thing as that." "But only let us have a fair chance at them again, Jem, and I don't
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Don Lavington
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repeated the Dodger.
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No speaker
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to the contrary. "I am,"<|quote|>repeated the Dodger.</|quote|>"So's Charley. So's Fagin. So's
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obliged by his saying anything to the contrary. "I am,"<|quote|>repeated the Dodger.</|quote|>"So's Charley. So's Fagin. So's Sikes. So's Nancy. So's Bet.
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inquired Oliver, checking himself. "I am," replied the Dodger. "I'd scorn to be anything else." Mr. Dawkins gave his hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment, and looked at Master Bates, as if to denote that he would feel obliged by his saying anything to the contrary. "I am,"<|quote|>repeated the Dodger.</|quote|>"So's Charley. So's Fagin. So's Sikes. So's Nancy. So's Bet. So we all are, down to the dog. And he's the downiest one of the lot!" "And the least given to peaching," added Charley Bates. "He wouldn't so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear of committing himself; no,
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sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They both smoked, for some seconds, in silence. "I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?" said the Dodger mournfully. "I think I know that," replied Oliver, looking up. "It's a the ; you're one, are you not?" inquired Oliver, checking himself. "I am," replied the Dodger. "I'd scorn to be anything else." Mr. Dawkins gave his hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment, and looked at Master Bates, as if to denote that he would feel obliged by his saying anything to the contrary. "I am,"<|quote|>repeated the Dodger.</|quote|>"So's Charley. So's Fagin. So's Sikes. So's Nancy. So's Bet. So we all are, down to the dog. And he's the downiest one of the lot!" "And the least given to peaching," added Charley Bates. "He wouldn't so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear of committing himself; no, not if you tied him up in one, and left him there without wittles for a fortnight," said the Dodger. "Not a bit of it," observed Charley. "He's a rum dog. Don't he look fierce at any strange cove that laughs or sings when he's in company!" pursued the Dodger.
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or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed the feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer that mollified his thoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce, with a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature. He looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for a brief space; and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sign, said, half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates: "What a pity it is he isn't a prig!" "Ah!" said Master Charles Bates; "he don't know what's good for him." The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They both smoked, for some seconds, in silence. "I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?" said the Dodger mournfully. "I think I know that," replied Oliver, looking up. "It's a the ; you're one, are you not?" inquired Oliver, checking himself. "I am," replied the Dodger. "I'd scorn to be anything else." Mr. Dawkins gave his hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment, and looked at Master Bates, as if to denote that he would feel obliged by his saying anything to the contrary. "I am,"<|quote|>repeated the Dodger.</|quote|>"So's Charley. So's Fagin. So's Sikes. So's Nancy. So's Bet. So we all are, down to the dog. And he's the downiest one of the lot!" "And the least given to peaching," added Charley Bates. "He wouldn't so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear of committing himself; no, not if you tied him up in one, and left him there without wittles for a fortnight," said the Dodger. "Not a bit of it," observed Charley. "He's a rum dog. Don't he look fierce at any strange cove that laughs or sings when he's in company!" pursued the Dodger. "Won't he growl at all, when he hears a fiddle playing! And don't he hate other dogs as ain't of his breed! Oh, no!" "He's an out-and-out Christian," said Charley. This was merely intended as a tribute to the animal's abilities, but it was an appropriate remark in another sense, if Master Bates had only known it; for there are a good many ladies and gentlemen, claiming to be out-and-out Christians, between whom, and Mr. Sikes' dog, there exist strong and singular points of resemblance. "Well, well," said the Dodger, recurring to the point from which they had strayed: with
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the decoration of his person (to do him justice, this was by no means an habitual weakness with him); and, with this end and aim, he condescendingly commanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet, straightway. Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful; too happy to have some faces, however bad, to look upon; too desirous to conciliate those about him when he could honestly do so; to throw any objection in the way of this proposal. So he at once expressed his readiness; and, kneeling on the floor, while the Dodger sat upon the table so that he could take his foot in his laps, he applied himself to a process which Mr. Dawkins designated as "japanning his trotter-cases." The phrase, rendered into plain English, signifieth, cleaning his boots. Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational animal may be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy attitude smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his boots cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of having taken them off, or the prospective misery of putting them on, to disturb his reflections; or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed the feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer that mollified his thoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce, with a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature. He looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for a brief space; and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sign, said, half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates: "What a pity it is he isn't a prig!" "Ah!" said Master Charles Bates; "he don't know what's good for him." The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They both smoked, for some seconds, in silence. "I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?" said the Dodger mournfully. "I think I know that," replied Oliver, looking up. "It's a the ; you're one, are you not?" inquired Oliver, checking himself. "I am," replied the Dodger. "I'd scorn to be anything else." Mr. Dawkins gave his hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment, and looked at Master Bates, as if to denote that he would feel obliged by his saying anything to the contrary. "I am,"<|quote|>repeated the Dodger.</|quote|>"So's Charley. So's Fagin. So's Sikes. So's Nancy. So's Bet. So we all are, down to the dog. And he's the downiest one of the lot!" "And the least given to peaching," added Charley Bates. "He wouldn't so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear of committing himself; no, not if you tied him up in one, and left him there without wittles for a fortnight," said the Dodger. "Not a bit of it," observed Charley. "He's a rum dog. Don't he look fierce at any strange cove that laughs or sings when he's in company!" pursued the Dodger. "Won't he growl at all, when he hears a fiddle playing! And don't he hate other dogs as ain't of his breed! Oh, no!" "He's an out-and-out Christian," said Charley. This was merely intended as a tribute to the animal's abilities, but it was an appropriate remark in another sense, if Master Bates had only known it; for there are a good many ladies and gentlemen, claiming to be out-and-out Christians, between whom, and Mr. Sikes' dog, there exist strong and singular points of resemblance. "Well, well," said the Dodger, recurring to the point from which they had strayed: with that mindfulness of his profession which influenced all his proceedings. "This hasn't go anything to do with young Green here." "No more it has," said Charley. "Why don't you put yourself under Fagin, Oliver?" "And make your fortun' out of hand?" added the Dodger, with a grin. "And so be able to retire on your property, and do the gen-teel: as I mean to, in the very next leap-year but four that ever comes, and the forty-second Tuesday in Trinity-week," said Charley Bates. "I don't like it," rejoined Oliver, timidly; "I wish they would let me go. I I would rather go." "And Fagin would _rather_ not!" rejoined Charley. Oliver knew this too well; but thinking it might be dangerous to express his feelings more openly, he only sighed, and went on with his boot-cleaning. "Go!" exclaimed the Dodger. "Why, where's your spirit? Don't you take any pride out of yourself? Would you go and be dependent on your friends?" "Oh, blow that!" said Master Bates: drawing two or three silk handkerchiefs from his pocket, and tossing them into a cupboard, "that's too mean; that is." "_I_ couldn't do it," said the Dodger, with an air of haughty disgust. "You
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unlocked; and he was at liberty to wander about the house. It was a very dirty place. The rooms upstairs had great high wooden chimney-pieces and large doors, with panelled walls and cornices to the ceiling; which, although they were black with neglect and dust, were ornamented in various ways. From all of these tokens Oliver concluded that a long time ago, before the old Jew was born, it had belonged to better people, and had perhaps been quite gay and handsome: dismal and dreary as it looked now. Spiders had built their webs in the angles of the walls and ceilings; and sometimes, when Oliver walked softly into a room, the mice would scamper across the floor, and run back terrified to their holes. With these exceptions, there was neither sight nor sound of any living thing; and often, when it grew dark, and he was tired of wandering from room to room, he would crouch in the corner of the passage by the street-door, to be as near living people as he could; and would remain there, listening and counting the hours, until the Jew or the boys returned. In all the rooms, the mouldering shutters were fast closed: the bars which held them were screwed tight into the wood; the only light which was admitted, stealing its way through round holes at the top: which made the rooms more gloomy, and filled them with strange shadows. There was a back-garret window with rusty bars outside, which had no shutter; and out of this, Oliver often gazed with a melancholy face for hours together; but nothing was to be descried from it but a confused and crowded mass of housetops, blackened chimneys, and gable-ends. Sometimes, indeed, a grizzly head might be seen, peering over the parapet-wall of a distant house; but it was quickly withdrawn again; and as the window of Oliver's observatory was nailed down, and dimmed with the rain and smoke of years, it was as much as he could do to make out the forms of the different objects beyond, without making any attempt to be seen or heard, which he had as much chance of being, as if he had lived inside the ball of St. Paul's Cathedral. One afternoon, the Dodger and Master Bates being engaged out that evening, the first-named young gentleman took it into his head to evince some anxiety regarding the decoration of his person (to do him justice, this was by no means an habitual weakness with him); and, with this end and aim, he condescendingly commanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet, straightway. Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful; too happy to have some faces, however bad, to look upon; too desirous to conciliate those about him when he could honestly do so; to throw any objection in the way of this proposal. So he at once expressed his readiness; and, kneeling on the floor, while the Dodger sat upon the table so that he could take his foot in his laps, he applied himself to a process which Mr. Dawkins designated as "japanning his trotter-cases." The phrase, rendered into plain English, signifieth, cleaning his boots. Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational animal may be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy attitude smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his boots cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of having taken them off, or the prospective misery of putting them on, to disturb his reflections; or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed the feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer that mollified his thoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce, with a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature. He looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for a brief space; and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sign, said, half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates: "What a pity it is he isn't a prig!" "Ah!" said Master Charles Bates; "he don't know what's good for him." The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They both smoked, for some seconds, in silence. "I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?" said the Dodger mournfully. "I think I know that," replied Oliver, looking up. "It's a the ; you're one, are you not?" inquired Oliver, checking himself. "I am," replied the Dodger. "I'd scorn to be anything else." Mr. Dawkins gave his hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment, and looked at Master Bates, as if to denote that he would feel obliged by his saying anything to the contrary. "I am,"<|quote|>repeated the Dodger.</|quote|>"So's Charley. So's Fagin. So's Sikes. So's Nancy. So's Bet. So we all are, down to the dog. And he's the downiest one of the lot!" "And the least given to peaching," added Charley Bates. "He wouldn't so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear of committing himself; no, not if you tied him up in one, and left him there without wittles for a fortnight," said the Dodger. "Not a bit of it," observed Charley. "He's a rum dog. Don't he look fierce at any strange cove that laughs or sings when he's in company!" pursued the Dodger. "Won't he growl at all, when he hears a fiddle playing! And don't he hate other dogs as ain't of his breed! Oh, no!" "He's an out-and-out Christian," said Charley. This was merely intended as a tribute to the animal's abilities, but it was an appropriate remark in another sense, if Master Bates had only known it; for there are a good many ladies and gentlemen, claiming to be out-and-out Christians, between whom, and Mr. Sikes' dog, there exist strong and singular points of resemblance. "Well, well," said the Dodger, recurring to the point from which they had strayed: with that mindfulness of his profession which influenced all his proceedings. "This hasn't go anything to do with young Green here." "No more it has," said Charley. "Why don't you put yourself under Fagin, Oliver?" "And make your fortun' out of hand?" added the Dodger, with a grin. "And so be able to retire on your property, and do the gen-teel: as I mean to, in the very next leap-year but four that ever comes, and the forty-second Tuesday in Trinity-week," said Charley Bates. "I don't like it," rejoined Oliver, timidly; "I wish they would let me go. I I would rather go." "And Fagin would _rather_ not!" rejoined Charley. Oliver knew this too well; but thinking it might be dangerous to express his feelings more openly, he only sighed, and went on with his boot-cleaning. "Go!" exclaimed the Dodger. "Why, where's your spirit? Don't you take any pride out of yourself? Would you go and be dependent on your friends?" "Oh, blow that!" said Master Bates: drawing two or three silk handkerchiefs from his pocket, and tossing them into a cupboard, "that's too mean; that is." "_I_ couldn't do it," said the Dodger, with an air of haughty disgust. "You can leave your friends, though," said Oliver with a half smile; "and let them be punished for what you did." "That," rejoined the Dodger, with a wave of his pipe, "That was all out of consideration for Fagin, 'cause the traps know that we work together, and he might have got into trouble if we hadn't made our lucky; that was the move, wasn't it, Charley?" Master Bates nodded assent, and would have spoken, but the recollection of Oliver's flight came so suddenly upon him, that the smoke he was inhaling got entangled with a laugh, and went up into his head, and down into his throat: and brought on a fit of coughing and stamping, about five minutes long. "Look here!" said the Dodger, drawing forth a handful of shillings and halfpence. "Here's a jolly life! What's the odds where it comes from? Here, catch hold; there's plenty more where they were took from. You won't, won't you? Oh, you precious flat!" "It's naughty, ain't it, Oliver?" inquired Charley Bates. "He'll come to be scragged, won't he?" "I don't know what that means," replied Oliver. "Something in this way, old feller," said Charly. As he said it, Master Bates caught up an end of his neckerchief; and, holding it erect in the air, dropped his head on his shoulder, and jerked a curious sound through his teeth; thereby indicating, by a lively pantomimic representation, that scragging and hanging were one and the same thing. "That's what it means," said Charley. "Look how he stares, Jack! I never did see such prime company as that 'ere boy; he'll be the death of me, I know he will." Master Charley Bates, having laughed heartily again, resumed his pipe with tears in his eyes. "You've been brought up bad," said the Dodger, surveying his boots with much satisfaction when Oliver had polished them. "Fagin will make something of you, though, or you'll be the first he ever had that turned out unprofitable. You'd better begin at once; for you'll come to the trade long before you think of it; and you're only losing time, Oliver." Master Bates backed this advice with sundry moral admonitions of his own: which, being exhausted, he and his friend Mr. Dawkins launched into a glowing description of the numerous pleasures incidental to the life they led, interspersed with a variety of hints to Oliver that the best
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house; but it was quickly withdrawn again; and as the window of Oliver's observatory was nailed down, and dimmed with the rain and smoke of years, it was as much as he could do to make out the forms of the different objects beyond, without making any attempt to be seen or heard, which he had as much chance of being, as if he had lived inside the ball of St. Paul's Cathedral. One afternoon, the Dodger and Master Bates being engaged out that evening, the first-named young gentleman took it into his head to evince some anxiety regarding the decoration of his person (to do him justice, this was by no means an habitual weakness with him); and, with this end and aim, he condescendingly commanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet, straightway. Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful; too happy to have some faces, however bad, to look upon; too desirous to conciliate those about him when he could honestly do so; to throw any objection in the way of this proposal. So he at once expressed his readiness; and, kneeling on the floor, while the Dodger sat upon the table so that he could take his foot in his laps, he applied himself to a process which Mr. Dawkins designated as "japanning his trotter-cases." The phrase, rendered into plain English, signifieth, cleaning his boots. Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational animal may be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy attitude smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his boots cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of having taken them off, or the prospective misery of putting them on, to disturb his reflections; or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed the feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer that mollified his thoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce, with a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature. He looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for a brief space; and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sign, said, half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates: "What a pity it is he isn't a prig!" "Ah!" said Master Charles Bates; "he don't know what's good for him." The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They both smoked, for some seconds, in silence. "I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?" said the Dodger mournfully. "I think I know that," replied Oliver, looking up. "It's a the ; you're one, are you not?" inquired Oliver, checking himself. "I am," replied the Dodger. "I'd scorn to be anything else." Mr. Dawkins gave his hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment, and looked at Master Bates, as if to denote that he would feel obliged by his saying anything to the contrary. "I am,"<|quote|>repeated the Dodger.</|quote|>"So's Charley. So's Fagin. So's Sikes. So's Nancy. So's Bet. So we all are, down to the dog. And he's the downiest one of the lot!" "And the least given to peaching," added Charley Bates. "He wouldn't so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear of committing himself; no, not if you tied him up in one, and left him there without wittles for a fortnight," said the Dodger. "Not a bit of it," observed Charley. "He's a rum dog. Don't he look fierce at any strange cove that laughs or sings when he's in company!" pursued the Dodger. "Won't he growl at all, when he hears a fiddle playing! And don't he hate other dogs as ain't of his breed! Oh, no!" "He's an out-and-out Christian," said Charley. This was merely intended as a tribute to the animal's abilities, but it was an appropriate remark in another sense, if Master Bates had only known it; for there are a good many ladies and gentlemen, claiming to be out-and-out Christians, between whom, and Mr. Sikes' dog, there exist strong and singular points of resemblance. "Well, well," said the Dodger, recurring to the point from which they had strayed: with that mindfulness of his profession which influenced all his proceedings. "This hasn't go anything to do with young Green here." "No more it has," said Charley. "Why don't you put
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Oliver Twist
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I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his naked eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep from smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case to and handed it back.
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No speaker
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habits of the late owner?"<|quote|>I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his naked eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep from smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case to and handed it back.</|quote|>"There are hardly any data,"
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opinion upon the character or habits of the late owner?"<|quote|>I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his naked eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep from smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case to and handed it back.</|quote|>"There are hardly any data," he remarked. "The watch has
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impress of his individuality upon it in such a way that a trained observer might read it. Now, I have here a watch which has recently come into my possession. Would you have the kindness to let me have an opinion upon the character or habits of the late owner?"<|quote|>I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his naked eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep from smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case to and handed it back.</|quote|>"There are hardly any data," he remarked. "The watch has been recently cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts." "You are right," I answered. "It was cleaned before being sent to me." In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a most lame and impotent excuse
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he answered, "it would prevent me from taking a second dose of cocaine. I should be delighted to look into any problem which you might submit to me." "I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man to have any object in daily use without leaving the impress of his individuality upon it in such a way that a trained observer might read it. Now, I have here a watch which has recently come into my possession. Would you have the kindness to let me have an opinion upon the character or habits of the late owner?"<|quote|>I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his naked eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep from smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case to and handed it back.</|quote|>"There are hardly any data," he remarked. "The watch has been recently cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts." "You are right," I answered. "It was cleaned before being sent to me." In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a most lame and impotent excuse to cover his failure. What data could he expect from an uncleaned watch? "Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely barren," he observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes. "Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged to your elder brother, who inherited
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letter, since I sat opposite to you all morning. I see also in your open desk there that you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of post-cards. What could you go into the post-office for, then, but to send a wire? Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth." "In this case it certainly is so," I replied, after a little thought. "The thing, however, is, as you say, of the simplest. Would you think me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a more severe test?" "On the contrary," he answered, "it would prevent me from taking a second dose of cocaine. I should be delighted to look into any problem which you might submit to me." "I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man to have any object in daily use without leaving the impress of his individuality upon it in such a way that a trained observer might read it. Now, I have here a watch which has recently come into my possession. Would you have the kindness to let me have an opinion upon the character or habits of the late owner?"<|quote|>I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his naked eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep from smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case to and handed it back.</|quote|>"There are hardly any data," he remarked. "The watch has been recently cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts." "You are right," I answered. "It was cleaned before being sent to me." In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a most lame and impotent excuse to cover his failure. What data could he expect from an uncleaned watch? "Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely barren," he observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes. "Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged to your elder brother, who inherited it from your father." "That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?" "Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. The date of the watch is nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch: so it was made for the last generation. Jewelry usually descends to the eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as the father. Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years. It has, therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother." "Right, so far," said I. "Anything else?"
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and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe. "For example, observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that when there you dispatched a telegram." "Right!" said I. "Right on both points! But I confess that I don t see how you arrived at it. It was a sudden impulse upon my part, and I have mentioned it to no one." "It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at my surprise, "so absurdly simple that an explanation is superfluous; and yet it may serve to define the limits of observation and of deduction. Observation tells me that you have a little reddish mould adhering to your instep. Just opposite the Seymour Street Office they have taken up the pavement and thrown up some earth which lies in such a way that it is difficult to avoid treading in it in entering. The earth is of this peculiar reddish tint which is found, as far as I know, nowhere else in the neighbourhood. So much is observation. The rest is deduction." "How, then, did you deduce the telegram?" "Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter, since I sat opposite to you all morning. I see also in your open desk there that you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of post-cards. What could you go into the post-office for, then, but to send a wire? Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth." "In this case it certainly is so," I replied, after a little thought. "The thing, however, is, as you say, of the simplest. Would you think me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a more severe test?" "On the contrary," he answered, "it would prevent me from taking a second dose of cocaine. I should be delighted to look into any problem which you might submit to me." "I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man to have any object in daily use without leaving the impress of his individuality upon it in such a way that a trained observer might read it. Now, I have here a watch which has recently come into my possession. Would you have the kindness to let me have an opinion upon the character or habits of the late owner?"<|quote|>I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his naked eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep from smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case to and handed it back.</|quote|>"There are hardly any data," he remarked. "The watch has been recently cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts." "You are right," I answered. "It was cleaned before being sent to me." In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a most lame and impotent excuse to cover his failure. What data could he expect from an uncleaned watch? "Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely barren," he observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes. "Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged to your elder brother, who inherited it from your father." "That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?" "Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. The date of the watch is nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch: so it was made for the last generation. Jewelry usually descends to the eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as the father. Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years. It has, therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother." "Right, so far," said I. "Anything else?" "He was a man of untidy habits, very untidy and careless. He was left with good prospects, but he threw away his chances, lived for some time in poverty with occasional short intervals of prosperity, and finally, taking to drink, he died. That is all I can gather." I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about the room with considerable bitterness in my heart. "This is unworthy of you, Holmes," I said. "I could not have believed that you would have descended to this. You have made inquires into the history of my unhappy brother, and you now pretend to deduce this knowledge in some fanciful way. You cannot expect me to believe that you have read all this from his old watch! It is unkind, and, to speak plainly, has a touch of charlatanism in it." "My dear doctor," said he, kindly, "pray accept my apologies. Viewing the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how personal and painful a thing it might be to you. I assure you, however, that I never even knew that you had a brother until you handed me the watch." "Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did
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my eyes down it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration, with stray "magnifiques," "coup-de-ma tres," and "tours-de-force," all testifying to the ardent admiration of the Frenchman. "He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I. "Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said Sherlock Holmes, lightly. "He has considerable gifts himself. He possesses two out of the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He has the power of observation and that of deduction. He is only wanting in knowledge; and that may come in time. He is now translating my small works into French." "Your works?" "Oh, didn t you know?" he cried, laughing. "Yes, I have been guilty of several monographs. They are all upon technical subjects. Here, for example, is one Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccoes. In it I enumerate a hundred and forty forms of cigar-, cigarette-, and pipe-tobacco, with coloured plates illustrating the difference in the ash. It is a point which is continually turning up in criminal trials, and which is sometimes of supreme importance as a clue. If you can say definitely, for example, that some murder has been done by a man who was smoking an Indian lunkah, it obviously narrows your field of search. To the trained eye there is as much difference between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and the white fluff of bird s-eye as there is between a cabbage and a potato." "You have an extraordinary genius for minuti ," I remarked. "I appreciate their importance. Here is my monograph upon the tracing of footsteps, with some remarks upon the uses of plaster of Paris as a preserver of impresses. Here, too, is a curious little work upon the influence of a trade upon the form of the hand, with lithotypes of the hands of slaters, sailors, corkcutters, compositors, weavers, and diamond-polishers. That is a matter of great practical interest to the scientific detective, especially in cases of unclaimed bodies, or in discovering the antecedents of criminals. But I weary you with my hobby." "Not at all," I answered, earnestly. "It is of the greatest interest to me, especially since I have had the opportunity of observing your practical application of it. But you spoke just now of observation and deduction. Surely the one to some extent implies the other." "Why, hardly," he answered, leaning back luxuriously in his arm-chair, and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe. "For example, observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that when there you dispatched a telegram." "Right!" said I. "Right on both points! But I confess that I don t see how you arrived at it. It was a sudden impulse upon my part, and I have mentioned it to no one." "It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at my surprise, "so absurdly simple that an explanation is superfluous; and yet it may serve to define the limits of observation and of deduction. Observation tells me that you have a little reddish mould adhering to your instep. Just opposite the Seymour Street Office they have taken up the pavement and thrown up some earth which lies in such a way that it is difficult to avoid treading in it in entering. The earth is of this peculiar reddish tint which is found, as far as I know, nowhere else in the neighbourhood. So much is observation. The rest is deduction." "How, then, did you deduce the telegram?" "Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter, since I sat opposite to you all morning. I see also in your open desk there that you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of post-cards. What could you go into the post-office for, then, but to send a wire? Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth." "In this case it certainly is so," I replied, after a little thought. "The thing, however, is, as you say, of the simplest. Would you think me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a more severe test?" "On the contrary," he answered, "it would prevent me from taking a second dose of cocaine. I should be delighted to look into any problem which you might submit to me." "I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man to have any object in daily use without leaving the impress of his individuality upon it in such a way that a trained observer might read it. Now, I have here a watch which has recently come into my possession. Would you have the kindness to let me have an opinion upon the character or habits of the late owner?"<|quote|>I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his naked eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep from smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case to and handed it back.</|quote|>"There are hardly any data," he remarked. "The watch has been recently cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts." "You are right," I answered. "It was cleaned before being sent to me." In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a most lame and impotent excuse to cover his failure. What data could he expect from an uncleaned watch? "Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely barren," he observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes. "Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged to your elder brother, who inherited it from your father." "That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?" "Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. The date of the watch is nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch: so it was made for the last generation. Jewelry usually descends to the eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as the father. Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years. It has, therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother." "Right, so far," said I. "Anything else?" "He was a man of untidy habits, very untidy and careless. He was left with good prospects, but he threw away his chances, lived for some time in poverty with occasional short intervals of prosperity, and finally, taking to drink, he died. That is all I can gather." I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about the room with considerable bitterness in my heart. "This is unworthy of you, Holmes," I said. "I could not have believed that you would have descended to this. You have made inquires into the history of my unhappy brother, and you now pretend to deduce this knowledge in some fanciful way. You cannot expect me to believe that you have read all this from his old watch! It is unkind, and, to speak plainly, has a touch of charlatanism in it." "My dear doctor," said he, kindly, "pray accept my apologies. Viewing the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how personal and painful a thing it might be to you. I assure you, however, that I never even knew that you had a brother until you handed me the watch." "Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did you get these facts? They are absolutely correct in every particular." "Ah, that is good luck. I could only say what was the balance of probability. I did not at all expect to be so accurate." "But it was not mere guess-work?" "No, no: I never guess. It is a shocking habit, destructive to the logical faculty. What seems strange to you is only so because you do not follow my train of thought or observe the small facts upon which large inferences may depend. For example, I began by stating that your brother was careless. When you observe the lower part of that watch-case you notice that it is not only dinted in two places, but it is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard objects, such as coins or keys, in the same pocket. Surely it is no great feat to assume that a man who treats a fifty-guinea watch so cavalierly must be a careless man. Neither is it a very far-fetched inference that a man who inherits one article of such value is pretty well provided for in other respects." I nodded, to show that I followed his reasoning. "It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England, when they take a watch, to scratch the number of the ticket with a pin-point upon the inside of the case. It is more handy than a label, as there is no risk of the number being lost or transposed. There are no less than four such numbers visible to my lens on the inside of this case. Inference, that your brother was often at low water. Secondary inference, that he had occasional bursts of prosperity, or he could not have redeemed the pledge. Finally, I ask you to look at the inner plate, which contains the key-hole. Look at the thousands of scratches all round the hole, marks where the key has slipped. What sober man s key could have scored those grooves? But you will never see a drunkard s watch without them. He winds it at night, and he leaves these traces of his unsteady hand. Where is the mystery in all this?" "It is as clear as daylight," I answered. "I regret the injustice which I did you. I should have had more faith in your marvellous faculty. May I ask whether you have any professional inquiry on foot at
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observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that when there you dispatched a telegram." "Right!" said I. "Right on both points! But I confess that I don t see how you arrived at it. It was a sudden impulse upon my part, and I have mentioned it to no one." "It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at my surprise, "so absurdly simple that an explanation is superfluous; and yet it may serve to define the limits of observation and of deduction. Observation tells me that you have a little reddish mould adhering to your instep. Just opposite the Seymour Street Office they have taken up the pavement and thrown up some earth which lies in such a way that it is difficult to avoid treading in it in entering. The earth is of this peculiar reddish tint which is found, as far as I know, nowhere else in the neighbourhood. So much is observation. The rest is deduction." "How, then, did you deduce the telegram?" "Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter, since I sat opposite to you all morning. I see also in your open desk there that you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of post-cards. What could you go into the post-office for, then, but to send a wire? Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth." "In this case it certainly is so," I replied, after a little thought. "The thing, however, is, as you say, of the simplest. Would you think me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a more severe test?" "On the contrary," he answered, "it would prevent me from taking a second dose of cocaine. I should be delighted to look into any problem which you might submit to me." "I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man to have any object in daily use without leaving the impress of his individuality upon it in such a way that a trained observer might read it. Now, I have here a watch which has recently come into my possession. Would you have the kindness to let me have an opinion upon the character or habits of the late owner?"<|quote|>I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his naked eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep from smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case to and handed it back.</|quote|>"There are hardly any data," he remarked. "The watch has been recently cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts." "You are right," I answered. "It was cleaned before being sent to me." In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a most lame and impotent excuse to cover his failure. What data could he expect from an uncleaned watch? "Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely barren," he observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes. "Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged to your elder brother, who inherited it from your father." "That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?" "Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. The date of the watch is nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch: so it was made for the last generation. Jewelry usually descends to the eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as the father. Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years. It has, therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother." "Right, so far," said I. "Anything else?" "He was a man of untidy habits, very untidy and careless. He was left with good prospects, but he threw away his chances, lived for some time in poverty with occasional short intervals of prosperity, and finally, taking to drink, he died. That is all I can gather." I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about the room with considerable bitterness in my heart. "This is unworthy of you, Holmes," I said. "I could not have believed that you would have descended to this. You have made inquires into the history of my unhappy brother, and you now pretend to deduce this knowledge in some fanciful way. You cannot expect me to believe that you have read all this from his old watch! It is unkind, and, to speak plainly, has a touch of charlatanism in it." "My dear doctor," said he, kindly, "pray accept my apologies. Viewing the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how personal and painful a thing it might be to you. I assure you, however, that I never even knew that you had a brother until you handed me the watch." "Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did you get these facts? They are absolutely correct in every particular." "Ah, that is good luck. I could only say what was the balance of probability. I did not at all expect to be so accurate." "But it was not mere guess-work?" "No, no: I never guess. It is a shocking habit, destructive to the logical faculty. What seems strange to you is only so because you do not follow my train of thought or observe the small facts upon which large inferences may depend. For example, I began by stating that your brother was careless. When you observe the lower part of that watch-case you notice that it is not only dinted in two places, but it is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard objects, such as coins or
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The Sign Of The Four
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"Attached to it,"
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Winnie-the-pooh
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of it." "Fond of it?"<|quote|>"Attached to it,"</|quote|>said Winnie-the-Pooh sadly. * *
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Eeyore. He was--he was fond of it." "Fond of it?"<|quote|>"Attached to it,"</|quote|>said Winnie-the-Pooh sadly. * * * * * So with
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it again very loudly, and it came off in my hand, and as nobody seemed to want it, I took it home, and----" "Owl," said Pooh solemnly, "you made a mistake. Somebody did want it." "Who?" "Eeyore. My dear friend Eeyore. He was--he was fond of it." "Fond of it?"<|quote|>"Attached to it,"</|quote|>said Winnie-the-Pooh sadly. * * * * * So with these words he unhooked it, and carried it back to Eeyore; and when Christopher Robin had nailed it on in its right place again, Eeyore frisked about the forest, waving his tail so happily that Winnie-the-Pooh came over all funny,
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"It reminds me of something," he said, "but I can't think what. Where did you get it?" "I just came across it in the Forest. It was hanging over a bush, and I thought at first somebody lived there, so I rang it, and nothing happened, and then I rang it again very loudly, and it came off in my hand, and as nobody seemed to want it, I took it home, and----" "Owl," said Pooh solemnly, "you made a mistake. Somebody did want it." "Who?" "Eeyore. My dear friend Eeyore. He was--he was fond of it." "Fond of it?"<|quote|>"Attached to it,"</|quote|>said Winnie-the-Pooh sadly. * * * * * So with these words he unhooked it, and carried it back to Eeyore; and when Christopher Robin had nailed it on in its right place again, Eeyore frisked about the forest, waving his tail so happily that Winnie-the-Pooh came over all funny, and had to hurry home for a little snack of something to sustain him. And, wiping his mouth half an hour afterwards, he sang to himself proudly: "_Who found the Tail?_ "I," said Pooh, "At a quarter to two (Only it was quarter to eleven really), _I_ found the Tail!""
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to all that Owl was saying, and having said, "Yes, yes," last time, he said "No, not at all," now, without really knowing what Owl was talking about. "Didn't you see them?" said Owl, a little surprised. "Come and look at them now." So they went outside. And Pooh looked at the knocker and the notice below it, and he looked at the bell-rope and the notice below it, and the more he looked at the bell-rope, the more he felt that he had seen something like it, somewhere else, sometime before. "Handsome bell-rope, isn't it?" said Owl. Pooh nodded. "It reminds me of something," he said, "but I can't think what. Where did you get it?" "I just came across it in the Forest. It was hanging over a bush, and I thought at first somebody lived there, so I rang it, and nothing happened, and then I rang it again very loudly, and it came off in my hand, and as nobody seemed to want it, I took it home, and----" "Owl," said Pooh solemnly, "you made a mistake. Somebody did want it." "Who?" "Eeyore. My dear friend Eeyore. He was--he was fond of it." "Fond of it?"<|quote|>"Attached to it,"</|quote|>said Winnie-the-Pooh sadly. * * * * * So with these words he unhooked it, and carried it back to Eeyore; and when Christopher Robin had nailed it on in its right place again, Eeyore frisked about the forest, waving his tail so happily that Winnie-the-Pooh came over all funny, and had to hurry home for a little snack of something to sustain him. And, wiping his mouth half an hour afterwards, he sang to himself proudly: "_Who found the Tail?_ "I," said Pooh, "At a quarter to two (Only it was quarter to eleven really), _I_ found the Tail!"" CHAPTER V IN WHICH PIGLET MEETS A HEFFALUMP One day, when Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh and Piglet were all talking together, Christopher Robin finished the mouthful he was eating and said carelessly: "I saw a Heffalump to-day, Piglet." "What was it doing?" asked Piglet. "Just lumping along," said Christopher Robin. "I don't think it saw _me_." "I saw one once," said Piglet. "At least, I think I did," he said. "Only perhaps it wasn't." "So did I," said Pooh, wondering what a Heffalump was like. "You don't often see them," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Not now," said Piglet. "Not at
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said Owl very loudly. "We write a notice to say that we will give a large something to anybody who finds Eeyore's tail." "I see, I see," said Pooh, nodding his head. "Talking about large somethings," he went on dreamily, "I generally have a small something about now--about this time in the morning," and he looked wistfully at the cupboard in the corner of Owl's parlour; "just a mouthful of condensed milk or whatnot, with perhaps a lick of honey----" "Well, then," said Owl, "we write out this notice, and we put it up all over the forest." "A lick of honey," murmured Bear to himself, "or--or not, as the case may be." And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin. "It was he who wrote the ones on my front door for me. Did you see them, Pooh?" For some time now Pooh had been saying "Yes" and "No" in turn, with his eyes shut, to all that Owl was saying, and having said, "Yes, yes," last time, he said "No, not at all," now, without really knowing what Owl was talking about. "Didn't you see them?" said Owl, a little surprised. "Come and look at them now." So they went outside. And Pooh looked at the knocker and the notice below it, and he looked at the bell-rope and the notice below it, and the more he looked at the bell-rope, the more he felt that he had seen something like it, somewhere else, sometime before. "Handsome bell-rope, isn't it?" said Owl. Pooh nodded. "It reminds me of something," he said, "but I can't think what. Where did you get it?" "I just came across it in the Forest. It was hanging over a bush, and I thought at first somebody lived there, so I rang it, and nothing happened, and then I rang it again very loudly, and it came off in my hand, and as nobody seemed to want it, I took it home, and----" "Owl," said Pooh solemnly, "you made a mistake. Somebody did want it." "Who?" "Eeyore. My dear friend Eeyore. He was--he was fond of it." "Fond of it?"<|quote|>"Attached to it,"</|quote|>said Winnie-the-Pooh sadly. * * * * * So with these words he unhooked it, and carried it back to Eeyore; and when Christopher Robin had nailed it on in its right place again, Eeyore frisked about the forest, waving his tail so happily that Winnie-the-Pooh came over all funny, and had to hurry home for a little snack of something to sustain him. And, wiping his mouth half an hour afterwards, he sang to himself proudly: "_Who found the Tail?_ "I," said Pooh, "At a quarter to two (Only it was quarter to eleven really), _I_ found the Tail!"" CHAPTER V IN WHICH PIGLET MEETS A HEFFALUMP One day, when Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh and Piglet were all talking together, Christopher Robin finished the mouthful he was eating and said carelessly: "I saw a Heffalump to-day, Piglet." "What was it doing?" asked Piglet. "Just lumping along," said Christopher Robin. "I don't think it saw _me_." "I saw one once," said Piglet. "At least, I think I did," he said. "Only perhaps it wasn't." "So did I," said Pooh, wondering what a Heffalump was like. "You don't often see them," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Not now," said Piglet. "Not at this time of year," said Pooh. Then they all talked about something else, until it was time for Pooh and Piglet to go home together. At first as they stumped along the path which edged the Hundred Acre Wood, they didn't say much to each other; but when they came to the stream and had helped each other across the stepping stones, and were able to walk side by side again over the heather, they began to talk in a friendly way about this and that, and Piglet said, "If you see what I mean, Pooh," and Pooh said, "It's just what I think myself, Piglet," and Piglet said, "But, on the other hand, Pooh, we must remember," and Pooh said, "Quite true, Piglet, although I had forgotten it for the moment." And then, just as they came to the Six Pine Trees, Pooh looked round to see that nobody else was listening, and said in a very solemn voice: "Piglet, I have decided something." "What have you decided, Pooh?" "I have decided to catch a Heffalump." Pooh nodded his head several times as he said this, and waited for Piglet to say "How?" or "Pooh, you couldn't!" or something
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Owl lived. "And if anyone knows anything about anything," said Bear to himself, "it's Owl who knows something about something," he said, "or my name's not Winnie-the-Pooh," he said. "Which it is," he added. "So there you are." Owl lived at The Chestnuts, an old-world residence of great charm, which was grander than anybody else's, or seemed so to Bear, because it had both a knocker _and_ a bell-pull. Underneath the knocker there was a notice which said: PLES RING IF AN RNSER IS REQIRD. Underneath the bell-pull there was a notice which said: PLEZ CNOKE IF AN RNSR IS NOT REQID. These notices had been written by Christopher Robin, who was the only one in the forest who could spell; for Owl, wise though he was in many ways, able to read and write and spell his own name WOL, yet somehow went all to pieces over delicate words like MEASLES and BUTTEREDTOAST. Winnie-the-Pooh read the two notices very carefully, first from left to right, and afterwards, in case he had missed some of it, from right to left. Then, to make quite sure, he knocked and pulled the knocker, and he pulled and knocked the bell-rope, and he called out in a very loud voice, "Owl! I require an answer! It's Bear speaking." And the door opened, and Owl looked out. "Hallo, Pooh," he said. "How's things?" "Terrible and Sad," said Pooh, "because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?" "Well," said Owl, "the customary procedure in such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?" said Pooh. "For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me." "It means the Thing to Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind," said Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding up his paw. "_What_ do we do to this--what you were saying? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me." "I _didn't_ sneeze." "Yes, you did, Owl." "Excuse me, Pooh, I didn't. You can't sneeze without knowing it." "Well, you can't know it without something having been sneezed." "What I _said_ was, 'First _Issue_ a Reward'." "You're doing it again," said Pooh sadly. "A Reward!" said Owl very loudly. "We write a notice to say that we will give a large something to anybody who finds Eeyore's tail." "I see, I see," said Pooh, nodding his head. "Talking about large somethings," he went on dreamily, "I generally have a small something about now--about this time in the morning," and he looked wistfully at the cupboard in the corner of Owl's parlour; "just a mouthful of condensed milk or whatnot, with perhaps a lick of honey----" "Well, then," said Owl, "we write out this notice, and we put it up all over the forest." "A lick of honey," murmured Bear to himself, "or--or not, as the case may be." And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin. "It was he who wrote the ones on my front door for me. Did you see them, Pooh?" For some time now Pooh had been saying "Yes" and "No" in turn, with his eyes shut, to all that Owl was saying, and having said, "Yes, yes," last time, he said "No, not at all," now, without really knowing what Owl was talking about. "Didn't you see them?" said Owl, a little surprised. "Come and look at them now." So they went outside. And Pooh looked at the knocker and the notice below it, and he looked at the bell-rope and the notice below it, and the more he looked at the bell-rope, the more he felt that he had seen something like it, somewhere else, sometime before. "Handsome bell-rope, isn't it?" said Owl. Pooh nodded. "It reminds me of something," he said, "but I can't think what. Where did you get it?" "I just came across it in the Forest. It was hanging over a bush, and I thought at first somebody lived there, so I rang it, and nothing happened, and then I rang it again very loudly, and it came off in my hand, and as nobody seemed to want it, I took it home, and----" "Owl," said Pooh solemnly, "you made a mistake. Somebody did want it." "Who?" "Eeyore. My dear friend Eeyore. He was--he was fond of it." "Fond of it?"<|quote|>"Attached to it,"</|quote|>said Winnie-the-Pooh sadly. * * * * * So with these words he unhooked it, and carried it back to Eeyore; and when Christopher Robin had nailed it on in its right place again, Eeyore frisked about the forest, waving his tail so happily that Winnie-the-Pooh came over all funny, and had to hurry home for a little snack of something to sustain him. And, wiping his mouth half an hour afterwards, he sang to himself proudly: "_Who found the Tail?_ "I," said Pooh, "At a quarter to two (Only it was quarter to eleven really), _I_ found the Tail!"" CHAPTER V IN WHICH PIGLET MEETS A HEFFALUMP One day, when Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh and Piglet were all talking together, Christopher Robin finished the mouthful he was eating and said carelessly: "I saw a Heffalump to-day, Piglet." "What was it doing?" asked Piglet. "Just lumping along," said Christopher Robin. "I don't think it saw _me_." "I saw one once," said Piglet. "At least, I think I did," he said. "Only perhaps it wasn't." "So did I," said Pooh, wondering what a Heffalump was like. "You don't often see them," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Not now," said Piglet. "Not at this time of year," said Pooh. Then they all talked about something else, until it was time for Pooh and Piglet to go home together. At first as they stumped along the path which edged the Hundred Acre Wood, they didn't say much to each other; but when they came to the stream and had helped each other across the stepping stones, and were able to walk side by side again over the heather, they began to talk in a friendly way about this and that, and Piglet said, "If you see what I mean, Pooh," and Pooh said, "It's just what I think myself, Piglet," and Piglet said, "But, on the other hand, Pooh, we must remember," and Pooh said, "Quite true, Piglet, although I had forgotten it for the moment." And then, just as they came to the Six Pine Trees, Pooh looked round to see that nobody else was listening, and said in a very solemn voice: "Piglet, I have decided something." "What have you decided, Pooh?" "I have decided to catch a Heffalump." Pooh nodded his head several times as he said this, and waited for Piglet to say "How?" or "Pooh, you couldn't!" or something helpful of that sort, but Piglet said nothing. The fact was Piglet was wishing that _he_ had thought about it first. "I shall do it," said Pooh, after waiting a little longer, "by means of a trap. And it must be a Cunning Trap, so you will have to help me, Piglet." "Pooh," said Piglet, feeling quite happy again now, "I will." And then he said, "How shall we do it?" and Pooh said, "That's just it. How?" And then they sat down together to think it out. Pooh's first idea was that they should dig a Very Deep Pit, and then the Heffalump would come along and fall into the Pit, and---- "Why?" said Piglet. "Why what?" said Pooh. "Why would he fall in?" Pooh rubbed his nose with his paw, and said that the Heffalump might be walking along, humming a little song, and looking up at the sky, wondering if it would rain, and so he wouldn't see the Very Deep Pit until he was half-way down, when it would be too late. Piglet said that this was a very good Trap, but supposing it were raining already? Pooh rubbed his nose again, and said that he hadn't thought of that. And then he brightened up, and said that, if it were raining already, the Heffalump would be looking at the sky wondering if it would _clear up_, and so he wouldn't see the Very Deep Pit until he was half-way down.... When it would be too late. Piglet said that, now that this point had been explained, he thought it was a Cunning Trap. Pooh was very proud when he heard this, and he felt that the Heffalump was as good as caught already, but there was just one other thing which had to be thought about, and it was this. _Where should they dig the Very Deep Pit?_ Piglet said that the best place would be somewhere where a Heffalump was, just before he fell into it, only about a foot farther on. "But then he would see us digging it," said Pooh. "Not if he was looking at the sky." "He would Suspect," said Pooh, "if he happened to look down." He thought for a long time and then added sadly, "It isn't as easy as I thought. I suppose that's why Heffalumps hardly _ever_ get caught." "That must be it," said Piglet. They
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be." And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin. "It was he who wrote the ones on my front door for me. Did you see them, Pooh?" For some time now Pooh had been saying "Yes" and "No" in turn, with his eyes shut, to all that Owl was saying, and having said, "Yes, yes," last time, he said "No, not at all," now, without really knowing what Owl was talking about. "Didn't you see them?" said Owl, a little surprised. "Come and look at them now." So they went outside. And Pooh looked at the knocker and the notice below it, and he looked at the bell-rope and the notice below it, and the more he looked at the bell-rope, the more he felt that he had seen something like it, somewhere else, sometime before. "Handsome bell-rope, isn't it?" said Owl. Pooh nodded. "It reminds me of something," he said, "but I can't think what. Where did you get it?" "I just came across it in the Forest. It was hanging over a bush, and I thought at first somebody lived there, so I rang it, and nothing happened, and then I rang it again very loudly, and it came off in my hand, and as nobody seemed to want it, I took it home, and----" "Owl," said Pooh solemnly, "you made a mistake. Somebody did want it." "Who?" "Eeyore. My dear friend Eeyore. He was--he was fond of it." "Fond of it?"<|quote|>"Attached to it,"</|quote|>said Winnie-the-Pooh sadly. * * * * * So with these words he unhooked it, and carried it back to Eeyore; and when Christopher Robin had nailed it on in its right place again, Eeyore frisked about the forest, waving his tail so happily that Winnie-the-Pooh came over all funny, and had to hurry home for a little snack of something to sustain him. And, wiping his mouth half an hour afterwards, he sang to himself proudly: "_Who found the Tail?_ "I," said Pooh, "At a quarter to two (Only it was quarter to eleven really), _I_ found the Tail!"" CHAPTER V IN WHICH PIGLET MEETS A HEFFALUMP One day, when Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh and Piglet were all talking together, Christopher Robin finished the mouthful he was eating and said carelessly: "I saw a Heffalump to-day, Piglet." "What was it doing?" asked Piglet. "Just lumping along," said Christopher Robin. "I don't think it saw _me_." "I saw one once," said Piglet. "At least, I think I did," he said. "Only perhaps it wasn't." "So did I," said Pooh, wondering what a Heffalump was like. "You don't often see them," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Not now," said Piglet. "Not at this time of year," said Pooh. Then they all talked about something else, until it was time for Pooh and Piglet to go home together. At first as they stumped along the path which edged the Hundred Acre Wood, they didn't say much to each other; but when they came to the stream and had helped each other across the stepping stones, and were able to walk side by side again over the heather, they began to talk in a friendly way about this and that, and Piglet said, "If you see what I mean, Pooh," and Pooh said, "It's just what I think myself, Piglet," and Piglet said, "But, on the other hand, Pooh, we must remember," and Pooh said, "Quite true, Piglet, although I had forgotten it for the moment." And then, just as they came to the Six Pine Trees, Pooh looked round to see that nobody else was listening, and said in a very solemn voice: "Piglet, I have decided something." "What have you decided, Pooh?" "I have decided to catch a Heffalump." Pooh nodded his head several times as he said this, and waited for Piglet to say "How?" or "Pooh, you couldn't!" or something helpful of that sort, but Piglet said nothing. The fact was Piglet was wishing that _he_ had thought about it first. "I shall do it," said Pooh, after waiting a little longer, "by means of a trap. And it must be a Cunning Trap, so you will have to
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Winnie The Pooh
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said Emma.
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No speaker
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"But you will come again,"<|quote|>said Emma.</|quote|>"This will not be your
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things, leave-taking is the worst." "But you will come again,"<|quote|>said Emma.</|quote|>"This will not be your only visit to Randalls." "Ah!--"
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He felt the going away almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing himself, it was only to say, "Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst." "But you will come again,"<|quote|>said Emma.</|quote|>"This will not be your only visit to Randalls." "Ah!--" (shaking his head) "--the uncertainty of when I may be able to return!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object of all my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring--but
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was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be safer at home. Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing himself, it was only to say, "Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst." "But you will come again,"<|quote|>said Emma.</|quote|>"This will not be your only visit to Randalls." "Ah!--" (shaking his head) "--the uncertainty of when I may be able to return!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object of all my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring--I am afraid it is a custom gone for ever." "Our poor ball must be quite given up." "Ah! that ball!--why did we wait for any thing?--why not seize the pleasure at once?--How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!--You told us
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This wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast. When once it had been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The loss of the ball--the loss of the young man--and all that the young man might be feeling!--It was too wretched!--Such a delightful evening as it would have been!--Every body so happy! and she and her partner the happiest!--"I said it would be so," was the only consolation. Her father's feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of Mrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be safer at home. Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing himself, it was only to say, "Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst." "But you will come again,"<|quote|>said Emma.</|quote|>"This will not be your only visit to Randalls." "Ah!--" (shaking his head) "--the uncertainty of when I may be able to return!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object of all my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring--I am afraid it is a custom gone for ever." "Our poor ball must be quite given up." "Ah! that ball!--why did we wait for any thing?--why not seize the pleasure at once?--How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!--You told us it would be so.--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, why are you always so right?" "Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much rather have been merry than wise." "If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends on it. Do not forget your engagement." Emma looked graciously. "Such a fortnight as it has been!" he continued; "every day more precious and more delightful than the day before!--every day making me less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at Highbury!" "As you do us such ample
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quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of every thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew's instant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell--far too unwell to do without him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband) when writing to her nephew two days before, though from her usual unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of herself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle, and must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay. The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs. Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but for her own convenience. Mrs. Weston added, "that he could only allow himself time to hurry to Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be expected at Hartfield very soon." This wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast. When once it had been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The loss of the ball--the loss of the young man--and all that the young man might be feeling!--It was too wretched!--Such a delightful evening as it would have been!--Every body so happy! and she and her partner the happiest!--"I said it would be so," was the only consolation. Her father's feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of Mrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be safer at home. Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing himself, it was only to say, "Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst." "But you will come again,"<|quote|>said Emma.</|quote|>"This will not be your only visit to Randalls." "Ah!--" (shaking his head) "--the uncertainty of when I may be able to return!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object of all my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring--I am afraid it is a custom gone for ever." "Our poor ball must be quite given up." "Ah! that ball!--why did we wait for any thing?--why not seize the pleasure at once?--How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!--You told us it would be so.--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, why are you always so right?" "Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much rather have been merry than wise." "If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends on it. Do not forget your engagement." Emma looked graciously. "Such a fortnight as it has been!" he continued; "every day more precious and more delightful than the day before!--every day making me less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at Highbury!" "As you do us such ample justice now," said Emma, laughing, "I will venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first? Do not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure you did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury." He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma was convinced that it had been so. "And you must be off this very morning?" "Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I must be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will bring him." "Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates's powerful, argumentative mind might have strengthened yours." "Yes--I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained by Miss Bates's being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_ laugh at; but
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week were entered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding and hoping in uncertainty--at the risk--in her opinion, the great risk, of its being all in vain. Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word. His wish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not opposed. All was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley's provoking indifference about it. Either because he did not dance himself, or because the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he seemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement. To her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply, than, "Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say against it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.--Oh! yes, I must be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I can; but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins's week's account; much rather, I confess.--Pleasure in seeing dancing!--not I, indeed--I never look at it--I do not know who does.--Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. Those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very different." This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so indignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the ball, for _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It made her animated--open hearted--she voluntarily said;-- "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball. What a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with _very_ great pleasure." It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have preferred the society of William Larkins. No!--she was more and more convinced that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his side--but no love. Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of every thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew's instant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell--far too unwell to do without him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband) when writing to her nephew two days before, though from her usual unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of herself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle, and must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay. The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs. Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but for her own convenience. Mrs. Weston added, "that he could only allow himself time to hurry to Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be expected at Hartfield very soon." This wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast. When once it had been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The loss of the ball--the loss of the young man--and all that the young man might be feeling!--It was too wretched!--Such a delightful evening as it would have been!--Every body so happy! and she and her partner the happiest!--"I said it would be so," was the only consolation. Her father's feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of Mrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be safer at home. Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing himself, it was only to say, "Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst." "But you will come again,"<|quote|>said Emma.</|quote|>"This will not be your only visit to Randalls." "Ah!--" (shaking his head) "--the uncertainty of when I may be able to return!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object of all my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring--I am afraid it is a custom gone for ever." "Our poor ball must be quite given up." "Ah! that ball!--why did we wait for any thing?--why not seize the pleasure at once?--How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!--You told us it would be so.--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, why are you always so right?" "Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much rather have been merry than wise." "If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends on it. Do not forget your engagement." Emma looked graciously. "Such a fortnight as it has been!" he continued; "every day more precious and more delightful than the day before!--every day making me less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at Highbury!" "As you do us such ample justice now," said Emma, laughing, "I will venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first? Do not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure you did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury." He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma was convinced that it had been so. "And you must be off this very morning?" "Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I must be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will bring him." "Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates's powerful, argumentative mind might have strengthened yours." "Yes--I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained by Miss Bates's being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_ laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my visit, then" "-- He hesitated, got up, walked to a window. "In short," said he, "perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I think you can hardly be quite without suspicion" "-- He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely serious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope of putting it by, she calmly said, "You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit, then" "-- He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard him sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh. He could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said, "It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm" "-- He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.--He was more in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might have ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed. A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr. Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, "It was time to go;" and the young man, though he might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave. "I shall hear about you all," said he; "that is my chief consolation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again." A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye," closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been
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rather, I confess.--Pleasure in seeing dancing!--not I, indeed--I never look at it--I do not know who does.--Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. Those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very different." This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so indignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the ball, for _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It made her animated--open hearted--she voluntarily said;-- "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball. What a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with _very_ great pleasure." It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have preferred the society of William Larkins. No!--she was more and more convinced that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his side--but no love. Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of every thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew's instant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell--far too unwell to do without him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband) when writing to her nephew two days before, though from her usual unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of herself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle, and must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay. The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs. Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but for her own convenience. Mrs. Weston added, "that he could only allow himself time to hurry to Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be expected at Hartfield very soon." This wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast. When once it had been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The loss of the ball--the loss of the young man--and all that the young man might be feeling!--It was too wretched!--Such a delightful evening as it would have been!--Every body so happy! and she and her partner the happiest!--"I said it would be so," was the only consolation. Her father's feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of Mrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be safer at home. Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing himself, it was only to say, "Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst." "But you will come again,"<|quote|>said Emma.</|quote|>"This will not be your only visit to Randalls." "Ah!--" (shaking his head) "--the uncertainty of when I may be able to return!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object of all my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring--I am afraid it is a custom gone for ever." "Our poor ball must be quite given up." "Ah! that ball!--why did we wait for any thing?--why not seize the pleasure at once?--How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!--You told us it would be so.--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, why are you always so right?" "Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much rather have been merry than wise." "If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends on it. Do not forget your engagement." Emma looked graciously. "Such a fortnight as it has been!" he continued; "every day more precious and more delightful than the day before!--every day making me less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at Highbury!" "As you do us such ample justice now," said Emma, laughing, "I will venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first? Do not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure you did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury." He laughed rather
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Emma
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"Of course, I don't suppose she meant to steal it or anything like that. She's just taken it to play with or help along that imagination of hers. She must have taken it, that's clear, for there hasn't been a soul in that room since she was in it, by her own story, until I went up tonight. And the brooch is gone, there's nothing surer. I suppose she has lost it and is afraid to own up for fear she'll be punished. It's a dreadful thing to think she tells falsehoods. It's a far worse thing than her fit of temper. It's a fearful responsibility to have a child in your house you can't trust. Slyness and untruthfulness--that's what she has displayed. I declare I feel worse about that than about the brooch. If she'd only have told the truth about it I wouldn't mind so much."
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Marilla Cuthbert
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she nervously shelled the peas.<|quote|>"Of course, I don't suppose she meant to steal it or anything like that. She's just taken it to play with or help along that imagination of hers. She must have taken it, that's clear, for there hasn't been a soul in that room since she was in it, by her own story, until I went up tonight. And the brooch is gone, there's nothing surer. I suppose she has lost it and is afraid to own up for fear she'll be punished. It's a dreadful thing to think she tells falsehoods. It's a far worse thing than her fit of temper. It's a fearful responsibility to have a child in your house you can't trust. Slyness and untruthfulness--that's what she has displayed. I declare I feel worse about that than about the brooch. If she'd only have told the truth about it I wouldn't mind so much."</|quote|>Marilla went to her room
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had happen," thought Marilla, as she nervously shelled the peas.<|quote|>"Of course, I don't suppose she meant to steal it or anything like that. She's just taken it to play with or help along that imagination of hers. She must have taken it, that's clear, for there hasn't been a soul in that room since she was in it, by her own story, until I went up tonight. And the brooch is gone, there's nothing surer. I suppose she has lost it and is afraid to own up for fear she'll be punished. It's a dreadful thing to think she tells falsehoods. It's a far worse thing than her fit of temper. It's a fearful responsibility to have a child in your house you can't trust. Slyness and untruthfulness--that's what she has displayed. I declare I feel worse about that than about the brooch. If she'd only have told the truth about it I wouldn't mind so much."</|quote|>Marilla went to her room at intervals all through the
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valuable brooch. What if Anne had lost it? And how wicked of the child to deny having taken it, when anybody could see she must have! With such an innocent face, too! "I don't know what I wouldn't sooner have had happen," thought Marilla, as she nervously shelled the peas.<|quote|>"Of course, I don't suppose she meant to steal it or anything like that. She's just taken it to play with or help along that imagination of hers. She must have taken it, that's clear, for there hasn't been a soul in that room since she was in it, by her own story, until I went up tonight. And the brooch is gone, there's nothing surer. I suppose she has lost it and is afraid to own up for fear she'll be punished. It's a dreadful thing to think she tells falsehoods. It's a far worse thing than her fit of temper. It's a fearful responsibility to have a child in your house you can't trust. Slyness and untruthfulness--that's what she has displayed. I declare I feel worse about that than about the brooch. If she'd only have told the truth about it I wouldn't mind so much."</|quote|>Marilla went to her room at intervals all through the evening and searched for the brooch, without finding it. A bedtime visit to the east gable produced no result. Anne persisted in denying that she knew anything about the brooch but Marilla was only the more firmly convinced that she
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there until you are ready to confess." "Will I take the peas with me?" said Anne meekly. "No, I'll finish shelling them myself. Do as I bid you." When Anne had gone Marilla went about her evening tasks in a very disturbed state of mind. She was worried about her valuable brooch. What if Anne had lost it? And how wicked of the child to deny having taken it, when anybody could see she must have! With such an innocent face, too! "I don't know what I wouldn't sooner have had happen," thought Marilla, as she nervously shelled the peas.<|quote|>"Of course, I don't suppose she meant to steal it or anything like that. She's just taken it to play with or help along that imagination of hers. She must have taken it, that's clear, for there hasn't been a soul in that room since she was in it, by her own story, until I went up tonight. And the brooch is gone, there's nothing surer. I suppose she has lost it and is afraid to own up for fear she'll be punished. It's a dreadful thing to think she tells falsehoods. It's a far worse thing than her fit of temper. It's a fearful responsibility to have a child in your house you can't trust. Slyness and untruthfulness--that's what she has displayed. I declare I feel worse about that than about the brooch. If she'd only have told the truth about it I wouldn't mind so much."</|quote|>Marilla went to her room at intervals all through the evening and searched for the brooch, without finding it. A bedtime visit to the east gable produced no result. Anne persisted in denying that she knew anything about the brooch but Marilla was only the more firmly convinced that she did. She told Matthew the story the next morning. Matthew was confounded and puzzled; he could not so quickly lose faith in Anne but he had to admit that circumstances were against her. "You're sure it hasn't fell down behind the bureau?" was the only suggestion he could offer. "I've
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said Anne solemnly, meeting Marilla's angry gaze squarely. "I never took the brooch out of your room and that is the truth, if I was to be led to the block for it--although I'm not very certain what a block is. So there, Marilla." Anne's "so there" was only intended to emphasize her assertion, but Marilla took it as a display of defiance. "I believe you are telling me a falsehood, Anne," she said sharply. "I know you are. There now, don't say anything more unless you are prepared to tell the whole truth. Go to your room and stay there until you are ready to confess." "Will I take the peas with me?" said Anne meekly. "No, I'll finish shelling them myself. Do as I bid you." When Anne had gone Marilla went about her evening tasks in a very disturbed state of mind. She was worried about her valuable brooch. What if Anne had lost it? And how wicked of the child to deny having taken it, when anybody could see she must have! With such an innocent face, too! "I don't know what I wouldn't sooner have had happen," thought Marilla, as she nervously shelled the peas.<|quote|>"Of course, I don't suppose she meant to steal it or anything like that. She's just taken it to play with or help along that imagination of hers. She must have taken it, that's clear, for there hasn't been a soul in that room since she was in it, by her own story, until I went up tonight. And the brooch is gone, there's nothing surer. I suppose she has lost it and is afraid to own up for fear she'll be punished. It's a dreadful thing to think she tells falsehoods. It's a far worse thing than her fit of temper. It's a fearful responsibility to have a child in your house you can't trust. Slyness and untruthfulness--that's what she has displayed. I declare I feel worse about that than about the brooch. If she'd only have told the truth about it I wouldn't mind so much."</|quote|>Marilla went to her room at intervals all through the evening and searched for the brooch, without finding it. A bedtime visit to the east gable produced no result. Anne persisted in denying that she knew anything about the brooch but Marilla was only the more firmly convinced that she did. She told Matthew the story the next morning. Matthew was confounded and puzzled; he could not so quickly lose faith in Anne but he had to admit that circumstances were against her. "You're sure it hasn't fell down behind the bureau?" was the only suggestion he could offer. "I've moved the bureau and I've taken out the drawers and I've looked in every crack and cranny" was Marilla's positive answer. "The brooch is gone and that child has taken it and lied about it. That's the plain, ugly truth, Matthew Cuthbert, and we might as well look it in the face." "Well now, what are you going to do about it?" Matthew asked forlornly, feeling secretly thankful that Marilla and not he had to deal with the situation. He felt no desire to put his oar in this time. "She'll stay in her room until she confesses," said Marilla
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in and try on the brooch; but I see now that it was and I'll never do it again. That's one good thing about me. I never do the same naughty thing twice." "You didn't put it back," said Marilla. "That brooch isn't anywhere on the bureau. You've taken it out or something, Anne." "I did put it back," said Anne quickly--pertly, Marilla thought. "I don't just remember whether I stuck it on the pincushion or laid it in the china tray. But I'm perfectly certain I put it back." "I'll go and have another look," said Marilla, determining to be just. "If you put that brooch back it's there still. If it isn't I'll know you didn't, that's all!" Marilla went to her room and made a thorough search, not only over the bureau but in every other place she thought the brooch might possibly be. It was not to be found and she returned to the kitchen. "Anne, the brooch is gone. By your own admission you were the last person to handle it. Now, what have you done with it? Tell me the truth at once. Did you take it out and lose it?" "No, I didn't," said Anne solemnly, meeting Marilla's angry gaze squarely. "I never took the brooch out of your room and that is the truth, if I was to be led to the block for it--although I'm not very certain what a block is. So there, Marilla." Anne's "so there" was only intended to emphasize her assertion, but Marilla took it as a display of defiance. "I believe you are telling me a falsehood, Anne," she said sharply. "I know you are. There now, don't say anything more unless you are prepared to tell the whole truth. Go to your room and stay there until you are ready to confess." "Will I take the peas with me?" said Anne meekly. "No, I'll finish shelling them myself. Do as I bid you." When Anne had gone Marilla went about her evening tasks in a very disturbed state of mind. She was worried about her valuable brooch. What if Anne had lost it? And how wicked of the child to deny having taken it, when anybody could see she must have! With such an innocent face, too! "I don't know what I wouldn't sooner have had happen," thought Marilla, as she nervously shelled the peas.<|quote|>"Of course, I don't suppose she meant to steal it or anything like that. She's just taken it to play with or help along that imagination of hers. She must have taken it, that's clear, for there hasn't been a soul in that room since she was in it, by her own story, until I went up tonight. And the brooch is gone, there's nothing surer. I suppose she has lost it and is afraid to own up for fear she'll be punished. It's a dreadful thing to think she tells falsehoods. It's a far worse thing than her fit of temper. It's a fearful responsibility to have a child in your house you can't trust. Slyness and untruthfulness--that's what she has displayed. I declare I feel worse about that than about the brooch. If she'd only have told the truth about it I wouldn't mind so much."</|quote|>Marilla went to her room at intervals all through the evening and searched for the brooch, without finding it. A bedtime visit to the east gable produced no result. Anne persisted in denying that she knew anything about the brooch but Marilla was only the more firmly convinced that she did. She told Matthew the story the next morning. Matthew was confounded and puzzled; he could not so quickly lose faith in Anne but he had to admit that circumstances were against her. "You're sure it hasn't fell down behind the bureau?" was the only suggestion he could offer. "I've moved the bureau and I've taken out the drawers and I've looked in every crack and cranny" was Marilla's positive answer. "The brooch is gone and that child has taken it and lied about it. That's the plain, ugly truth, Matthew Cuthbert, and we might as well look it in the face." "Well now, what are you going to do about it?" Matthew asked forlornly, feeling secretly thankful that Marilla and not he had to deal with the situation. He felt no desire to put his oar in this time. "She'll stay in her room until she confesses," said Marilla grimly, remembering the success of this method in the former case. "Then we'll see. Perhaps we'll be able to find the brooch if she'll only tell where she took it; but in any case she'll have to be severely punished, Matthew." "Well now, you'll have to punish her," said Matthew, reaching for his hat. "I've nothing to do with it, remember. You warned me off yourself." Marilla felt deserted by everyone. She could not even go to Mrs. Lynde for advice. She went up to the east gable with a very serious face and left it with a face more serious still. Anne steadfastly refused to confess. She persisted in asserting that she had not taken the brooch. The child had evidently been crying and Marilla felt a pang of pity which she sternly repressed. By night she was, as she expressed it, "beat out." "You'll stay in this room until you confess, Anne. You can make up your mind to that," she said firmly. "But the picnic is tomorrow, Marilla," cried Anne. "You won't keep me from going to that, will you? You'll just let me out for the afternoon, won't you? Then I'll stay here as long as
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and was always pleasantly conscious of their violet shimmer at her throat, above her good brown satin dress, even although she could not see it. Anne had been smitten with delighted admiration when she first saw that brooch. "Oh, Marilla, it's a perfectly elegant brooch. I don't know how you can pay attention to the sermon or the prayers when you have it on. I couldn't, I know. I think amethysts are just sweet. They are what I used to think diamonds were like. Long ago, before I had ever seen a diamond, I read about them and I tried to imagine what they would be like. I thought they would be lovely glimmering purple stones. When I saw a real diamond in a lady's ring one day I was so disappointed I cried. Of course, it was very lovely but it wasn't my idea of a diamond. Will you let me hold the brooch for one minute, Marilla? Do you think amethysts can be the souls of good violets?" CHAPTER XIV. Anne's Confession |ON the Monday evening before the picnic Marilla came down from her room with a troubled face. "Anne," she said to that small personage, who was shelling peas by the spotless table and singing, "Nelly of the Hazel Dell" with a vigor and expression that did credit to Diana's teaching, "did you see anything of my amethyst brooch? I thought I stuck it in my pincushion when I came home from church yesterday evening, but I can't find it anywhere." "I--I saw it this afternoon when you were away at the Aid Society," said Anne, a little slowly. "I was passing your door when I saw it on the cushion, so I went in to look at it." "Did you touch it?" said Marilla sternly. "Y-e-e-s," admitted Anne, "I took it up and I pinned it on my breast just to see how it would look." "You had no business to do anything of the sort. It's very wrong in a little girl to meddle. You shouldn't have gone into my room in the first place and you shouldn't have touched a brooch that didn't belong to you in the second. Where did you put it?" "Oh, I put it back on the bureau. I hadn't it on a minute. Truly, I didn't mean to meddle, Marilla. I didn't think about its being wrong to go in and try on the brooch; but I see now that it was and I'll never do it again. That's one good thing about me. I never do the same naughty thing twice." "You didn't put it back," said Marilla. "That brooch isn't anywhere on the bureau. You've taken it out or something, Anne." "I did put it back," said Anne quickly--pertly, Marilla thought. "I don't just remember whether I stuck it on the pincushion or laid it in the china tray. But I'm perfectly certain I put it back." "I'll go and have another look," said Marilla, determining to be just. "If you put that brooch back it's there still. If it isn't I'll know you didn't, that's all!" Marilla went to her room and made a thorough search, not only over the bureau but in every other place she thought the brooch might possibly be. It was not to be found and she returned to the kitchen. "Anne, the brooch is gone. By your own admission you were the last person to handle it. Now, what have you done with it? Tell me the truth at once. Did you take it out and lose it?" "No, I didn't," said Anne solemnly, meeting Marilla's angry gaze squarely. "I never took the brooch out of your room and that is the truth, if I was to be led to the block for it--although I'm not very certain what a block is. So there, Marilla." Anne's "so there" was only intended to emphasize her assertion, but Marilla took it as a display of defiance. "I believe you are telling me a falsehood, Anne," she said sharply. "I know you are. There now, don't say anything more unless you are prepared to tell the whole truth. Go to your room and stay there until you are ready to confess." "Will I take the peas with me?" said Anne meekly. "No, I'll finish shelling them myself. Do as I bid you." When Anne had gone Marilla went about her evening tasks in a very disturbed state of mind. She was worried about her valuable brooch. What if Anne had lost it? And how wicked of the child to deny having taken it, when anybody could see she must have! With such an innocent face, too! "I don't know what I wouldn't sooner have had happen," thought Marilla, as she nervously shelled the peas.<|quote|>"Of course, I don't suppose she meant to steal it or anything like that. She's just taken it to play with or help along that imagination of hers. She must have taken it, that's clear, for there hasn't been a soul in that room since she was in it, by her own story, until I went up tonight. And the brooch is gone, there's nothing surer. I suppose she has lost it and is afraid to own up for fear she'll be punished. It's a dreadful thing to think she tells falsehoods. It's a far worse thing than her fit of temper. It's a fearful responsibility to have a child in your house you can't trust. Slyness and untruthfulness--that's what she has displayed. I declare I feel worse about that than about the brooch. If she'd only have told the truth about it I wouldn't mind so much."</|quote|>Marilla went to her room at intervals all through the evening and searched for the brooch, without finding it. A bedtime visit to the east gable produced no result. Anne persisted in denying that she knew anything about the brooch but Marilla was only the more firmly convinced that she did. She told Matthew the story the next morning. Matthew was confounded and puzzled; he could not so quickly lose faith in Anne but he had to admit that circumstances were against her. "You're sure it hasn't fell down behind the bureau?" was the only suggestion he could offer. "I've moved the bureau and I've taken out the drawers and I've looked in every crack and cranny" was Marilla's positive answer. "The brooch is gone and that child has taken it and lied about it. That's the plain, ugly truth, Matthew Cuthbert, and we might as well look it in the face." "Well now, what are you going to do about it?" Matthew asked forlornly, feeling secretly thankful that Marilla and not he had to deal with the situation. He felt no desire to put his oar in this time. "She'll stay in her room until she confesses," said Marilla grimly, remembering the success of this method in the former case. "Then we'll see. Perhaps we'll be able to find the brooch if she'll only tell where she took it; but in any case she'll have to be severely punished, Matthew." "Well now, you'll have to punish her," said Matthew, reaching for his hat. "I've nothing to do with it, remember. You warned me off yourself." Marilla felt deserted by everyone. She could not even go to Mrs. Lynde for advice. She went up to the east gable with a very serious face and left it with a face more serious still. Anne steadfastly refused to confess. She persisted in asserting that she had not taken the brooch. The child had evidently been crying and Marilla felt a pang of pity which she sternly repressed. By night she was, as she expressed it, "beat out." "You'll stay in this room until you confess, Anne. You can make up your mind to that," she said firmly. "But the picnic is tomorrow, Marilla," cried Anne. "You won't keep me from going to that, will you? You'll just let me out for the afternoon, won't you? Then I'll stay here as long as you like _afterwards_ cheerfully. But I _must_ go to the picnic." "You'll not go to picnics nor anywhere else until you've confessed, Anne." "Oh, Marilla," gasped Anne. But Marilla had gone out and shut the door. Wednesday morning dawned as bright and fair as if expressly made to order for the picnic. Birds sang around Green Gables; the Madonna lilies in the garden sent out whiffs of perfume that entered in on viewless winds at every door and window, and wandered through halls and rooms like spirits of benediction. The birches in the hollow waved joyful hands as if watching for Anne's usual morning greeting from the east gable. But Anne was not at her window. When Marilla took her breakfast up to her she found the child sitting primly on her bed, pale and resolute, with tight-shut lips and gleaming eyes. "Marilla, I'm ready to confess." "Ah!" Marilla laid down her tray. Once again her method had succeeded; but her success was very bitter to her. "Let me hear what you have to say then, Anne." "I took the amethyst brooch," said Anne, as if repeating a lesson she had learned. "I took it just as you said. I didn't mean to take it when I went in. But it did look so beautiful, Marilla, when I pinned it on my breast that I was overcome by an irresistible temptation. I imagined how perfectly thrilling it would be to take it to Idlewild and play I was the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. It would be so much easier to imagine I was the Lady Cordelia if I had a real amethyst brooch on. Diana and I make necklaces of roseberries but what are roseberries compared to amethysts? So I took the brooch. I thought I could put it back before you came home. I went all the way around by the road to lengthen out the time. When I was going over the bridge across the Lake of Shining Waters I took the brooch off to have another look at it. Oh, how it did shine in the sunlight! And then, when I was leaning over the bridge, it just slipped through my fingers--so--and went down--down--down, all purply-sparkling, and sank forevermore beneath the Lake of Shining Waters. And that's the best I can do at confessing, Marilla." Marilla felt hot anger surge up into her heart again. This child had
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Marilla sternly. "Y-e-e-s," admitted Anne, "I took it up and I pinned it on my breast just to see how it would look." "You had no business to do anything of the sort. It's very wrong in a little girl to meddle. You shouldn't have gone into my room in the first place and you shouldn't have touched a brooch that didn't belong to you in the second. Where did you put it?" "Oh, I put it back on the bureau. I hadn't it on a minute. Truly, I didn't mean to meddle, Marilla. I didn't think about its being wrong to go in and try on the brooch; but I see now that it was and I'll never do it again. That's one good thing about me. I never do the same naughty thing twice." "You didn't put it back," said Marilla. "That brooch isn't anywhere on the bureau. You've taken it out or something, Anne." "I did put it back," said Anne quickly--pertly, Marilla thought. "I don't just remember whether I stuck it on the pincushion or laid it in the china tray. But I'm perfectly certain I put it back." "I'll go and have another look," said Marilla, determining to be just. "If you put that brooch back it's there still. If it isn't I'll know you didn't, that's all!" Marilla went to her room and made a thorough search, not only over the bureau but in every other place she thought the brooch might possibly be. It was not to be found and she returned to the kitchen. "Anne, the brooch is gone. By your own admission you were the last person to handle it. Now, what have you done with it? Tell me the truth at once. Did you take it out and lose it?" "No, I didn't," said Anne solemnly, meeting Marilla's angry gaze squarely. "I never took the brooch out of your room and that is the truth, if I was to be led to the block for it--although I'm not very certain what a block is. So there, Marilla." Anne's "so there" was only intended to emphasize her assertion, but Marilla took it as a display of defiance. "I believe you are telling me a falsehood, Anne," she said sharply. "I know you are. There now, don't say anything more unless you are prepared to tell the whole truth. Go to your room and stay there until you are ready to confess." "Will I take the peas with me?" said Anne meekly. "No, I'll finish shelling them myself. Do as I bid you." When Anne had gone Marilla went about her evening tasks in a very disturbed state of mind. She was worried about her valuable brooch. What if Anne had lost it? And how wicked of the child to deny having taken it, when anybody could see she must have! With such an innocent face, too! "I don't know what I wouldn't sooner have had happen," thought Marilla, as she nervously shelled the peas.<|quote|>"Of course, I don't suppose she meant to steal it or anything like that. She's just taken it to play with or help along that imagination of hers. She must have taken it, that's clear, for there hasn't been a soul in that room since she was in it, by her own story, until I went up tonight. And the brooch is gone, there's nothing surer. I suppose she has lost it and is afraid to own up for fear she'll be punished. It's a dreadful thing to think she tells falsehoods. It's a far worse thing than her fit of temper. It's a fearful responsibility to have a child in your house you can't trust. Slyness and untruthfulness--that's what she has displayed. I declare I feel worse about that than about the brooch. If she'd only have told the truth about it I wouldn't mind so much."</|quote|>Marilla went to her room at intervals all through the evening and searched for the brooch, without finding it. A bedtime visit to the east gable produced no result. Anne persisted in denying that she knew anything about the brooch but Marilla was only the more firmly convinced that she did. She told Matthew the story the next morning. Matthew was confounded and puzzled; he could not so quickly lose faith in Anne but he had to admit that circumstances were against her. "You're sure it hasn't fell down behind the bureau?" was the only suggestion he could offer. "I've moved the bureau and I've taken out the drawers and I've looked in every crack and cranny" was Marilla's positive answer. "The brooch is gone and that child has taken it and lied about it. That's the plain, ugly truth, Matthew Cuthbert, and we might as well look it in the face." "Well now, what are you going to do about it?" Matthew asked forlornly, feeling secretly thankful that Marilla and not he had to deal with the situation. He felt no desire to put his oar in this time. "She'll stay in her room until she confesses," said Marilla grimly, remembering the success of this method in the former case. "Then we'll see. Perhaps we'll be able to find the brooch if she'll only tell where she took it; but in any case she'll have to be severely punished, Matthew." "Well now, you'll have to punish her," said Matthew, reaching for his hat. "I've nothing to do with it, remember. You warned me off yourself." Marilla felt deserted by everyone. She could not even go to Mrs. Lynde for advice. She went up to the east gable with a very serious face and left it with a face more serious still. Anne steadfastly refused to confess. She persisted in asserting that she had not taken the brooch. The child had evidently been crying and Marilla felt a pang of pity which she sternly repressed. By night she was, as she expressed it, "beat out." "You'll stay in this room until you confess, Anne. You can make up your mind to that," she said firmly. "But the picnic is tomorrow, Marilla," cried Anne. "You won't keep me from going to that, will you? You'll just let me out for the afternoon, won't you? Then I'll stay here as long as you like _afterwards_ cheerfully. But I _must_ go to the picnic." "You'll not go to picnics nor anywhere else until you've confessed, Anne." "Oh, Marilla," gasped Anne. But Marilla had gone out and shut the door. Wednesday morning dawned as bright and fair as if expressly made to order for the picnic. Birds sang around Green Gables; the Madonna lilies in the garden sent out whiffs of perfume that entered in on viewless winds at every door and window, and wandered through halls and rooms like spirits of benediction. The birches in the hollow waved joyful hands as if watching for Anne's usual morning greeting from the east gable. But Anne was not at her window. When Marilla took her
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Anne Of Green Gables
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"Sorry,"
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Colonel Adye
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and grim as Adye s.<|quote|>"Sorry,"</|quote|>said Adye a little hoarsely,
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said the Voice, as tense and grim as Adye s.<|quote|>"Sorry,"</|quote|>said Adye a little hoarsely, and moistened his lips with
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grass. Something moved near him. "Stop a bit," said a Voice, and Adye stopped dead and his hand tightened on the revolver. "Well?" said Adye, white and grim, and every nerve tense. "Oblige me by going back to the house," said the Voice, as tense and grim as Adye s.<|quote|>"Sorry,"</|quote|>said Adye a little hoarsely, and moistened his lips with his tongue. The Voice was on his left front, he thought. Suppose he were to take his luck with a shot? "What are you going for?" said the Voice, and there was a quick movement of the two, and a
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the doorstep and the bolts were dropping back into the staples. He hesitated for a moment, feeling more comfortable with his back against the door. Then he marched, upright and square, down the steps. He crossed the lawn and approached the gate. A little breeze seemed to ripple over the grass. Something moved near him. "Stop a bit," said a Voice, and Adye stopped dead and his hand tightened on the revolver. "Well?" said Adye, white and grim, and every nerve tense. "Oblige me by going back to the house," said the Voice, as tense and grim as Adye s.<|quote|>"Sorry,"</|quote|>said Adye a little hoarsely, and moistened his lips with his tongue. The Voice was on his left front, he thought. Suppose he were to take his luck with a shot? "What are you going for?" said the Voice, and there was a quick movement of the two, and a flash of sunlight from the open lip of Adye s pocket. Adye desisted and thought. "Where I go," he said slowly, "is my own business." The words were still on his lips, when an arm came round his neck, his back felt a knee, and he was sprawling backward. He
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hand went to his pocket. Then he hesitated. "I haven t one at least to spare." "I ll bring it back," said Adye, "you ll be safe here." Kemp, ashamed of his momentary lapse from truthfulness, handed him the weapon. "Now for the door," said Adye. As they stood hesitating in the hall, they heard one of the first-floor bedroom windows crack and clash. Kemp went to the door and began to slip the bolts as silently as possible. His face was a little paler than usual. "You must step straight out," said Kemp. In another moment Adye was on the doorstep and the bolts were dropping back into the staples. He hesitated for a moment, feeling more comfortable with his back against the door. Then he marched, upright and square, down the steps. He crossed the lawn and approached the gate. A little breeze seemed to ripple over the grass. Something moved near him. "Stop a bit," said a Voice, and Adye stopped dead and his hand tightened on the revolver. "Well?" said Adye, white and grim, and every nerve tense. "Oblige me by going back to the house," said the Voice, as tense and grim as Adye s.<|quote|>"Sorry,"</|quote|>said Adye a little hoarsely, and moistened his lips with his tongue. The Voice was on his left front, he thought. Suppose he were to take his luck with a shot? "What are you going for?" said the Voice, and there was a quick movement of the two, and a flash of sunlight from the open lip of Adye s pocket. Adye desisted and thought. "Where I go," he said slowly, "is my own business." The words were still on his lips, when an arm came round his neck, his back felt a knee, and he was sprawling backward. He drew clumsily and fired absurdly, and in another moment he was struck in the mouth and the revolver wrested from his grip. He made a vain clutch at a slippery limb, tried to struggle up and fell back. "Damn!" said Adye. The Voice laughed. "I d kill you now if it wasn t the waste of a bullet," it said. He saw the revolver in mid-air, six feet off, covering him. "Well?" said Adye, sitting up. "Get up," said the Voice. Adye stood up. "Attention," said the Voice, and then fiercely, "Don t try any games. Remember I can see
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writing table. The two men stopped in the doorway, contemplating the wreckage. Kemp swore again, and as he did so the third window went with a snap like a pistol, hung starred for a moment, and collapsed in jagged, shivering triangles into the room. "What s this for?" said Adye. "It s a beginning," said Kemp. "There s no way of climbing up here?" "Not for a cat," said Kemp. "No shutters?" "Not here. All the downstairs rooms Hullo!" Smash, and then whack of boards hit hard came from downstairs. "Confound him!" said Kemp. "That must be yes it s one of the bedrooms. He s going to do all the house. But he s a fool. The shutters are up, and the glass will fall outside. He ll cut his feet." Another window proclaimed its destruction. The two men stood on the landing perplexed. "I have it!" said Adye. "Let me have a stick or something, and I ll go down to the station and get the bloodhounds put on. That ought to settle him! They re hard by not ten minutes" Another window went the way of its fellows. "You haven t a revolver?" asked Adye. Kemp s hand went to his pocket. Then he hesitated. "I haven t one at least to spare." "I ll bring it back," said Adye, "you ll be safe here." Kemp, ashamed of his momentary lapse from truthfulness, handed him the weapon. "Now for the door," said Adye. As they stood hesitating in the hall, they heard one of the first-floor bedroom windows crack and clash. Kemp went to the door and began to slip the bolts as silently as possible. His face was a little paler than usual. "You must step straight out," said Kemp. In another moment Adye was on the doorstep and the bolts were dropping back into the staples. He hesitated for a moment, feeling more comfortable with his back against the door. Then he marched, upright and square, down the steps. He crossed the lawn and approached the gate. A little breeze seemed to ripple over the grass. Something moved near him. "Stop a bit," said a Voice, and Adye stopped dead and his hand tightened on the revolver. "Well?" said Adye, white and grim, and every nerve tense. "Oblige me by going back to the house," said the Voice, as tense and grim as Adye s.<|quote|>"Sorry,"</|quote|>said Adye a little hoarsely, and moistened his lips with his tongue. The Voice was on his left front, he thought. Suppose he were to take his luck with a shot? "What are you going for?" said the Voice, and there was a quick movement of the two, and a flash of sunlight from the open lip of Adye s pocket. Adye desisted and thought. "Where I go," he said slowly, "is my own business." The words were still on his lips, when an arm came round his neck, his back felt a knee, and he was sprawling backward. He drew clumsily and fired absurdly, and in another moment he was struck in the mouth and the revolver wrested from his grip. He made a vain clutch at a slippery limb, tried to struggle up and fell back. "Damn!" said Adye. The Voice laughed. "I d kill you now if it wasn t the waste of a bullet," it said. He saw the revolver in mid-air, six feet off, covering him. "Well?" said Adye, sitting up. "Get up," said the Voice. Adye stood up. "Attention," said the Voice, and then fiercely, "Don t try any games. Remember I can see your face if you can t see mine. You ve got to go back to the house." "He won t let me in," said Adye. "That s a pity," said the Invisible Man. "I ve got no quarrel with you." Adye moistened his lips again. He glanced away from the barrel of the revolver and saw the sea far off very blue and dark under the midday sun, the smooth green down, the white cliff of the Head, and the multitudinous town, and suddenly he knew that life was very sweet. His eyes came back to this little metal thing hanging between heaven and earth, six yards away. "What am I to do?" he said sullenly. "What am _I_ to do?" asked the Invisible Man. "You will get help. The only thing is for you to go back." "I will try. If he lets me in will you promise not to rush the door?" "I ve got no quarrel with you," said the Voice. Kemp had hurried upstairs after letting Adye out, and now crouching among the broken glass and peering cautiously over the edge of the study window sill, he saw Adye stand parleying with the Unseen. "Why doesn
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spite of your invisibility. Griffin _contra mundum_ ... with a vengeance." He stood at the window staring at the hot hillside. "He must get food every day and I don t envy him. Did he really sleep last night? Out in the open somewhere secure from collisions. I wish we could get some good cold wet weather instead of the heat." "He may be watching me now." He went close to the window. Something rapped smartly against the brickwork over the frame, and made him start violently back. "I m getting nervous," said Kemp. But it was five minutes before he went to the window again. "It must have been a sparrow," he said. Presently he heard the front-door bell ringing, and hurried downstairs. He unbolted and unlocked the door, examined the chain, put it up, and opened cautiously without showing himself. A familiar voice hailed him. It was Adye. "Your servant s been assaulted, Kemp," he said round the door. "What!" exclaimed Kemp. "Had that note of yours taken away from her. He s close about here. Let me in." Kemp released the chain, and Adye entered through as narrow an opening as possible. He stood in the hall, looking with infinite relief at Kemp refastening the door. "Note was snatched out of her hand. Scared her horribly. She s down at the station. Hysterics. He s close here. What was it about?" Kemp swore. "What a fool I was," said Kemp. "I might have known. It s not an hour s walk from Hintondean. Already?" "What s up?" said Adye. "Look here!" said Kemp, and led the way into his study. He handed Adye the Invisible Man s letter. Adye read it and whistled softly. "And you ?" said Adye. "Proposed a trap like a fool," said Kemp, "and sent my proposal out by a maid servant. To him." Adye followed Kemp s profanity. "He ll clear out," said Adye. "Not he," said Kemp. A resounding smash of glass came from upstairs. Adye had a silvery glimpse of a little revolver half out of Kemp s pocket. "It s a window, upstairs!" said Kemp, and led the way up. There came a second smash while they were still on the staircase. When they reached the study they found two of the three windows smashed, half the room littered with splintered glass, and one big flint lying on the writing table. The two men stopped in the doorway, contemplating the wreckage. Kemp swore again, and as he did so the third window went with a snap like a pistol, hung starred for a moment, and collapsed in jagged, shivering triangles into the room. "What s this for?" said Adye. "It s a beginning," said Kemp. "There s no way of climbing up here?" "Not for a cat," said Kemp. "No shutters?" "Not here. All the downstairs rooms Hullo!" Smash, and then whack of boards hit hard came from downstairs. "Confound him!" said Kemp. "That must be yes it s one of the bedrooms. He s going to do all the house. But he s a fool. The shutters are up, and the glass will fall outside. He ll cut his feet." Another window proclaimed its destruction. The two men stood on the landing perplexed. "I have it!" said Adye. "Let me have a stick or something, and I ll go down to the station and get the bloodhounds put on. That ought to settle him! They re hard by not ten minutes" Another window went the way of its fellows. "You haven t a revolver?" asked Adye. Kemp s hand went to his pocket. Then he hesitated. "I haven t one at least to spare." "I ll bring it back," said Adye, "you ll be safe here." Kemp, ashamed of his momentary lapse from truthfulness, handed him the weapon. "Now for the door," said Adye. As they stood hesitating in the hall, they heard one of the first-floor bedroom windows crack and clash. Kemp went to the door and began to slip the bolts as silently as possible. His face was a little paler than usual. "You must step straight out," said Kemp. In another moment Adye was on the doorstep and the bolts were dropping back into the staples. He hesitated for a moment, feeling more comfortable with his back against the door. Then he marched, upright and square, down the steps. He crossed the lawn and approached the gate. A little breeze seemed to ripple over the grass. Something moved near him. "Stop a bit," said a Voice, and Adye stopped dead and his hand tightened on the revolver. "Well?" said Adye, white and grim, and every nerve tense. "Oblige me by going back to the house," said the Voice, as tense and grim as Adye s.<|quote|>"Sorry,"</|quote|>said Adye a little hoarsely, and moistened his lips with his tongue. The Voice was on his left front, he thought. Suppose he were to take his luck with a shot? "What are you going for?" said the Voice, and there was a quick movement of the two, and a flash of sunlight from the open lip of Adye s pocket. Adye desisted and thought. "Where I go," he said slowly, "is my own business." The words were still on his lips, when an arm came round his neck, his back felt a knee, and he was sprawling backward. He drew clumsily and fired absurdly, and in another moment he was struck in the mouth and the revolver wrested from his grip. He made a vain clutch at a slippery limb, tried to struggle up and fell back. "Damn!" said Adye. The Voice laughed. "I d kill you now if it wasn t the waste of a bullet," it said. He saw the revolver in mid-air, six feet off, covering him. "Well?" said Adye, sitting up. "Get up," said the Voice. Adye stood up. "Attention," said the Voice, and then fiercely, "Don t try any games. Remember I can see your face if you can t see mine. You ve got to go back to the house." "He won t let me in," said Adye. "That s a pity," said the Invisible Man. "I ve got no quarrel with you." Adye moistened his lips again. He glanced away from the barrel of the revolver and saw the sea far off very blue and dark under the midday sun, the smooth green down, the white cliff of the Head, and the multitudinous town, and suddenly he knew that life was very sweet. His eyes came back to this little metal thing hanging between heaven and earth, six yards away. "What am I to do?" he said sullenly. "What am _I_ to do?" asked the Invisible Man. "You will get help. The only thing is for you to go back." "I will try. If he lets me in will you promise not to rush the door?" "I ve got no quarrel with you," said the Voice. Kemp had hurried upstairs after letting Adye out, and now crouching among the broken glass and peering cautiously over the edge of the study window sill, he saw Adye stand parleying with the Unseen. "Why doesn t he fire?" whispered Kemp to himself. Then the revolver moved a little and the glint of the sunlight flashed in Kemp s eyes. He shaded his eyes and tried to see the source of the blinding beam. "Surely!" he said, "Adye has given up the revolver." "Promise not to rush the door," Adye was saying. "Don t push a winning game too far. Give a man a chance." "You go back to the house. I tell you flatly I will not promise anything." Adye s decision seemed suddenly made. He turned towards the house, walking slowly with his hands behind him. Kemp watched him puzzled. The revolver vanished, flashed again into sight, vanished again, and became evident on a closer scrutiny as a little dark object following Adye. Then things happened very quickly. Adye leapt backwards, swung around, clutched at this little object, missed it, threw up his hands and fell forward on his face, leaving a little puff of blue in the air. Kemp did not hear the sound of the shot. Adye writhed, raised himself on one arm, fell forward, and lay still. For a space Kemp remained staring at the quiet carelessness of Adye s attitude. The afternoon was very hot and still, nothing seemed stirring in all the world save a couple of yellow butterflies chasing each other through the shrubbery between the house and the road gate. Adye lay on the lawn near the gate. The blinds of all the villas down the hill-road were drawn, but in one little green summer-house was a white figure, apparently an old man asleep. Kemp scrutinised the surroundings of the house for a glimpse of the revolver, but it had vanished. His eyes came back to Adye. The game was opening well. Then came a ringing and knocking at the front door, that grew at last tumultuous, but pursuant to Kemp s instructions the servants had locked themselves into their rooms. This was followed by a silence. Kemp sat listening and then began peering cautiously out of the three windows, one after another. He went to the staircase head and stood listening uneasily. He armed himself with his bedroom poker, and went to examine the interior fastenings of the ground-floor windows again. Everything was safe and quiet. He returned to the belvedere. Adye lay motionless over the edge of the gravel just as he had fallen. Coming
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on the staircase. When they reached the study they found two of the three windows smashed, half the room littered with splintered glass, and one big flint lying on the writing table. The two men stopped in the doorway, contemplating the wreckage. Kemp swore again, and as he did so the third window went with a snap like a pistol, hung starred for a moment, and collapsed in jagged, shivering triangles into the room. "What s this for?" said Adye. "It s a beginning," said Kemp. "There s no way of climbing up here?" "Not for a cat," said Kemp. "No shutters?" "Not here. All the downstairs rooms Hullo!" Smash, and then whack of boards hit hard came from downstairs. "Confound him!" said Kemp. "That must be yes it s one of the bedrooms. He s going to do all the house. But he s a fool. The shutters are up, and the glass will fall outside. He ll cut his feet." Another window proclaimed its destruction. The two men stood on the landing perplexed. "I have it!" said Adye. "Let me have a stick or something, and I ll go down to the station and get the bloodhounds put on. That ought to settle him! They re hard by not ten minutes" Another window went the way of its fellows. "You haven t a revolver?" asked Adye. Kemp s hand went to his pocket. Then he hesitated. "I haven t one at least to spare." "I ll bring it back," said Adye, "you ll be safe here." Kemp, ashamed of his momentary lapse from truthfulness, handed him the weapon. "Now for the door," said Adye. As they stood hesitating in the hall, they heard one of the first-floor bedroom windows crack and clash. Kemp went to the door and began to slip the bolts as silently as possible. His face was a little paler than usual. "You must step straight out," said Kemp. In another moment Adye was on the doorstep and the bolts were dropping back into the staples. He hesitated for a moment, feeling more comfortable with his back against the door. Then he marched, upright and square, down the steps. He crossed the lawn and approached the gate. A little breeze seemed to ripple over the grass. Something moved near him. "Stop a bit," said a Voice, and Adye stopped dead and his hand tightened on the revolver. "Well?" said Adye, white and grim, and every nerve tense. "Oblige me by going back to the house," said the Voice, as tense and grim as Adye s.<|quote|>"Sorry,"</|quote|>said Adye a little hoarsely, and moistened his lips with his tongue. The Voice was on his left front, he thought. Suppose he were to take his luck with a shot? "What are you going for?" said the Voice, and there was a quick movement of the two, and a flash of sunlight from the open lip of Adye s pocket. Adye desisted and thought. "Where I go," he said slowly, "is my own business." The words were still on his lips, when an arm came round his neck, his back felt a knee, and he was sprawling backward. He drew clumsily and fired absurdly, and in another moment he was struck in the mouth and the revolver wrested from his grip. He made a vain clutch at a slippery limb, tried to struggle up and fell back. "Damn!" said Adye. The Voice laughed. "I d kill you now if it wasn t the waste of a bullet," it said. He saw the revolver in mid-air, six feet off, covering him. "Well?" said Adye, sitting up. "Get up," said the Voice. Adye stood up. "Attention," said the Voice, and then fiercely, "Don t try any games. Remember I can see your face if you can t see mine. You ve got to go back to the house." "He won t let me in," said Adye. "That s a pity," said the Invisible Man. "I ve got no quarrel with you." Adye moistened his lips again. He glanced away from the barrel of the revolver and saw the sea far off very blue
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The Invisible Man
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"I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?"
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Captain
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turning to Don and Jem,<|quote|>"I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?"</|quote|>Don's lips parted to say
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Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem,<|quote|>"I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?"</|quote|>Don's lips parted to say it was only about half
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Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem,<|quote|>"I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?"</|quote|>Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come,"
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as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem,<|quote|>"I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?"</|quote|>Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come," said the captain, "I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know,
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to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer. "Yes, sir," said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem,<|quote|>"I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?"</|quote|>Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come," said the captain, "I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you--either of you--to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and--the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you
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Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer. "Yes, sir," said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem,<|quote|>"I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?"</|quote|>Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come," said the captain, "I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you--either of you--to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and--the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard what takes place afterwards, when the Maori tribes have taken prisoners?" Jem shuddered, but Don made no sign. "Ah! I see you know," continued the captain, "so I need say little more. I am satisfied that you will neither of you be guilty of such an act of madness as you contemplated, especially now that I tell you that I stop at nothing which the law gives me power to do for the preservation of the discipline of my ship. These two lads," he said, turning to give an order, "will be placed in irons for the present." He made a sign, and the two prisoners were taken below deck, and placed in irons. "Better than being hung, my lads," said the armourer gruffly; and soon after they were alone, with a sentry on duty not far from where they were seated. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. TOMATL'S PROMISE. "Wonder whether Mike ever had a taste of this sort o' thing, Mas' Don," said Jem, after they had sat in silence some time, Don's face not inviting any attempt at conversation.
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man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me." "Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting." Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore. "This is what I hate in being a sailor," grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. Getting tired of it?" "Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home." That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer. "Yes, sir," said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem,<|quote|>"I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?"</|quote|>Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come," said the captain, "I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you--either of you--to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and--the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard what takes place afterwards, when the Maori tribes have taken prisoners?" Jem shuddered, but Don made no sign. "Ah! I see you know," continued the captain, "so I need say little more. I am satisfied that you will neither of you be guilty of such an act of madness as you contemplated, especially now that I tell you that I stop at nothing which the law gives me power to do for the preservation of the discipline of my ship. These two lads," he said, turning to give an order, "will be placed in irons for the present." He made a sign, and the two prisoners were taken below deck, and placed in irons. "Better than being hung, my lads," said the armourer gruffly; and soon after they were alone, with a sentry on duty not far from where they were seated. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. TOMATL'S PROMISE. "Wonder whether Mike ever had a taste of this sort o' thing, Mas' Don," said Jem, after they had sat in silence some time, Don's face not inviting any attempt at conversation. "He never said anything about being in irons when he spun yarns about adventures." "Jem!" said Don indignantly; and as if it only wanted his companion's words to start him in a furious outburst of passion; "it is shameful! It is a cruel indignity and disgrace." "Hush, hush, my lad! Don't take it that way. They arn't so werry heavy, and they don't hurt much." "Hurt? Not hurt much? Why, they are treating us as if we were thieves." "What, being ironed, sir? Well, it do seem a bit hard." "It's cruel! It's horrible! And he had no right to do it for such an offence." "Steady, my lad, steady. The sentry 'll hear you, and have his turn, p'r'aps, at telling tales." "But he had no right to do this, I say." "P'r'aps not, Mas' Don; but skippers does just what they please when they're out at sea in war time. I thought he was going to hang us once." "He would not dare," said Don. "Well, if he did, I should have liked to have a few words first with Mr Ramsden; for of all the mean, dirty, sneaking chaps I ever set eyes on, he's about the worst." "A mean, cowardly spy!" cried Don. "Ah, that's it; so he is, Mas' Don; a mean, cowardly spy. I couldn't think o' them words, but they're just what he is.--Say, Mas' Don." "Don't, don't, don't, Jem." "Don't what, Mas' Don?" "Don't do that. _Master Don_. It sounds so foolish, and it's ridiculous, seeing what we are." "All right, my lad, I'll be careful; but what I wanted to say was, would there be any harm in taking Master Ramsden by his waistband, and dropping him some night over into the sea?" "Do you want to commit murder, Jem?" "Do I want to commit murder? Nay, Mas' Don, gently, gently; don't talk to a man like that. I only meant to give him a ducking." "Amongst the sharks?" "Ugh! I forgot all about the sharks, Mas' Don. I say, think there are many of 'em about?" "They say there are plenty, and we saw a monster, Jem." "So we did, my lad; so we did, and a nice lot o' worry he's got us in through stealing that boathook. But, look here, how do you feel now?" "Heart-sick and tired of it all, Jem. I wish we had run off
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wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer. "Yes, sir," said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem,<|quote|>"I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?"</|quote|>Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come," said the captain, "I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you--either of you--to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and--the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard what takes place afterwards, when the Maori tribes have taken prisoners?" Jem shuddered, but Don made no sign. "Ah! I see you know," continued the captain, "so I need say little more. I am satisfied that you will neither of you be guilty of such an act of madness as you contemplated, especially now that I tell you that I stop at nothing which the law gives me power to do for the preservation of the discipline of my ship. These two lads," he said, turning to give an order, "will be placed in irons for the present." He made a sign, and the two prisoners were taken below deck, and placed in irons. "Better than being hung, my lads," said the armourer gruffly; and soon after they were alone, with a sentry on duty not far from where they were seated. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. TOMATL'S PROMISE. "Wonder whether Mike ever had a taste of this sort o' thing, Mas' Don," said Jem, after they had sat in silence some time, Don's face not inviting any attempt at conversation. "He never said anything about being in irons when he spun yarns about adventures." "Jem!" said Don indignantly; and as if it only wanted his companion's words to start him in a furious outburst of passion; "it is shameful! It is a cruel indignity and disgrace." "Hush, hush, my lad! Don't take it that way. They arn't so werry heavy, and they don't hurt much." "Hurt? Not hurt much? Why, they are treating us as if we were thieves." "What, being ironed, sir? Well, it do seem a bit hard." "It's cruel! It's horrible! And he had no right to do it for such an offence." "Steady, my lad, steady. The sentry 'll hear you, and have his turn, p'r'aps, at telling tales." "But he had no right to do this, I say." "P'r'aps not, Mas' Don; but skippers does just what they please when they're out at sea in war time. I thought he was going to hang us once." "He would not dare," said Don. "Well, if he did, I should have liked to have a few words first with Mr Ramsden; for of
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Don Lavington
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At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first.
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No speaker
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"beautiful writing, isn't is, Oliver?"<|quote|>At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first.</|quote|>"They belong to the old
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of the volumes in question; "beautiful writing, isn't is, Oliver?"<|quote|>At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first.</|quote|>"They belong to the old gentleman," said Oliver, wringing his
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the trouble," said Sikes; "and not half enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you're fond of reading. If you ain't, sell 'em." "They're very pretty," said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; "beautiful writing, isn't is, Oliver?"<|quote|>At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first.</|quote|>"They belong to the old gentleman," said Oliver, wringing his hands; "to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here
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Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton, give it here!" With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the note from between the Jew's finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face, folded it up small, and tied it in his neckerchief. "That's for our share of the trouble," said Sikes; "and not half enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you're fond of reading. If you ain't, sell 'em." "They're very pretty," said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; "beautiful writing, isn't is, Oliver?"<|quote|>At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first.</|quote|>"They belong to the old gentleman," said Oliver, wringing his hands; "to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He'll think I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!" With these words, which were uttered with all
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and Nancy's that is; I'll take the boy back again." The Jew started. Oliver started too, though from a very different cause; for he hoped that the dispute might really end in his being taken back. "Come! Hand over, will you?" said Sikes. "This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?" inquired the Jew. "Fair, or not fair," retorted Sikes, "hand over, I tell you! Do you think Nancy and me has got nothing else to do with our precious time but to spend it in scouting arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as gets grabbed through you? Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton, give it here!" With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the note from between the Jew's finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face, folded it up small, and tied it in his neckerchief. "That's for our share of the trouble," said Sikes; "and not half enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you're fond of reading. If you ain't, sell 'em." "They're very pretty," said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; "beautiful writing, isn't is, Oliver?"<|quote|>At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first.</|quote|>"They belong to the old gentleman," said Oliver, wringing his hands; "to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He'll think I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!" With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew's feet; and beat his hands together, in perfect desperation. "The boy's right," remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. "You're right, Oliver, you're right; they _will_ think you have stolen 'em. Ha! ha!" chuckled the Jew, rubbing his hands, "it couldn't have happened better, if we had chosen our time!" "Of course it couldn't," replied Sikes; "I know'd that, directly I see him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It's all right enough. They're soft-hearted psalm-singers, or
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merriment when it interfered with business, rifled Oliver's pockets with steady assiduity. "Look at his togs, Fagin!" said Charley, putting the light so close to his new jacket as nearly to set him on fire. "Look at his togs! Superfine cloth, and the heavy swell cut! Oh, my eye, what a game! And his books, too! Nothing but a gentleman, Fagin!" "Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear," said the Jew, bowing with mock humility. "The Artful shall give you another suit, my dear, for fear you should spoil that Sunday one. Why didn't you write, my dear, and say you were coming? We'd have got something warm for supper." At his, Master Bates roared again: so loud, that Fagin himself relaxed, and even the Dodger smiled; but as the Artful drew forth the five-pound note at that instant, it is doubtful whether the sally of the discovery awakened his merriment. "Hallo, what's that?" inquired Sikes, stepping forward as the Jew seized the note. "That's mine, Fagin." "No, no, my dear," said the Jew. "Mine, Bill, mine. You shall have the books." "If that ain't mine!" said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat with a determined air; "mine and Nancy's that is; I'll take the boy back again." The Jew started. Oliver started too, though from a very different cause; for he hoped that the dispute might really end in his being taken back. "Come! Hand over, will you?" said Sikes. "This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?" inquired the Jew. "Fair, or not fair," retorted Sikes, "hand over, I tell you! Do you think Nancy and me has got nothing else to do with our precious time but to spend it in scouting arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as gets grabbed through you? Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton, give it here!" With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the note from between the Jew's finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face, folded it up small, and tied it in his neckerchief. "That's for our share of the trouble," said Sikes; "and not half enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you're fond of reading. If you ain't, sell 'em." "They're very pretty," said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; "beautiful writing, isn't is, Oliver?"<|quote|>At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first.</|quote|>"They belong to the old gentleman," said Oliver, wringing his hands; "to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He'll think I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!" With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew's feet; and beat his hands together, in perfect desperation. "The boy's right," remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. "You're right, Oliver, you're right; they _will_ think you have stolen 'em. Ha! ha!" chuckled the Jew, rubbing his hands, "it couldn't have happened better, if we had chosen our time!" "Of course it couldn't," replied Sikes; "I know'd that, directly I see him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It's all right enough. They're soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn't have taken him in at all; and they'll ask no questions after him, fear they should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He's safe enough." Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof. "Keep back the dog, Bill!" cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. "Keep back the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces." "Serve him right!" cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall." "I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that," screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, "the child shan't be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first." "Shan't he!" said Sikes, setting his teeth. "I'll soon do that, if you don't keep off." The housebreaker flung the girl
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softly opened. Mr. Sikes then seized the terrified boy by the collar with very little ceremony; and all three were quickly inside the house. The passage was perfectly dark. They waited, while the person who had let them in, chained and barred the door. "Anybody here?" inquired Sikes. "No," replied a voice, which Oliver thought he had heard before. "Is the old 'un here?" asked the robber. "Yes," replied the voice, "and precious down in the mouth he has been. Won't he be glad to see you? Oh, no!" The style of this reply, as well as the voice which delivered it, seemed familiar to Oliver's ears: but it was impossible to distinguish even the form of the speaker in the darkness. "Let's have a glim," said Sikes, "or we shall go breaking our necks, or treading on the dog. Look after your legs if you do!" "Stand still a moment, and I'll get you one," replied the voice. The receding footsteps of the speaker were heard; and, in another minute, the form of Mr. John Dawkins, otherwise the Artful Dodger, appeared. He bore in his right hand a tallow candle stuck in the end of a cleft stick. The young gentleman did not stop to bestow any other mark of recognition upon Oliver than a humourous grin; but, turning away, beckoned the visitors to follow him down a flight of stairs. They crossed an empty kitchen; and, opening the door of a low earthy-smelling room, which seemed to have been built in a small back-yard, were received with a shout of laughter. "Oh, my wig, my wig!" cried Master Charles Bates, from whose lungs the laughter had proceeded: "here he is! oh, cry, here he is! Oh, Fagin, look at him! Fagin, do look at him! I can't bear it; it is such a jolly game, I can't bear it. Hold me, somebody, while I laugh it out." With this irrepressible ebullition of mirth, Master Bates laid himself flat on the floor: and kicked convulsively for five minutes, in an ectasy of facetious joy. Then jumping to his feet, he snatched the cleft stick from the Dodger; and, advancing to Oliver, viewed him round and round; while the Jew, taking off his nightcap, made a great number of low bows to the bewildered boy. The Artful, meantime, who was of a rather saturnine disposition, and seldom gave way to merriment when it interfered with business, rifled Oliver's pockets with steady assiduity. "Look at his togs, Fagin!" said Charley, putting the light so close to his new jacket as nearly to set him on fire. "Look at his togs! Superfine cloth, and the heavy swell cut! Oh, my eye, what a game! And his books, too! Nothing but a gentleman, Fagin!" "Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear," said the Jew, bowing with mock humility. "The Artful shall give you another suit, my dear, for fear you should spoil that Sunday one. Why didn't you write, my dear, and say you were coming? We'd have got something warm for supper." At his, Master Bates roared again: so loud, that Fagin himself relaxed, and even the Dodger smiled; but as the Artful drew forth the five-pound note at that instant, it is doubtful whether the sally of the discovery awakened his merriment. "Hallo, what's that?" inquired Sikes, stepping forward as the Jew seized the note. "That's mine, Fagin." "No, no, my dear," said the Jew. "Mine, Bill, mine. You shall have the books." "If that ain't mine!" said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat with a determined air; "mine and Nancy's that is; I'll take the boy back again." The Jew started. Oliver started too, though from a very different cause; for he hoped that the dispute might really end in his being taken back. "Come! Hand over, will you?" said Sikes. "This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?" inquired the Jew. "Fair, or not fair," retorted Sikes, "hand over, I tell you! Do you think Nancy and me has got nothing else to do with our precious time but to spend it in scouting arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as gets grabbed through you? Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton, give it here!" With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the note from between the Jew's finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face, folded it up small, and tied it in his neckerchief. "That's for our share of the trouble," said Sikes; "and not half enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you're fond of reading. If you ain't, sell 'em." "They're very pretty," said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; "beautiful writing, isn't is, Oliver?"<|quote|>At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first.</|quote|>"They belong to the old gentleman," said Oliver, wringing his hands; "to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He'll think I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!" With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew's feet; and beat his hands together, in perfect desperation. "The boy's right," remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. "You're right, Oliver, you're right; they _will_ think you have stolen 'em. Ha! ha!" chuckled the Jew, rubbing his hands, "it couldn't have happened better, if we had chosen our time!" "Of course it couldn't," replied Sikes; "I know'd that, directly I see him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It's all right enough. They're soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn't have taken him in at all; and they'll ask no questions after him, fear they should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He's safe enough." Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof. "Keep back the dog, Bill!" cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. "Keep back the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces." "Serve him right!" cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall." "I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that," screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, "the child shan't be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first." "Shan't he!" said Sikes, setting his teeth. "I'll soon do that, if you don't keep off." The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them. "What's the matter here!" said Fagin, looking round. "The girl's gone mad, I think," replied Sikes, savagely. "No, she hasn't," said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle; "no, she hasn't, Fagin; don't think it." "Then keep quiet, will you?" said the Jew, with a threatening look. "No, I won't do that, neither," replied Nancy, speaking very loud. "Come! What do you think of that?" Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs of that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel tolerably certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any conversation with her, at present. With the view of diverting the attention of the company, he turned to Oliver. "So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?" said the Jew, taking up a jagged and knotted club which lay in a corner of the fireplace; "eh?" Oliver made no reply. But he watched the Jew's motions, and breathed quickly. "Wanted to get assistance; called for the police; did you?" sneered the Jew, catching the boy by the arm. "We'll cure you of that, my young master." The Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver's shoulders with the club; and was raising it for a second, when the girl, rushing forward, wrested it from his hand. She flung it into the fire, with a force that brought some of the glowing coals whirling out into the room. "I won't stand by and see it done, Fagin," cried the girl. "You've got the boy, and what more would you have? Let him be let him be or I shall put that mark on some of you, that will bring me to the gallows before my time." The girl stamped her foot violently on the floor as she vented this threat; and with her lips compressed, and her hands clenched, looked alternately at the Jew and the other robber: her face quite colourless from the passion of rage into which she had gradually worked herself. "Why, Nancy!" said the Jew, in a soothing tone; after a pause, during which he and Mr. Sikes had stared at one another in a disconcerted manner; "you, you're more clever than ever to-night. Ha! ha! my dear, you are acting beautifully." "Am I!" said
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well, my dear," said the Jew, bowing with mock humility. "The Artful shall give you another suit, my dear, for fear you should spoil that Sunday one. Why didn't you write, my dear, and say you were coming? We'd have got something warm for supper." At his, Master Bates roared again: so loud, that Fagin himself relaxed, and even the Dodger smiled; but as the Artful drew forth the five-pound note at that instant, it is doubtful whether the sally of the discovery awakened his merriment. "Hallo, what's that?" inquired Sikes, stepping forward as the Jew seized the note. "That's mine, Fagin." "No, no, my dear," said the Jew. "Mine, Bill, mine. You shall have the books." "If that ain't mine!" said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat with a determined air; "mine and Nancy's that is; I'll take the boy back again." The Jew started. Oliver started too, though from a very different cause; for he hoped that the dispute might really end in his being taken back. "Come! Hand over, will you?" said Sikes. "This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?" inquired the Jew. "Fair, or not fair," retorted Sikes, "hand over, I tell you! Do you think Nancy and me has got nothing else to do with our precious time but to spend it in scouting arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as gets grabbed through you? Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton, give it here!" With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the note from between the Jew's finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face, folded it up small, and tied it in his neckerchief. "That's for our share of the trouble," said Sikes; "and not half enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you're fond of reading. If you ain't, sell 'em." "They're very pretty," said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; "beautiful writing, isn't is, Oliver?"<|quote|>At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first.</|quote|>"They belong to the old gentleman," said Oliver, wringing his hands; "to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He'll think I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!" With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew's feet; and beat his hands together, in perfect desperation. "The boy's right," remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. "You're right, Oliver, you're right; they _will_ think you have stolen 'em. Ha! ha!" chuckled the Jew, rubbing his hands, "it couldn't have happened better, if we had chosen our time!" "Of course it couldn't," replied Sikes; "I know'd that, directly I see him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It's all right enough. They're soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn't have taken him in at all; and they'll ask no questions after him, fear they should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He's safe enough." Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof. "Keep back the dog, Bill!" cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. "Keep back the dog; he'll
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Oliver Twist
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said Edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject.
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No speaker
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expression. "Do you like London?"<|quote|>said Edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject.</|quote|>"Not at all. I expected
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Marianne with no very benignant expression. "Do you like London?"<|quote|>said Edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject.</|quote|>"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but
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think of _my_ health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both." This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expression. "Do you like London?"<|quote|>said Edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject.</|quote|>"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank Heaven! you are what you always were!" She paused no one spoke. "I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward
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Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne s altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London agree with her. "Oh, don t think of me!" she replied with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don t think of _my_ health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both." This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expression. "Do you like London?"<|quote|>said Edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject.</|quote|>"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank Heaven! you are what you always were!" She paused no one spoke. "I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge." Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself. But Marianne, who
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would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister. "Dear Edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness! This would almost make amends for every thing!" Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by Lucy s unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne s altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London agree with her. "Oh, don t think of me!" she replied with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don t think of _my_ health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both." This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expression. "Do you like London?"<|quote|>said Edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject.</|quote|>"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank Heaven! you are what you always were!" She paused no one spoke. "I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge." Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else. "We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so wretchedly dull! But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now." And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private. "But why were you not there, Edward? Why did you not
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sex might make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy s, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor s. Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost every thing that _was_ said, proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother s health, their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about, but never did. Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and _that_ in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it was time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne s joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister. "Dear Edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness! This would almost make amends for every thing!" Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by Lucy s unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne s altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London agree with her. "Oh, don t think of me!" she replied with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don t think of _my_ health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both." This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expression. "Do you like London?"<|quote|>said Edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject.</|quote|>"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank Heaven! you are what you always were!" She paused no one spoke. "I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge." Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else. "We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so wretchedly dull! But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now." And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private. "But why were you not there, Edward? Why did you not come?" "I was engaged elsewhere." "Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?" "Perhaps, Miss Marianne," cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on her, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no mind to keep them, little as well as great." Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the sting; for she calmly replied, "Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe he _has_ the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised! Then you must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open commendation." The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of
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took a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way you know what I mean if I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where she _does_ dislike, I know it is most violent." Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by the door s being thrown open, the servant s announcing Mr. Ferrars, and Edward s immediately walking in. It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each showed that it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to advance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them. They were not only all three together, but were together without the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered themselves first. It was not Lucy s business to put herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could therefore only _look_ her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more. But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment s recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still improved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street. She would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her. Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy s, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor s. Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost every thing that _was_ said, proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother s health, their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about, but never did. Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and _that_ in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it was time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne s joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister. "Dear Edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness! This would almost make amends for every thing!" Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by Lucy s unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne s altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London agree with her. "Oh, don t think of me!" she replied with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don t think of _my_ health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both." This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expression. "Do you like London?"<|quote|>said Edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject.</|quote|>"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank Heaven! you are what you always were!" She paused no one spoke. "I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge." Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else. "We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so wretchedly dull! But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now." And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private. "But why were you not there, Edward? Why did you not come?" "I was engaged elsewhere." "Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?" "Perhaps, Miss Marianne," cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on her, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no mind to keep them, little as well as great." Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the sting; for she calmly replied, "Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe he _has_ the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised! Then you must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open commendation." The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon got up to go away. "Going so soon!" said Marianne; "my dear Edward, this must not be." And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted two hours, soon afterwards went away. "What can bring her here so often?" said Marianne, on her leaving them. "Could not she see that we wanted her gone! how teazing to Edward!" "Why so? we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as well as ourselves." Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "You know, Elinor, that this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted." She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more, for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give no information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the consequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was obliged to submit to it. All that she could hope, was that Edward would not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing Marianne s mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain that had attended their recent meeting and this she had every reason to expect. CHAPTER XXXVI. Within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those intimate connections who knew it before. This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings s happiness, produced a temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to be as much as possible with Charlotte, she went
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for the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne s joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister. "Dear Edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness! This would almost make amends for every thing!" Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by Lucy s unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne s altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London agree with her. "Oh, don t think of me!" she replied with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don t think of _my_ health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both." This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expression. "Do you like London?"<|quote|>said Edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject.</|quote|>"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank Heaven! you are what you always were!" She paused no one spoke. "I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge." Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else. "We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so wretchedly dull! But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now." And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private. "But why were you not there, Edward? Why did you not come?" "I was engaged elsewhere." "Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?" "Perhaps, Miss Marianne," cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on her, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no mind to keep them, little as well as great." Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the sting; for she calmly replied, "Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe he _has_ the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised! Then you must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open commendation." The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon got up to go away. "Going so soon!" said Marianne; "my dear Edward, this must not be." And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted two hours, soon afterwards went away. "What can bring her here so often?" said Marianne, on her leaving them. "Could not she see that we wanted her gone! how teazing to Edward!" "Why so? we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as well as ourselves." Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "You know, Elinor, that this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot descend to be tricked
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Sense And Sensibility
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Mary exclaimed, putting out her hand to stop her. Directly Katharine moved she felt, inarticulately and violently, that she could not bear to let her go. If Katharine went, her only chance of speaking was lost; her only chance of saying something tremendously important was lost. Half a dozen words were sufficient to wake Katharine s attention, and put flight and further silence beyond her power. But although the words came to her lips, her throat closed upon them and drove them back. After all, she considered, why should she speak? Because it is right, her instinct told her; right to expose oneself without reservations to other human beings. She flinched from the thought. It asked too much of one already stripped bare. Something she must keep of her own. But if she did keep something of her own? Immediately she figured an immured life, continuing for an immense period, the same feelings living for ever, neither dwindling nor changing within the ring of a thick stone wall. The imagination of this loneliness frightened her, and yet to speak to lose her loneliness, for it had already become dear to her, was beyond her power. Her hand went down to the hem of Katharine s skirt, and, fingering a line of fur, she bent her head as if to examine it.
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No speaker
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she said. "Oh, please stay!"<|quote|>Mary exclaimed, putting out her hand to stop her. Directly Katharine moved she felt, inarticulately and violently, that she could not bear to let her go. If Katharine went, her only chance of speaking was lost; her only chance of saying something tremendously important was lost. Half a dozen words were sufficient to wake Katharine s attention, and put flight and further silence beyond her power. But although the words came to her lips, her throat closed upon them and drove them back. After all, she considered, why should she speak? Because it is right, her instinct told her; right to expose oneself without reservations to other human beings. She flinched from the thought. It asked too much of one already stripped bare. Something she must keep of her own. But if she did keep something of her own? Immediately she figured an immured life, continuing for an immense period, the same feelings living for ever, neither dwindling nor changing within the ring of a thick stone wall. The imagination of this loneliness frightened her, and yet to speak to lose her loneliness, for it had already become dear to her, was beyond her power. Her hand went down to the hem of Katharine s skirt, and, fingering a line of fur, she bent her head as if to examine it.</|quote|>"I like this fur," she
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would say so. "And now" she said. "Oh, please stay!"<|quote|>Mary exclaimed, putting out her hand to stop her. Directly Katharine moved she felt, inarticulately and violently, that she could not bear to let her go. If Katharine went, her only chance of speaking was lost; her only chance of saying something tremendously important was lost. Half a dozen words were sufficient to wake Katharine s attention, and put flight and further silence beyond her power. But although the words came to her lips, her throat closed upon them and drove them back. After all, she considered, why should she speak? Because it is right, her instinct told her; right to expose oneself without reservations to other human beings. She flinched from the thought. It asked too much of one already stripped bare. Something she must keep of her own. But if she did keep something of her own? Immediately she figured an immured life, continuing for an immense period, the same feelings living for ever, neither dwindling nor changing within the ring of a thick stone wall. The imagination of this loneliness frightened her, and yet to speak to lose her loneliness, for it had already become dear to her, was beyond her power. Her hand went down to the hem of Katharine s skirt, and, fingering a line of fur, she bent her head as if to examine it.</|quote|>"I like this fur," she said, "I like your clothes.
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unobservant of the finer shades of feeling, and she noted her present failure as another proof that she was a practical, abstract-minded person, better fitted to deal with figures than with the feelings of men and women. Anyhow, William Rodney would say so. "And now" she said. "Oh, please stay!"<|quote|>Mary exclaimed, putting out her hand to stop her. Directly Katharine moved she felt, inarticulately and violently, that she could not bear to let her go. If Katharine went, her only chance of speaking was lost; her only chance of saying something tremendously important was lost. Half a dozen words were sufficient to wake Katharine s attention, and put flight and further silence beyond her power. But although the words came to her lips, her throat closed upon them and drove them back. After all, she considered, why should she speak? Because it is right, her instinct told her; right to expose oneself without reservations to other human beings. She flinched from the thought. It asked too much of one already stripped bare. Something she must keep of her own. But if she did keep something of her own? Immediately she figured an immured life, continuing for an immense period, the same feelings living for ever, neither dwindling nor changing within the ring of a thick stone wall. The imagination of this loneliness frightened her, and yet to speak to lose her loneliness, for it had already become dear to her, was beyond her power. Her hand went down to the hem of Katharine s skirt, and, fingering a line of fur, she bent her head as if to examine it.</|quote|>"I like this fur," she said, "I like your clothes. And you mustn t think that I m going to marry Ralph," she continued, in the same tone, "because he doesn t care for me at all. He cares for some one else." Her head remained bent, and her hand
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what he means to do," she said hurriedly, seeking time against the pressure of her own conviction. "I ve not seen him since Christmas." Katharine reflected that this was odd; perhaps, after all, she had misunderstood the position. She was in the habit of assuming, however, that she was rather unobservant of the finer shades of feeling, and she noted her present failure as another proof that she was a practical, abstract-minded person, better fitted to deal with figures than with the feelings of men and women. Anyhow, William Rodney would say so. "And now" she said. "Oh, please stay!"<|quote|>Mary exclaimed, putting out her hand to stop her. Directly Katharine moved she felt, inarticulately and violently, that she could not bear to let her go. If Katharine went, her only chance of speaking was lost; her only chance of saying something tremendously important was lost. Half a dozen words were sufficient to wake Katharine s attention, and put flight and further silence beyond her power. But although the words came to her lips, her throat closed upon them and drove them back. After all, she considered, why should she speak? Because it is right, her instinct told her; right to expose oneself without reservations to other human beings. She flinched from the thought. It asked too much of one already stripped bare. Something she must keep of her own. But if she did keep something of her own? Immediately she figured an immured life, continuing for an immense period, the same feelings living for ever, neither dwindling nor changing within the ring of a thick stone wall. The imagination of this loneliness frightened her, and yet to speak to lose her loneliness, for it had already become dear to her, was beyond her power. Her hand went down to the hem of Katharine s skirt, and, fingering a line of fur, she bent her head as if to examine it.</|quote|>"I like this fur," she said, "I like your clothes. And you mustn t think that I m going to marry Ralph," she continued, in the same tone, "because he doesn t care for me at all. He cares for some one else." Her head remained bent, and her hand still rested upon the skirt. "It s a shabby old dress," said Katharine, and the only sign that Mary s words had reached her was that she spoke with a little jerk. "You don t mind my telling you that?" said Mary, raising herself. "No, no," said Katharine; "but you
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tone of her voice, that in speaking of Ralph she had no desire to probe Mary s secrets, or to insinuate any of her own. Moreover, she liked Katharine; she trusted her; she felt a respect for her. The first step of confidence was comparatively simple; but a further confidence had revealed itself, as Katharine spoke, which was not so simple, and yet it impressed itself upon her as a necessity; she must tell Katharine what it was clear that she had no conception of she must tell Katharine that Ralph was in love with her. "I don t know what he means to do," she said hurriedly, seeking time against the pressure of her own conviction. "I ve not seen him since Christmas." Katharine reflected that this was odd; perhaps, after all, she had misunderstood the position. She was in the habit of assuming, however, that she was rather unobservant of the finer shades of feeling, and she noted her present failure as another proof that she was a practical, abstract-minded person, better fitted to deal with figures than with the feelings of men and women. Anyhow, William Rodney would say so. "And now" she said. "Oh, please stay!"<|quote|>Mary exclaimed, putting out her hand to stop her. Directly Katharine moved she felt, inarticulately and violently, that she could not bear to let her go. If Katharine went, her only chance of speaking was lost; her only chance of saying something tremendously important was lost. Half a dozen words were sufficient to wake Katharine s attention, and put flight and further silence beyond her power. But although the words came to her lips, her throat closed upon them and drove them back. After all, she considered, why should she speak? Because it is right, her instinct told her; right to expose oneself without reservations to other human beings. She flinched from the thought. It asked too much of one already stripped bare. Something she must keep of her own. But if she did keep something of her own? Immediately she figured an immured life, continuing for an immense period, the same feelings living for ever, neither dwindling nor changing within the ring of a thick stone wall. The imagination of this loneliness frightened her, and yet to speak to lose her loneliness, for it had already become dear to her, was beyond her power. Her hand went down to the hem of Katharine s skirt, and, fingering a line of fur, she bent her head as if to examine it.</|quote|>"I like this fur," she said, "I like your clothes. And you mustn t think that I m going to marry Ralph," she continued, in the same tone, "because he doesn t care for me at all. He cares for some one else." Her head remained bent, and her hand still rested upon the skirt. "It s a shabby old dress," said Katharine, and the only sign that Mary s words had reached her was that she spoke with a little jerk. "You don t mind my telling you that?" said Mary, raising herself. "No, no," said Katharine; "but you re mistaken, aren t you?" She was, in truth, horribly uncomfortable, dismayed, indeed, disillusioned. She disliked the turn things had taken quite intensely. The indecency of it afflicted her. The suffering implied by the tone appalled her. She looked at Mary furtively, with eyes that were full of apprehension. But if she had hoped to find that these words had been spoken without understanding of their meaning, she was at once disappointed. Mary lay back in her chair, frowning slightly, and looking, Katharine thought, as if she had lived fifteen years or so in the space of a few minutes.
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Mary exclaimed, with unmistakable earnestness, that she must not go; that they met so seldom; that she wanted to talk to her so much.... Katharine was surprised at the earnestness with which she spoke. It seemed to her that there could be no indiscretion in mentioning Ralph by name. Seating herself "for ten minutes," she said: "By the way, Mr. Denham told me he was going to give up the Bar and live in the country. Has he gone? He was beginning to tell me about it, when we were interrupted." "He thinks of it," said Mary briefly. The color at once came to her face. "It would be a very good plan," said Katharine in her decided way. "You think so?" "Yes, because he would do something worth while; he would write a book. My father always says that he s the most remarkable of the young men who write for him." Mary bent low over the fire and stirred the coal between the bars with a poker. Katharine s mention of Ralph had roused within her an almost irresistible desire to explain to her the true state of the case between herself and Ralph. She knew, from the tone of her voice, that in speaking of Ralph she had no desire to probe Mary s secrets, or to insinuate any of her own. Moreover, she liked Katharine; she trusted her; she felt a respect for her. The first step of confidence was comparatively simple; but a further confidence had revealed itself, as Katharine spoke, which was not so simple, and yet it impressed itself upon her as a necessity; she must tell Katharine what it was clear that she had no conception of she must tell Katharine that Ralph was in love with her. "I don t know what he means to do," she said hurriedly, seeking time against the pressure of her own conviction. "I ve not seen him since Christmas." Katharine reflected that this was odd; perhaps, after all, she had misunderstood the position. She was in the habit of assuming, however, that she was rather unobservant of the finer shades of feeling, and she noted her present failure as another proof that she was a practical, abstract-minded person, better fitted to deal with figures than with the feelings of men and women. Anyhow, William Rodney would say so. "And now" she said. "Oh, please stay!"<|quote|>Mary exclaimed, putting out her hand to stop her. Directly Katharine moved she felt, inarticulately and violently, that she could not bear to let her go. If Katharine went, her only chance of speaking was lost; her only chance of saying something tremendously important was lost. Half a dozen words were sufficient to wake Katharine s attention, and put flight and further silence beyond her power. But although the words came to her lips, her throat closed upon them and drove them back. After all, she considered, why should she speak? Because it is right, her instinct told her; right to expose oneself without reservations to other human beings. She flinched from the thought. It asked too much of one already stripped bare. Something she must keep of her own. But if she did keep something of her own? Immediately she figured an immured life, continuing for an immense period, the same feelings living for ever, neither dwindling nor changing within the ring of a thick stone wall. The imagination of this loneliness frightened her, and yet to speak to lose her loneliness, for it had already become dear to her, was beyond her power. Her hand went down to the hem of Katharine s skirt, and, fingering a line of fur, she bent her head as if to examine it.</|quote|>"I like this fur," she said, "I like your clothes. And you mustn t think that I m going to marry Ralph," she continued, in the same tone, "because he doesn t care for me at all. He cares for some one else." Her head remained bent, and her hand still rested upon the skirt. "It s a shabby old dress," said Katharine, and the only sign that Mary s words had reached her was that she spoke with a little jerk. "You don t mind my telling you that?" said Mary, raising herself. "No, no," said Katharine; "but you re mistaken, aren t you?" She was, in truth, horribly uncomfortable, dismayed, indeed, disillusioned. She disliked the turn things had taken quite intensely. The indecency of it afflicted her. The suffering implied by the tone appalled her. She looked at Mary furtively, with eyes that were full of apprehension. But if she had hoped to find that these words had been spoken without understanding of their meaning, she was at once disappointed. Mary lay back in her chair, frowning slightly, and looking, Katharine thought, as if she had lived fifteen years or so in the space of a few minutes. "There are some things, don t you think, that one can t be mistaken about?" Mary said, quietly and almost coldly. "That is what puzzles me about this question of being in love. I ve always prided myself upon being reasonable," she added. "I didn t think I could have felt this I mean if the other person didn t. I was foolish. I let myself pretend." Here she paused. "For, you see, Katharine," she proceeded, rousing herself and speaking with greater energy, "I AM in love. There s no doubt about that.... I m tremendously in love... with Ralph." The little forward shake of her head, which shook a lock of hair, together with her brighter color, gave her an appearance at once proud and defiant. Katharine thought to herself, "That s how it feels then." She hesitated, with a feeling that it was not for her to speak; and then said, in a low tone, "You ve got that." "Yes," said Mary; "I ve got that. One wouldn t _not_ be in love.... But I didn t mean to talk about that; I only wanted you to know. There s another thing I want to tell you..." She
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and struck her as enviably free; in such a room one could work one could have a life of one s own. "I think you re very lucky," she observed. "I envy you, living alone and having your own things" and engaged in this exalted way, which had no recognition or engagement-ring, she added in her own mind. Mary s lips parted slightly. She could not conceive in what respects Katharine, who spoke sincerely, could envy her. "I don t think you ve got any reason to envy me," she said. "Perhaps one always envies other people," Katharine observed vaguely. "Well, but you ve got everything that any one can want." Katharine remained silent. She gazed into the fire quietly, and without a trace of self-consciousness. The hostility which she had divined in Mary s tone had completely disappeared, and she forgot that she had been upon the point of going. "Well, I suppose I have," she said at length. "And yet I sometimes think" She paused; she did not know how to express what she meant. "It came over me in the Tube the other day," she resumed, with a smile; "what is it that makes these people go one way rather than the other? It s not love; it s not reason; I think it must be some idea. Perhaps, Mary, our affections are the shadow of an idea. Perhaps there isn t any such thing as affection in itself...." She spoke half-mockingly, asking her question, which she scarcely troubled to frame, not of Mary, or of any one in particular. But the words seemed to Mary Datchet shallow, supercilious, cold-blooded, and cynical all in one. All her natural instincts were roused in revolt against them. "I m the opposite way of thinking, you see," she said. "Yes; I know you are," Katharine replied, looking at her as if now she were about, perhaps, to explain something very important. Mary could not help feeling the simplicity and good faith that lay behind Katharine s words. "I think affection is the only reality," she said. "Yes," said Katharine, almost sadly. She understood that Mary was thinking of Ralph, and she felt it impossible to press her to reveal more of this exalted condition; she could only respect the fact that, in some few cases, life arranged itself thus satisfactorily and pass on. She rose to her feet accordingly. But Mary exclaimed, with unmistakable earnestness, that she must not go; that they met so seldom; that she wanted to talk to her so much.... Katharine was surprised at the earnestness with which she spoke. It seemed to her that there could be no indiscretion in mentioning Ralph by name. Seating herself "for ten minutes," she said: "By the way, Mr. Denham told me he was going to give up the Bar and live in the country. Has he gone? He was beginning to tell me about it, when we were interrupted." "He thinks of it," said Mary briefly. The color at once came to her face. "It would be a very good plan," said Katharine in her decided way. "You think so?" "Yes, because he would do something worth while; he would write a book. My father always says that he s the most remarkable of the young men who write for him." Mary bent low over the fire and stirred the coal between the bars with a poker. Katharine s mention of Ralph had roused within her an almost irresistible desire to explain to her the true state of the case between herself and Ralph. She knew, from the tone of her voice, that in speaking of Ralph she had no desire to probe Mary s secrets, or to insinuate any of her own. Moreover, she liked Katharine; she trusted her; she felt a respect for her. The first step of confidence was comparatively simple; but a further confidence had revealed itself, as Katharine spoke, which was not so simple, and yet it impressed itself upon her as a necessity; she must tell Katharine what it was clear that she had no conception of she must tell Katharine that Ralph was in love with her. "I don t know what he means to do," she said hurriedly, seeking time against the pressure of her own conviction. "I ve not seen him since Christmas." Katharine reflected that this was odd; perhaps, after all, she had misunderstood the position. She was in the habit of assuming, however, that she was rather unobservant of the finer shades of feeling, and she noted her present failure as another proof that she was a practical, abstract-minded person, better fitted to deal with figures than with the feelings of men and women. Anyhow, William Rodney would say so. "And now" she said. "Oh, please stay!"<|quote|>Mary exclaimed, putting out her hand to stop her. Directly Katharine moved she felt, inarticulately and violently, that she could not bear to let her go. If Katharine went, her only chance of speaking was lost; her only chance of saying something tremendously important was lost. Half a dozen words were sufficient to wake Katharine s attention, and put flight and further silence beyond her power. But although the words came to her lips, her throat closed upon them and drove them back. After all, she considered, why should she speak? Because it is right, her instinct told her; right to expose oneself without reservations to other human beings. She flinched from the thought. It asked too much of one already stripped bare. Something she must keep of her own. But if she did keep something of her own? Immediately she figured an immured life, continuing for an immense period, the same feelings living for ever, neither dwindling nor changing within the ring of a thick stone wall. The imagination of this loneliness frightened her, and yet to speak to lose her loneliness, for it had already become dear to her, was beyond her power. Her hand went down to the hem of Katharine s skirt, and, fingering a line of fur, she bent her head as if to examine it.</|quote|>"I like this fur," she said, "I like your clothes. And you mustn t think that I m going to marry Ralph," she continued, in the same tone, "because he doesn t care for me at all. He cares for some one else." Her head remained bent, and her hand still rested upon the skirt. "It s a shabby old dress," said Katharine, and the only sign that Mary s words had reached her was that she spoke with a little jerk. "You don t mind my telling you that?" said Mary, raising herself. "No, no," said Katharine; "but you re mistaken, aren t you?" She was, in truth, horribly uncomfortable, dismayed, indeed, disillusioned. She disliked the turn things had taken quite intensely. The indecency of it afflicted her. The suffering implied by the tone appalled her. She looked at Mary furtively, with eyes that were full of apprehension. But if she had hoped to find that these words had been spoken without understanding of their meaning, she was at once disappointed. Mary lay back in her chair, frowning slightly, and looking, Katharine thought, as if she had lived fifteen years or so in the space of a few minutes. "There are some things, don t you think, that one can t be mistaken about?" Mary said, quietly and almost coldly. "That is what puzzles me about this question of being in love. I ve always prided myself upon being reasonable," she added. "I didn t think I could have felt this I mean if the other person didn t. I was foolish. I let myself pretend." Here she paused. "For, you see, Katharine," she proceeded, rousing herself and speaking with greater energy, "I AM in love. There s no doubt about that.... I m tremendously in love... with Ralph." The little forward shake of her head, which shook a lock of hair, together with her brighter color, gave her an appearance at once proud and defiant. Katharine thought to herself, "That s how it feels then." She hesitated, with a feeling that it was not for her to speak; and then said, in a low tone, "You ve got that." "Yes," said Mary; "I ve got that. One wouldn t _not_ be in love.... But I didn t mean to talk about that; I only wanted you to know. There s another thing I want to tell you..." She paused. "I haven t any authority from Ralph to say it; but I m sure of this he s in love with you." Katharine looked at her again, as if her first glance must have been deluded, for, surely, there must be some outward sign that Mary was talking in an excited, or bewildered, or fantastic manner. No; she still frowned, as if she sought her way through the clauses of a difficult argument, but she still looked more like one who reasons than one who feels. "That proves that you re mistaken utterly mistaken," said Katharine, speaking reasonably, too. She had no need to verify the mistake by a glance at her own recollections, when the fact was so clearly stamped upon her mind that if Ralph had any feeling towards her it was one of critical hostility. She did not give the matter another thought, and Mary, now that she had stated the fact, did not seek to prove it, but tried to explain to herself, rather than to Katharine, her motives in making the statement. She had nerved herself to do what some large and imperious instinct demanded her doing; she had been swept on the breast of a wave beyond her reckoning. "I ve told you," she said, "because I want you to help me. I don t want to be jealous of you. And I am I m fearfully jealous. The only way, I thought, was to tell you." She hesitated, and groped in her endeavor to make her feelings clear to herself. "If I tell you, then we can talk; and when I m jealous, I can tell you. And if I m tempted to do something frightfully mean, I can tell you; you could make me tell you. I find talking so difficult; but loneliness frightens me. I should shut it up in my mind. Yes, that s what I m afraid of. Going about with something in my mind all my life that never changes. I find it so difficult to change. When I think a thing s wrong I never stop thinking it wrong, and Ralph was quite right, I see, when he said that there s no such thing as right and wrong; no such thing, I mean, as judging people" "Ralph Denham said that?" said Katharine, with considerable indignation. In order to have produced such suffering in Mary, it
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"I m the opposite way of thinking, you see," she said. "Yes; I know you are," Katharine replied, looking at her as if now she were about, perhaps, to explain something very important. Mary could not help feeling the simplicity and good faith that lay behind Katharine s words. "I think affection is the only reality," she said. "Yes," said Katharine, almost sadly. She understood that Mary was thinking of Ralph, and she felt it impossible to press her to reveal more of this exalted condition; she could only respect the fact that, in some few cases, life arranged itself thus satisfactorily and pass on. She rose to her feet accordingly. But Mary exclaimed, with unmistakable earnestness, that she must not go; that they met so seldom; that she wanted to talk to her so much.... Katharine was surprised at the earnestness with which she spoke. It seemed to her that there could be no indiscretion in mentioning Ralph by name. Seating herself "for ten minutes," she said: "By the way, Mr. Denham told me he was going to give up the Bar and live in the country. Has he gone? He was beginning to tell me about it, when we were interrupted." "He thinks of it," said Mary briefly. The color at once came to her face. "It would be a very good plan," said Katharine in her decided way. "You think so?" "Yes, because he would do something worth while; he would write a book. My father always says that he s the most remarkable of the young men who write for him." Mary bent low over the fire and stirred the coal between the bars with a poker. Katharine s mention of Ralph had roused within her an almost irresistible desire to explain to her the true state of the case between herself and Ralph. She knew, from the tone of her voice, that in speaking of Ralph she had no desire to probe Mary s secrets, or to insinuate any of her own. Moreover, she liked Katharine; she trusted her; she felt a respect for her. The first step of confidence was comparatively simple; but a further confidence had revealed itself, as Katharine spoke, which was not so simple, and yet it impressed itself upon her as a necessity; she must tell Katharine what it was clear that she had no conception of she must tell Katharine that Ralph was in love with her. "I don t know what he means to do," she said hurriedly, seeking time against the pressure of her own conviction. "I ve not seen him since Christmas." Katharine reflected that this was odd; perhaps, after all, she had misunderstood the position. She was in the habit of assuming, however, that she was rather unobservant of the finer shades of feeling, and she noted her present failure as another proof that she was a practical, abstract-minded person, better fitted to deal with figures than with the feelings of men and women. Anyhow, William Rodney would say so. "And now" she said. "Oh, please stay!"<|quote|>Mary exclaimed, putting out her hand to stop her. Directly Katharine moved she felt, inarticulately and violently, that she could not bear to let her go. If Katharine went, her only chance of speaking was lost; her only chance of saying something tremendously important was lost. Half a dozen words were sufficient to wake Katharine s attention, and put flight and further silence beyond her power. But although the words came to her lips, her throat closed upon them and drove them back. After all, she considered, why should she speak? Because it is right, her instinct told her; right to expose oneself without reservations to other human beings. She flinched from the thought. It asked too much of one already stripped bare. Something she must keep of her own. But if she did keep something of her own? Immediately she figured an immured life, continuing for an immense period, the same feelings living for ever, neither dwindling nor changing within the ring of a thick stone wall. The imagination of this loneliness frightened her, and yet to speak to lose her loneliness, for it had already become dear to her, was beyond her power. Her hand went down to the hem of Katharine s skirt, and, fingering a line of fur, she bent her head as if to examine it.</|quote|>"I like this fur," she said, "I like your clothes. And you mustn t think that I m going to marry Ralph," she continued, in the same tone, "because he doesn t care for me at all. He cares for some one else." Her head remained bent, and her hand still rested upon the skirt. "It s a shabby old dress," said Katharine, and the only sign that Mary s words had reached her was that she spoke with a little jerk. "You don t mind my telling you that?" said Mary, raising herself. "No, no," said Katharine; "but you re mistaken, aren t you?" She was, in truth, horribly uncomfortable, dismayed, indeed, disillusioned. She disliked the turn things had taken quite intensely. The indecency of it afflicted her. The suffering implied by the tone appalled her. She looked at Mary furtively, with eyes that were full of apprehension. But if she had hoped to find that these words had been spoken without understanding of their meaning, she was at once disappointed. Mary lay back in her chair, frowning slightly, and looking, Katharine thought, as if she had lived fifteen years or so in the space of a few minutes. "There are some things, don t you think, that one can t be mistaken about?" Mary said, quietly and almost coldly. "That is what puzzles me about this question of being in love. I ve always prided myself upon being reasonable," she added. "I didn t think I could have felt this I mean if the other person didn t. I was foolish. I let myself pretend." Here she paused. "For, you see, Katharine," she proceeded, rousing herself and speaking with greater energy, "I AM in love. There s no doubt about that.... I m tremendously in love... with Ralph." The little forward shake of her head, which shook a lock of hair, together with her brighter color, gave her an appearance at once proud and defiant. Katharine thought to herself, "That s how it feels then." She hesitated, with a feeling that it was not for her to speak; and then said, in a low tone, "You ve got that." "Yes," said Mary; "I ve got that. One wouldn t _not_ be in love.... But I didn t mean to talk about that; I only wanted you to know. There s another thing I want to tell you..." She paused. "I haven t any authority from Ralph to say it; but I m sure of this he s in love with you." Katharine looked at her again, as if her first glance must have been deluded, for, surely, there must be some outward sign that Mary was talking in an excited, or bewildered, or fantastic manner. No; she still frowned, as if she sought her way through the clauses of a difficult argument, but she still looked more like one who reasons than one who feels. "That proves that you re mistaken utterly mistaken," said Katharine, speaking reasonably, too. She had no need to verify the mistake by a glance at her own recollections, when the fact was so clearly stamped upon her mind that if Ralph had any feeling towards her it was one of critical hostility. She did not give the matter another thought, and Mary, now that she had stated the fact, did not seek to prove it, but tried to explain to herself, rather than to Katharine, her motives in making the statement. She
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Night And Day
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said Mr. Fang. The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.
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No speaker
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angry scowl. "Who are you?"<|quote|>said Mr. Fang. The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.</|quote|>"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing
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he looked up with an angry scowl. "Who are you?"<|quote|>said Mr. Fang. The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.</|quote|>"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with
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the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl. "Who are you?"<|quote|>said Mr. Fang. The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.</|quote|>"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. "Who is this fellow?" "My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman, "my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a
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to the word, "That is my name and address, sir." He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned. Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl. "Who are you?"<|quote|>said Mr. Fang. The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.</|quote|>"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. "Who is this fellow?" "My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman, "my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench." Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information. "Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, "what's this fellow charged with?" "He's not charged at all,
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in which poor little Oliver was already deposited; trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene. Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head. His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages. The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate's desk, said, suiting the action to the word, "That is my name and address, sir." He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned. Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl. "Who are you?"<|quote|>said Mr. Fang. The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.</|quote|>"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. "Who is this fellow?" "My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman, "my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench." Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information. "Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, "what's this fellow charged with?" "He's not charged at all, your worship," replied the officer. "He appears against this boy, your worship." His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one. "Appears against the boy, does he?" said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. "Swear him!" "Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word," said Mr. Brownlow; "and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have believed" "Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. Fang, peremptorily. "I will not, sir!" replied the old gentleman. "Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned
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grave had changed and closed upon, but which the mind, superior to its power, still dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling back the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth only to be set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to Heaven. But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver's features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he awakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried them again in the pages of the musty book. He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily; and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang. The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang sat behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side the door was a sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited; trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene. Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head. His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages. The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate's desk, said, suiting the action to the word, "That is my name and address, sir." He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned. Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl. "Who are you?"<|quote|>said Mr. Fang. The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.</|quote|>"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. "Who is this fellow?" "My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman, "my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench." Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information. "Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, "what's this fellow charged with?" "He's not charged at all, your worship," replied the officer. "He appears against this boy, your worship." His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one. "Appears against the boy, does he?" said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. "Swear him!" "Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word," said Mr. Brownlow; "and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have believed" "Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. Fang, peremptorily. "I will not, sir!" replied the old gentleman. "Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned out of the office!" said Mr. Fang. "You're an insolent impertinent fellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!" "What!" exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening. "Swear this person!" said Fang to the clerk. "I'll not hear another word. Swear him." Mr. Brownlow's indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps, that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once. "Now," said Fang, "what's the charge against this boy? What have you got to say, sir?" "I was standing at a bookstall" Mr. Brownlow began. "Hold your tongue, sir," said Mr. Fang. "Policeman! Where's the policeman? Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?" The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the charge; how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person; and how that was all he knew about it. "Are there any witnesses?" inquired Mr. Fang. "None, your worship," replied the policeman. Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the prosecutor, said in a towering passion. "Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or do you not? You have been
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I I would rather not press the case." "Must go before the magistrate now, sir," replied the man. "His worship will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!" This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched; and nothing being found upon him, locked up. This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not so light. It was most intolerably dirty; for it was Monday morning; and it had been tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up, elsewhere, since Saturday night. But this is little. In our station-houses, men and women are every night confined on the most trivial charges the word is worth noting in dungeons, compared with which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried, found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any one who doubts this, compare the two. The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated in the lock. He turned with a sigh to the book, which had been the innocent cause of all this disturbance. "There is something in that boy's face," said the old gentleman to himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of the book, in a thoughtful manner; "something that touches and interests me. _Can_ he be innocent? He looked like Bye the bye," exclaimed the old gentleman, halting very abruptly, and staring up into the sky, "Bless my soul! where have I seen something like that look before?" After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the same meditative face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard; and there, retiring into a corner, called up before his mind's eye a vast amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many years. "No," said the old gentleman, shaking his head; "it must be imagination." He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was not easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There were the faces of friends, and foes, and of many that had been almost strangers peering intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of young and blooming girls that were now old women; there were faces that the grave had changed and closed upon, but which the mind, superior to its power, still dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling back the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth only to be set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to Heaven. But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver's features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he awakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried them again in the pages of the musty book. He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily; and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang. The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang sat behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side the door was a sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited; trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene. Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head. His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages. The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate's desk, said, suiting the action to the word, "That is my name and address, sir." He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned. Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl. "Who are you?"<|quote|>said Mr. Fang. The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.</|quote|>"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. "Who is this fellow?" "My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman, "my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench." Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information. "Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, "what's this fellow charged with?" "He's not charged at all, your worship," replied the officer. "He appears against this boy, your worship." His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one. "Appears against the boy, does he?" said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. "Swear him!" "Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word," said Mr. Brownlow; "and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have believed" "Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. Fang, peremptorily. "I will not, sir!" replied the old gentleman. "Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned out of the office!" said Mr. Fang. "You're an insolent impertinent fellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!" "What!" exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening. "Swear this person!" said Fang to the clerk. "I'll not hear another word. Swear him." Mr. Brownlow's indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps, that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once. "Now," said Fang, "what's the charge against this boy? What have you got to say, sir?" "I was standing at a bookstall" Mr. Brownlow began. "Hold your tongue, sir," said Mr. Fang. "Policeman! Where's the policeman? Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?" The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the charge; how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person; and how that was all he knew about it. "Are there any witnesses?" inquired Mr. Fang. "None, your worship," replied the policeman. Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the prosecutor, said in a towering passion. "Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give evidence, I'll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by" By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailor coughed very loud, just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy book upon the floor, thus preventing the word from being heard accidently, of course. With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived to state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he had run after the boy because he had saw him running away; and expressing his hope that, if the magistrate should believe him, although not actually the thief, to be connected with the thieves, he would deal as leniently with him as justice would allow. "He has been hurt already," said the old gentleman in conclusion. "And I fear," he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, "I really fear that he is ill." "Oh! yes, I dare say!" said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. "Come, none of your tricks here, you young vagabond; they won't do. What's your name?" Oliver tried to reply but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale; and the whole place seemed turning round and round. "What's your name, you hardened scoundrel?" demanded Mr. Fang. "Officer, what's his name?" This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat, who was standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry; but finding him really incapable of understanding the question; and knowing that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the more, and add to the severity of his sentence; he hazarded a guess. "He says his name's Tom White, your worship," said the kind-hearted thief-taker. "Oh, he won't speak out, won't he?" said Fang. "Very well, very well. Where does he live?" "Where he can, your worship," replied the officer; again pretending to receive Oliver's answer. "Has he any parents?" inquired Mr. Fang. "He says they died in his infancy, your worship," replied the officer: hazarding the usual reply. At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and, looking round with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water. "Stuff and nonsense!" said Mr. Fang: "don't try to make a fool of me." "I think he really is ill, your worship," remonstrated the officer. "I know better," said Mr.
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of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth only to be set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to Heaven. But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver's features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he awakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried them again in the pages of the musty book. He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily; and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang. The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang sat behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side the door was a sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited; trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene. Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head. His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages. The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate's desk, said, suiting the action to the word, "That is my name and address, sir." He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned. Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl. "Who are you?"<|quote|>said Mr. Fang. The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.</|quote|>"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. "Who is this fellow?" "My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman, "my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench." Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information. "Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, "what's this fellow charged with?" "He's not charged at all, your worship," replied the officer. "He appears against this boy, your worship." His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one. "Appears against the boy, does he?" said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. "Swear him!" "Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word," said Mr. Brownlow; "and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have believed" "Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. Fang, peremptorily. "I will not, sir!" replied the old gentleman. "Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned out of the office!" said Mr. Fang. "You're an insolent impertinent fellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!" "What!" exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.
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Oliver Twist
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"that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!"
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Stephen Blackpool
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my dear," said Stephen Blackpool<|quote|>"that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!"</|quote|>It was but a hurried
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at last!" "I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen Blackpool<|quote|>"that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!"</|quote|>It was but a hurried parting in a common street,
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all that happens, Stephen?" "Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!" "May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at last!" "I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen Blackpool<|quote|>"that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!"</|quote|>It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to these two common people. Utilitarian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact, genteel and used-up infidels, gabblers of many little dog's-eared creeds, the poor you will have always with you. Cultivate in them,
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for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that." "Well, well," said he. "'Tis better, onnyways." "Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?" "Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!" "May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at last!" "I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen Blackpool<|quote|>"that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!"</|quote|>It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to these two common people. Utilitarian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact, genteel and used-up infidels, gabblers of many little dog's-eared creeds, the poor you will have always with you. Cultivate in them, while there is yet time, the utmost graces of the fancies and affections, to adorn their lives so much in need of ornament; or, in the day of your triumph, when romance is utterly driven out of their souls, and they and a bare existence stand face to face, Reality
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street where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. "I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not" "Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another." "Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that." "Well, well," said he. "'Tis better, onnyways." "Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?" "Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!" "May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at last!" "I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen Blackpool<|quote|>"that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!"</|quote|>It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to these two common people. Utilitarian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact, genteel and used-up infidels, gabblers of many little dog's-eared creeds, the poor you will have always with you. Cultivate in them, while there is yet time, the utmost graces of the fancies and affections, to adorn their lives so much in need of ornament; or, in the day of your triumph, when romance is utterly driven out of their souls, and they and a bare existence stand face to face, Reality will take a wolfish turn, and make an end of you. Stephen worked the next day, and the next, uncheered by a word from any one, and shunned in all his comings and goings as before. At the end of the second day, he saw land; at the end of the third, his loom stood empty. He had overstayed his hour in the street outside the Bank, on each of the two first evenings; and nothing had happened there, good or bad. That he might not be remiss in his part of the engagement, he resolved to wait full two
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I have in view, and she'll approve, I know. Now look here! You're all right, are you? You understand all about it? Very well then. Come along, Loo!" He pushed the door open as he called to her, but did not return into the room, or wait to be lighted down the narrow stairs. He was at the bottom when she began to descend, and was in the street before she could take his arm. Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until the brother and sister were gone, and until Stephen came back with the candle in his hand. She was in a state of inexpressible admiration of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an unaccountable old woman, wept, "because she was such a pretty dear." Yet Mrs. Pegler was so flurried lest the object of her admiration should return by chance, or anybody else should come, that her cheerfulness was ended for that night. It was late too, to people who rose early and worked hard; therefore the party broke up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysterious acquaintance to the door of the Travellers' Coffee House, where they parted from her. They walked back together to the corner of the street where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. "I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not" "Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another." "Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that." "Well, well," said he. "'Tis better, onnyways." "Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?" "Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!" "May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at last!" "I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen Blackpool<|quote|>"that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!"</|quote|>It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to these two common people. Utilitarian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact, genteel and used-up infidels, gabblers of many little dog's-eared creeds, the poor you will have always with you. Cultivate in them, while there is yet time, the utmost graces of the fancies and affections, to adorn their lives so much in need of ornament; or, in the day of your triumph, when romance is utterly driven out of their souls, and they and a bare existence stand face to face, Reality will take a wolfish turn, and make an end of you. Stephen worked the next day, and the next, uncheered by a word from any one, and shunned in all his comings and goings as before. At the end of the second day, he saw land; at the end of the third, his loom stood empty. He had overstayed his hour in the street outside the Bank, on each of the two first evenings; and nothing had happened there, good or bad. That he might not be remiss in his part of the engagement, he resolved to wait full two hours, on this third and last night. There was the lady who had once kept Mr. Bounderby's house, sitting at the first-floor window as he had seen her before; and there was the light porter, sometimes talking with her there, and sometimes looking over the blind below which had BANK upon it, and sometimes coming to the door and standing on the steps for a breath of air. When he first came out, Stephen thought he might be looking for him, and passed near; but the light porter only cast his winking eyes upon him slightly, and said nothing. Two hours were a long stretch of lounging about, after a long day's labour. Stephen sat upon the step of a door, leaned against a wall under an archway, strolled up and down, listened for the church clock, stopped and watched children playing in the street. Some purpose or other is so natural to every one, that a mere loiterer always looks and feels remarkable. When the first hour was out, Stephen even began to have an uncomfortable sensation upon him of being for the time a disreputable character. Then came the lamplighter, and two lengthening lines of light all down
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Loo! Before we go, I should like to speak to him a moment. Something comes into my head. If you'll step out on the stairs, Blackpool, I'll mention it. Never mind a light, man!" Tom was remarkably impatient of his moving towards the cupboard, to get one. "It don't want a light." Stephen followed him out, and Tom closed the room door, and held the lock in his hand. "I say!" he whispered. "I think I can do you a good turn. Don't ask me what it is, because it may not come to anything. But there's no harm in my trying." His breath fell like a flame of fire on Stephen's ear, it was so hot. "That was our light porter at the Bank," said Tom, "who brought you the message to-night. I call him our light porter, because I belong to the Bank too." Stephen thought, "What a hurry he is in!" He spoke so confusedly. "Well!" said Tom. "Now look here! When are you off?" "T' day's Monday," replied Stephen, considering. "Why, sir, Friday or Saturday, nigh 'bout." "Friday or Saturday," said Tom. "Now look here! I am not sure that I can do you the good turn I want to do you that's my sister, you know, in your room but I may be able to, and if I should not be able to, there's no harm done. So I tell you what. You'll know our light porter again?" "Yes, sure," said Stephen. "Very well," returned Tom. "When you leave work of a night, between this and your going away, just hang about the Bank an hour or so, will you? Don't take on, as if you meant anything, if he should see you hanging about there; because I shan't put him up to speak to you, unless I find I can do you the service I want to do you. In that case he'll have a note or a message for you, but not else. Now look here! You are sure you understand." He had wormed a finger, in the darkness, through a button-hole of Stephen's coat, and was screwing that corner of the garment tight up round and round, in an extraordinary manner. "I understand, sir," said Stephen. "Now look here!" repeated Tom. "Be sure you don't make any mistake then, and don't forget. I shall tell my sister as we go home, what I have in view, and she'll approve, I know. Now look here! You're all right, are you? You understand all about it? Very well then. Come along, Loo!" He pushed the door open as he called to her, but did not return into the room, or wait to be lighted down the narrow stairs. He was at the bottom when she began to descend, and was in the street before she could take his arm. Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until the brother and sister were gone, and until Stephen came back with the candle in his hand. She was in a state of inexpressible admiration of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an unaccountable old woman, wept, "because she was such a pretty dear." Yet Mrs. Pegler was so flurried lest the object of her admiration should return by chance, or anybody else should come, that her cheerfulness was ended for that night. It was late too, to people who rose early and worked hard; therefore the party broke up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysterious acquaintance to the door of the Travellers' Coffee House, where they parted from her. They walked back together to the corner of the street where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. "I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not" "Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another." "Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that." "Well, well," said he. "'Tis better, onnyways." "Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?" "Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!" "May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at last!" "I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen Blackpool<|quote|>"that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!"</|quote|>It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to these two common people. Utilitarian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact, genteel and used-up infidels, gabblers of many little dog's-eared creeds, the poor you will have always with you. Cultivate in them, while there is yet time, the utmost graces of the fancies and affections, to adorn their lives so much in need of ornament; or, in the day of your triumph, when romance is utterly driven out of their souls, and they and a bare existence stand face to face, Reality will take a wolfish turn, and make an end of you. Stephen worked the next day, and the next, uncheered by a word from any one, and shunned in all his comings and goings as before. At the end of the second day, he saw land; at the end of the third, his loom stood empty. He had overstayed his hour in the street outside the Bank, on each of the two first evenings; and nothing had happened there, good or bad. That he might not be remiss in his part of the engagement, he resolved to wait full two hours, on this third and last night. There was the lady who had once kept Mr. Bounderby's house, sitting at the first-floor window as he had seen her before; and there was the light porter, sometimes talking with her there, and sometimes looking over the blind below which had BANK upon it, and sometimes coming to the door and standing on the steps for a breath of air. When he first came out, Stephen thought he might be looking for him, and passed near; but the light porter only cast his winking eyes upon him slightly, and said nothing. Two hours were a long stretch of lounging about, after a long day's labour. Stephen sat upon the step of a door, leaned against a wall under an archway, strolled up and down, listened for the church clock, stopped and watched children playing in the street. Some purpose or other is so natural to every one, that a mere loiterer always looks and feels remarkable. When the first hour was out, Stephen even began to have an uncomfortable sensation upon him of being for the time a disreputable character. Then came the lamplighter, and two lengthening lines of light all down the long perspective of the street, until they were blended and lost in the distance. Mrs. Sparsit closed the first-floor window, drew down the blind, and went up-stairs. Presently, a light went up-stairs after her, passing first the fanlight of the door, and afterwards the two staircase windows, on its way up. By and by, one corner of the second-floor blind was disturbed, as if Mrs. Sparsit's eye were there; also the other corner, as if the light porter's eye were on that side. Still, no communication was made to Stephen. Much relieved when the two hours were at last accomplished, he went away at a quick pace, as a recompense for so much loitering. He had only to take leave of his landlady, and lie down on his temporary bed upon the floor; for his bundle was made up for to-morrow, and all was arranged for his departure. He meant to be clear of the town very early; before the Hands were in the streets. It was barely daybreak, when, with a parting look round his room, mournfully wondering whether he should ever see it again, he went out. The town was as entirely deserted as if the inhabitants had abandoned it, rather than hold communication with him. Everything looked wan at that hour. Even the coming sun made but a pale waste in the sky, like a sad sea. By the place where Rachael lived, though it was not in his way; by the red brick streets; by the great silent factories, not trembling yet; by the railway, where the danger-lights were waning in the strengthening day; by the railway's crazy neighbourhood, half pulled down and half built up; by scattered red brick villas, where the besmoked evergreens were sprinkled with a dirty powder, like untidy snuff-takers; by coal-dust paths and many varieties of ugliness; Stephen got to the top of the hill, and looked back. Day was shining radiantly upon the town then, and the bells were going for the morning work. Domestic fires were not yet lighted, and the high chimneys had the sky to themselves. Puffing out their poisonous volumes, they would not be long in hiding it; but, for half an hour, some of the many windows were golden, which showed the Coketown people a sun eternally in eclipse, through a medium of smoked glass. So strange to turn from the chimneys to the
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back with the candle in his hand. She was in a state of inexpressible admiration of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an unaccountable old woman, wept, "because she was such a pretty dear." Yet Mrs. Pegler was so flurried lest the object of her admiration should return by chance, or anybody else should come, that her cheerfulness was ended for that night. It was late too, to people who rose early and worked hard; therefore the party broke up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysterious acquaintance to the door of the Travellers' Coffee House, where they parted from her. They walked back together to the corner of the street where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. "I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not" "Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another." "Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that." "Well, well," said he. "'Tis better, onnyways." "Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?" "Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!" "May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at last!" "I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen Blackpool<|quote|>"that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!"</|quote|>It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to these two common people. Utilitarian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact, genteel and used-up infidels, gabblers of many little dog's-eared creeds, the poor you will have always with you. Cultivate in them, while there is yet time, the utmost graces of the fancies and affections, to adorn their lives so much in need of ornament; or, in the day of your triumph, when romance is utterly driven out of their souls, and they and a bare existence stand face to face, Reality will take a wolfish turn, and make an end of you. Stephen worked the next day, and the next, uncheered by a word from any one, and shunned in all his comings and goings as before. At the end of the second day, he saw land; at the end of the third, his loom stood empty. He had overstayed his hour in the street outside the Bank, on each of the two first evenings; and nothing had happened there, good or bad. That he might not be remiss in his part of the engagement, he resolved to wait full two hours, on this third and last night. There was the lady who had once kept Mr. Bounderby's house, sitting at the first-floor window as he had seen her before; and there was the light porter, sometimes talking with her there, and sometimes looking over the blind below which had BANK upon it, and sometimes coming to the door and standing on the steps for a breath of air. When he first came out, Stephen thought he might be looking for him, and passed near; but the light porter only cast his winking eyes upon him slightly, and said nothing. Two hours were a long stretch of lounging about, after a long day's labour. Stephen sat upon the step of a door, leaned against a wall under an archway, strolled up and down, listened for the church clock, stopped and watched children playing in the street. Some purpose or other is so natural to every one, that a mere loiterer always looks and feels remarkable. When the first hour was out, Stephen even began to have an uncomfortable sensation upon him of being for the time a disreputable character. Then came the lamplighter, and two lengthening lines of light all down the long perspective of the street, until they were blended and lost in the distance. Mrs. Sparsit closed the first-floor window, drew down the blind, and went up-stairs. Presently, a light went up-stairs after her, passing first the fanlight of the door, and afterwards the two staircase windows, on its way up.
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Hard Times
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"Small threw it into the Thames,"
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Dr. Watson
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value. Where is the key?"<|quote|>"Small threw it into the Thames,"</|quote|>I answered. "I must borrow
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alone must be of some value. Where is the key?"<|quote|>"Small threw it into the Thames,"</|quote|>I answered. "I must borrow Mrs. Forrester s poker." There
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a prize which had cost so much to win. "What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian work, I suppose?" "Yes; it is Benares metal-work." "And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone must be of some value. Where is the key?"<|quote|>"Small threw it into the Thames,"</|quote|>I answered. "I must borrow Mrs. Forrester s poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp, wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open with a loud
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me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it." "It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize which had cost so much to win. "What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian work, I suppose?" "Yes; it is Benares metal-work." "And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone must be of some value. Where is the key?"<|quote|>"Small threw it into the Thames,"</|quote|>I answered. "I must borrow Mrs. Forrester s poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp, wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty! No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest constructed to carry things of
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spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she was about to faint. "It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water. "I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed my friends in such horrible peril." "That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you no more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it." "It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize which had cost so much to win. "What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian work, I suppose?" "Yes; it is Benares metal-work." "And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone must be of some value. Where is the key?"<|quote|>"Small threw it into the Thames,"</|quote|>I answered. "I must borrow Mrs. Forrester s poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp, wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty! No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and completely empty. "The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly. As I listened to the words and realised what they meant, a great shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed. It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realise nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank God!" I ejaculated from my very heart. She looked
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yours and half is Thaddeus Sholto s. You will have a couple of hundred thousand each. Think of that! An annuity of ten thousand pounds. There will be few richer young ladies in England. Is it not glorious?" I think that I must have been rather overacting my delight, and that she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw her eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously. "If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you." "No, no," I answered, "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes. With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue which has taxed even his analytical genius. As it was, we very nearly lost it at the last moment." "Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson," said she. I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her last, Holmes s new method of search, the discovery of the _Aurora_, the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she was about to faint. "It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water. "I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed my friends in such horrible peril." "That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you no more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it." "It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize which had cost so much to win. "What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian work, I suppose?" "Yes; it is Benares metal-work." "And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone must be of some value. Where is the key?"<|quote|>"Small threw it into the Thames,"</|quote|>I answered. "I must borrow Mrs. Forrester s poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp, wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty! No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and completely empty. "The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly. As I listened to the words and realised what they meant, a great shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed. It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realise nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank God!" I ejaculated from my very heart. She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say that?" she asked. "Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is why I said," Thank God. " "Then I say," Thank God, "too," she whispered, as I drew her to my side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had gained one. Chapter XII The Strange Story of Jonathan Small A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him the empty box. "There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. "Where there is no money there is no pay. This night s work would have been worth a tenner each to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there." "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said. "He will see that you are rewarded, treasure or no." The
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so valuable a charge. You will drive, no doubt?" "Yes, I shall drive." "It is a pity there is no key, that we may make an inventory first. You will have to break it open. Where is the key, my man?" "At the bottom of the river," said Small, shortly. "Hum! There was no use your giving this unnecessary trouble. We have had work enough already through you. However, doctor, I need not warn you to be careful. Bring the box back with you to the Baker Street rooms. You will find us there, on our way to the station." They landed me at Vauxhall, with my heavy iron box, and with a bluff, genial inspector as my companion. A quarter of an hour s drive brought us to Mrs. Cecil Forrester s. The servant seemed surprised at so late a visitor. Mrs. Cecil Forrester was out for the evening, she explained, and likely to be very late. Miss Morstan, however, was in the drawing-room: so to the drawing-room I went, box in hand, leaving the obliging inspector in the cab. She was seated by the open window, dressed in some sort of white diaphanous material, with a little touch of scarlet at the neck and waist. The soft light of a shaded lamp fell upon her as she leaned back in the basket chair, playing over her sweet, grave face, and tinting with a dull, metallic sparkle the rich coils of her luxuriant hair. One white arm and hand drooped over the side of the chair, and her whole pose and figure spoke of an absorbing melancholy. At the sound of my foot-fall she sprang to her feet, however, and a bright flush of surprise and of pleasure coloured her pale cheeks. "I heard a cab drive up," she said. "I thought that Mrs. Forrester had come back very early, but I never dreamed that it might be you. What news have you brought me?" "I have brought something better than news," said I, putting down the box upon the table and speaking jovially and boisterously, though my heart was heavy within me. "I have brought you something which is worth all the news in the world. I have brought you a fortune." She glanced at the iron box. "Is that the treasure, then?" she asked, coolly enough. "Yes, this is the great Agra treasure. Half of it is yours and half is Thaddeus Sholto s. You will have a couple of hundred thousand each. Think of that! An annuity of ten thousand pounds. There will be few richer young ladies in England. Is it not glorious?" I think that I must have been rather overacting my delight, and that she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw her eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously. "If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you." "No, no," I answered, "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes. With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue which has taxed even his analytical genius. As it was, we very nearly lost it at the last moment." "Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson," said she. I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her last, Holmes s new method of search, the discovery of the _Aurora_, the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she was about to faint. "It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water. "I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed my friends in such horrible peril." "That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you no more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it." "It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize which had cost so much to win. "What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian work, I suppose?" "Yes; it is Benares metal-work." "And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone must be of some value. Where is the key?"<|quote|>"Small threw it into the Thames,"</|quote|>I answered. "I must borrow Mrs. Forrester s poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp, wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty! No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and completely empty. "The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly. As I listened to the words and realised what they meant, a great shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed. It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realise nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank God!" I ejaculated from my very heart. She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say that?" she asked. "Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is why I said," Thank God. " "Then I say," Thank God, "too," she whispered, as I drew her to my side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had gained one. Chapter XII The Strange Story of Jonathan Small A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him the empty box. "There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. "Where there is no money there is no pay. This night s work would have been worth a tenner each to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there." "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said. "He will see that you are rewarded, treasure or no." The inspector shook his head despondently, however. "It s a bad job," he repeated; "and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think." His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box. They had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a station upon the way. My companion lounged in his arm-chair with his usual listless expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite to him with his wooden leg cocked over his sound one. As I exhibited the empty box he leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud. "This is your doing, Small," said Athelney Jones, angrily. "Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay hand upon it," he cried, exultantly. "It is my treasure; and if I can t have the loot I ll take darned good care that no one else does. I tell you that no living man has any right to it, unless it is three men who are in the Andaman convict-barracks and myself. I know now that I cannot have the use of it, and I know that they cannot. I have acted all through for them as much as for myself. It s been the sign of four with us always. Well I know that they would have had me do just what I have done, and throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to kith or kin of Sholto or of Morstan. It was not to make them rich that we did for Achmet. You ll find the treasure where the key is, and where little Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us, I put the loot away in a safe place. There are no rupees for you this journey." "You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly. "If you had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames it would have been easier for you to have thrown box and all." "Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover," he answered, with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so,
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and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she was about to faint. "It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water. "I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed my friends in such horrible peril." "That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you no more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it." "It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize which had cost so much to win. "What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian work, I suppose?" "Yes; it is Benares metal-work." "And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone must be of some value. Where is the key?"<|quote|>"Small threw it into the Thames,"</|quote|>I answered. "I must borrow Mrs. Forrester s poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp, wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty! No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and completely empty. "The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly. As I listened to the words and realised what they meant, a great shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed. It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realise nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank God!" I ejaculated from my very heart. She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say that?" she asked. "Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is why I said," Thank God. " "Then I say," Thank God, "too," she whispered, as I drew her to my side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had gained one. Chapter XII The Strange Story of Jonathan Small A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him the empty box. "There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. "Where there is no money there is no pay. This night s work would have been worth a
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The Sign Of The Four
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"I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night,"
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Mr. Grimwig
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offer a word in extenuation.<|quote|>"I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night,"</|quote|>said Mr. Grimwig, "for I
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all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation.<|quote|>"I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night,"</|quote|>said Mr. Grimwig, "for I began to think I should
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a trying thing waiting supper for lovers," said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head. Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation.<|quote|>"I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night,"</|quote|>said Mr. Grimwig, "for I began to think I should get nothing else. I'll take the liberty, if you'll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be." Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was
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trees in England's richest county; and by one village church mine, Rose, my own! there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank and station now, and here I lay it down!" "It's a trying thing waiting supper for lovers," said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head. Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation.<|quote|>"I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night,"</|quote|>said Mr. Grimwig, "for I began to think I should get nothing else. I'll take the liberty, if you'll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be." Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the doctor and Mr. Brownlow: some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it, originally, in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider this downright scandal: he being young and a clergyman. "Oliver, my child," said Mrs. Maylie, "where have you been,
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when I left you last, I left you with a firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and proved you so far right. Such power and patronage: such relatives of influence and rank: as smiled upon me then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees in England's richest county; and by one village church mine, Rose, my own! there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank and station now, and here I lay it down!" "It's a trying thing waiting supper for lovers," said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head. Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation.<|quote|>"I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night,"</|quote|>said Mr. Grimwig, "for I began to think I should get nothing else. I'll take the liberty, if you'll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be." Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the doctor and Mr. Brownlow: some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it, originally, in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider this downright scandal: he being young and a clergyman. "Oliver, my child," said Mrs. Maylie, "where have you been, and why do you look so sad? There are tears stealing down your face at this moment. What is the matter?" It is a world of disappointment: often to the hopes we most cherish, and hopes that do our nature the greatest honour. Poor Dick was dead! CHAPTER LII. FAGIN'S LAST NIGHT ALIVE The court was paved, from floor to roof, with human faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes peered from every inch of space. From the rail before the dock, away into the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all looks were fixed upon one man Fagin.
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in the same position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before." "You harden your heart against me, Rose," urged her lover. "Oh Harry, Harry," said the young lady, bursting into tears; "I wish I could, and spare myself this pain." "Then why inflict it on yourself?" said Harry, taking her hand. "Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night." "And what have I heard! What have I heard!" cried Rose. "That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough." "Not yet, not yet," said the young man, detaining her as she rose. "My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling: every thought in life except my love for you: have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home a heart and home yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to offer." "What do you mean!" she faltered. "I mean but this that when I left you last, I left you with a firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and proved you so far right. Such power and patronage: such relatives of influence and rank: as smiled upon me then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees in England's richest county; and by one village church mine, Rose, my own! there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank and station now, and here I lay it down!" "It's a trying thing waiting supper for lovers," said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head. Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation.<|quote|>"I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night,"</|quote|>said Mr. Grimwig, "for I began to think I should get nothing else. I'll take the liberty, if you'll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be." Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the doctor and Mr. Brownlow: some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it, originally, in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider this downright scandal: he being young and a clergyman. "Oliver, my child," said Mrs. Maylie, "where have you been, and why do you look so sad? There are tears stealing down your face at this moment. What is the matter?" It is a world of disappointment: often to the hopes we most cherish, and hopes that do our nature the greatest honour. Poor Dick was dead! CHAPTER LII. FAGIN'S LAST NIGHT ALIVE The court was paved, from floor to roof, with human faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes peered from every inch of space. From the rail before the dock, away into the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all looks were fixed upon one man Fagin. Before him and behind: above, below, on the right and on the left: he seemed to stand surrounded by a firmament, all bright with gleaming eyes. He stood there, in all this glare of living light, with one hand resting on the wooden slab before him, the other held to his ear, and his head thrust forward to enable him to catch with greater distinctness every word that fell from the presiding judge, who was delivering his charge to the jury. At times, he turned his eyes sharply upon them to observe the effect of the slightest featherweight in his favour; and when the points against him were stated with terrible distinctness, looked towards his counsel, in mute appeal that he would, even then, urge something in his behalf. Beyond these manifestations of anxiety, he stirred not hand or foot. He had scarcely moved since the trial began; and now that the judge ceased to speak, he still remained in the same strained attitude of close attention, with his gaze bent on him, as though he listened still. A slight bustle in the court, recalled him to himself. Looking round, he saw that the jurymen had turned together, to consider
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Maylie, embracing her tenderly. "Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child! See here look, look, my dear!" "Not aunt," cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck; "I'll never call her aunt sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first! Rose, dear, darling Rose!" Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain. They were a long, long time alone. A soft tap at the door, at length announced that some one was without. Oliver opened it, glided away, and gave place to Harry Maylie. "I know it all," he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. "Dear Rose, I know it all." "I am not here by accident," he added after a lengthened silence; "nor have I heard all this to-night, for I knew it yesterday only yesterday. Do you guess that I have come to remind you of a promise?" "Stay," said Rose. "You _do_ know all." "All. You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the subject of our last discourse." "I did." "Not to press you to alter your determination," pursued the young man, "but to hear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to change it." "The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me now," said Rose firmly. "If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whose goodness saved me from a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it, as I should to-night? It is a struggle," said Rose, "but one I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall bear." "The disclosure of to-night," Harry began. "The disclosure of to-night," replied Rose softly, "leaves me in the same position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before." "You harden your heart against me, Rose," urged her lover. "Oh Harry, Harry," said the young lady, bursting into tears; "I wish I could, and spare myself this pain." "Then why inflict it on yourself?" said Harry, taking her hand. "Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night." "And what have I heard! What have I heard!" cried Rose. "That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough." "Not yet, not yet," said the young man, detaining her as she rose. "My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling: every thought in life except my love for you: have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home a heart and home yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to offer." "What do you mean!" she faltered. "I mean but this that when I left you last, I left you with a firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and proved you so far right. Such power and patronage: such relatives of influence and rank: as smiled upon me then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees in England's richest county; and by one village church mine, Rose, my own! there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank and station now, and here I lay it down!" "It's a trying thing waiting supper for lovers," said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head. Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation.<|quote|>"I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night,"</|quote|>said Mr. Grimwig, "for I began to think I should get nothing else. I'll take the liberty, if you'll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be." Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the doctor and Mr. Brownlow: some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it, originally, in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider this downright scandal: he being young and a clergyman. "Oliver, my child," said Mrs. Maylie, "where have you been, and why do you look so sad? There are tears stealing down your face at this moment. What is the matter?" It is a world of disappointment: often to the hopes we most cherish, and hopes that do our nature the greatest honour. Poor Dick was dead! CHAPTER LII. FAGIN'S LAST NIGHT ALIVE The court was paved, from floor to roof, with human faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes peered from every inch of space. From the rail before the dock, away into the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all looks were fixed upon one man Fagin. Before him and behind: above, below, on the right and on the left: he seemed to stand surrounded by a firmament, all bright with gleaming eyes. He stood there, in all this glare of living light, with one hand resting on the wooden slab before him, the other held to his ear, and his head thrust forward to enable him to catch with greater distinctness every word that fell from the presiding judge, who was delivering his charge to the jury. At times, he turned his eyes sharply upon them to observe the effect of the slightest featherweight in his favour; and when the points against him were stated with terrible distinctness, looked towards his counsel, in mute appeal that he would, even then, urge something in his behalf. Beyond these manifestations of anxiety, he stirred not hand or foot. He had scarcely moved since the trial began; and now that the judge ceased to speak, he still remained in the same strained attitude of close attention, with his gaze bent on him, as though he listened still. A slight bustle in the court, recalled him to himself. Looking round, he saw that the jurymen had turned together, to consider their verdict. As his eyes wandered to the gallery, he could see the people rising above each other to see his face: some hastily applying their glasses to their eyes: and others whispering their neighbours with looks expressive of abhorrence. A few there were, who seemed unmindful of him, and looked only to the jury, in impatient wonder how they could delay. But in no one face not even among the women, of whom there were many there could he read the faintest sympathy with himself, or any feeling but one of all-absorbing interest that he should be condemned. As he saw all this in one bewildered glance, the deathlike stillness came again, and looking back he saw that the jurymen had turned towards the judge. Hush! They only sought permission to retire. He looked, wistfully, into their faces, one by one when they passed out, as though to see which way the greater number leant; but that was fruitless. The jailer touched him on the shoulder. He followed mechanically to the end of the dock, and sat down on a chair. The man pointed it out, or he would not have seen it. He looked up into the gallery again. Some of the people were eating, and some fanning themselves with handkerchiefs; for the crowded place was very hot. There was one young man sketching his face in a little note-book. He wondered whether it was like, and looked on when the artist broke his pencil-point, and made another with his knife, as any idle spectator might have done. In the same way, when he turned his eyes towards the judge, his mind began to busy itself with the fashion of his dress, and what it cost, and how he put it on. There was an old fat gentleman on the bench, too, who had gone out, some half an hour before, and now come back. He wondered within himself whether this man had been to get his dinner, what he had had, and where he had had it; and pursued this train of careless thought until some new object caught his eye and roused another. Not that, all this time, his mind was, for an instant, free from one oppressive overwhelming sense of the grave that opened at his feet; it was ever present to him, but in a vague and general way, and he could not fix
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me then, will influence me now," said Rose firmly. "If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whose goodness saved me from a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it, as I should to-night? It is a struggle," said Rose, "but one I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall bear." "The disclosure of to-night," Harry began. "The disclosure of to-night," replied Rose softly, "leaves me in the same position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before." "You harden your heart against me, Rose," urged her lover. "Oh Harry, Harry," said the young lady, bursting into tears; "I wish I could, and spare myself this pain." "Then why inflict it on yourself?" said Harry, taking her hand. "Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night." "And what have I heard! What have I heard!" cried Rose. "That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough." "Not yet, not yet," said the young man, detaining her as she rose. "My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling: every thought in life except my love for you: have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home a heart and home yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to offer." "What do you mean!" she faltered. "I mean but this that when I left you last, I left you with a firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and proved you so far right. Such power and patronage: such relatives of influence and rank: as smiled upon me then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees in England's richest county; and by one village church mine, Rose, my own! there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank and station now, and here I lay it down!" "It's a trying thing waiting supper for lovers," said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head. Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation.<|quote|>"I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night,"</|quote|>said Mr. Grimwig, "for I began to think I should get nothing else. I'll take the liberty, if you'll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be." Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the doctor and Mr. Brownlow: some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it, originally, in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider this downright scandal: he being young and a clergyman. "Oliver, my child," said Mrs. Maylie, "where have you been, and why do you look so sad? There are tears stealing down your face at this moment. What is the matter?" It is a world of disappointment: often to the hopes we most cherish, and hopes that do our nature the greatest honour. Poor Dick was dead! CHAPTER LII. FAGIN'S LAST NIGHT ALIVE The court was paved, from floor to roof, with human faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes peered from every inch of space. From the rail before the dock, away into the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all looks were fixed upon one man Fagin. Before him and behind: above, below, on the right and on the left: he
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Oliver Twist
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he asked Rosa.
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No speaker
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for any of these streams?"<|quote|>he asked Rosa.</|quote|>"Macushi people called him Waurupang."
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appearance. "Is there a name for any of these streams?"<|quote|>he asked Rosa.</|quote|>"Macushi people called him Waurupang." "No, not the river where
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flowing in the opposite direction. "Very curious," said Dr Messinger. "A discovery of genuine scientific value." Next day they waded through four streams at intervals of two miles, running alternately north and south. The chart began to have a mythical appearance. "Is there a name for any of these streams?"<|quote|>he asked Rosa.</|quote|>"Macushi people called him Waurupang." "No, not the river where we first camped. _These rivers._" "Yes, Waurupang." "_This river here._" "Macushi people call him all Waurupang." "It's hopeless," said Dr Messinger. When they were near water they forced their way through blind bush; the trail there was grown over and
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halted early enough, he employed the last hours of daylight in elaborating a chart. "_Dry watercourse, three deserted huts, stony ground...._" "We are now in the Amazon system of rivers," he announced with satisfaction one day. "You see, the water is running south." But almost immediately they crossed a stream flowing in the opposite direction. "Very curious," said Dr Messinger. "A discovery of genuine scientific value." Next day they waded through four streams at intervals of two miles, running alternately north and south. The chart began to have a mythical appearance. "Is there a name for any of these streams?"<|quote|>he asked Rosa.</|quote|>"Macushi people called him Waurupang." "No, not the river where we first camped. _These rivers._" "Yes, Waurupang." "_This river here._" "Macushi people call him all Waurupang." "It's hopeless," said Dr Messinger. When they were near water they forced their way through blind bush; the trail there was grown over and barred by timber; only Indian eyes and Indian memory could trace its course; sometimes they crossed little patches of dry savannah, dun grass growing in tufts from the baked earth; thousands of lizards scampered and darted before their feet and the grass rustled like newspaper; it was burning hot in
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were coming." "Me? Oh, I'm all right," said Brenda, and she thought, "It might occur to her to sock a girl a meal once in a way." * * * * * They walked for a fortnight, averaging about fifteen miles a day. Sometimes they would do much more and sometimes much less; the Indian who went in front decided the camping places; they depended on water and evil spirits. Dr Messinger made a compass traverse of their route. It gave him something to think about. He took readings every hour from an aneroid. In the evening, if they had halted early enough, he employed the last hours of daylight in elaborating a chart. "_Dry watercourse, three deserted huts, stony ground...._" "We are now in the Amazon system of rivers," he announced with satisfaction one day. "You see, the water is running south." But almost immediately they crossed a stream flowing in the opposite direction. "Very curious," said Dr Messinger. "A discovery of genuine scientific value." Next day they waded through four streams at intervals of two miles, running alternately north and south. The chart began to have a mythical appearance. "Is there a name for any of these streams?"<|quote|>he asked Rosa.</|quote|>"Macushi people called him Waurupang." "No, not the river where we first camped. _These rivers._" "Yes, Waurupang." "_This river here._" "Macushi people call him all Waurupang." "It's hopeless," said Dr Messinger. When they were near water they forced their way through blind bush; the trail there was grown over and barred by timber; only Indian eyes and Indian memory could trace its course; sometimes they crossed little patches of dry savannah, dun grass growing in tufts from the baked earth; thousands of lizards scampered and darted before their feet and the grass rustled like newspaper; it was burning hot in these enclosed spaces. Sometimes they climbed up into the wind, over loose red pebbles that bruised their feet; after these painful ascents they would lie in the wind till their wet clothes grew cold against their bodies; from these low eminences they could see other hill-tops and the belts of bush through which they had travelled, and the file of porters trailing behind them. As each man and woman arrived he sank on to the dry grass and rested against his load; when the last of them came up with the party Dr Messinger would give the word and they
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"I hear they are putting in bathrooms at Hetton--while you are practically starving. And he hasn't even gone to Mrs Beaver for them." "Yes, I _do_ think that was mean." Presently Jenny went back to dress. Brenda telephoned to a delicatessen store round the corner for some sandwiches. She would spend that day in bed, as she spent two or three days a week at this time. Perhaps, if Allan was making a speech somewhere, as he usually was, Marjorie would have her to dinner. The Helm-Hubbards had a supper party that night but Beaver had not been asked. "If I went there without him it would be a major bust-up... Come to think of it, Marjorie's probably going. Well, I can always have sandwiches for dinner here. They make all kinds. Thank God for the little shop round the corner." She was reading a biography of Nelson that had lately appeared; it was very long and would keep her going well into the night. At one o'clock Jenny came in to say good-bye (she had a latch-key of Brenda's), dressed for a cosy lunch. "I got Polly and Souki," she said. "We're going to Daisy's joint. I _wish_ you were coming." "Me? Oh, I'm all right," said Brenda, and she thought, "It might occur to her to sock a girl a meal once in a way." * * * * * They walked for a fortnight, averaging about fifteen miles a day. Sometimes they would do much more and sometimes much less; the Indian who went in front decided the camping places; they depended on water and evil spirits. Dr Messinger made a compass traverse of their route. It gave him something to think about. He took readings every hour from an aneroid. In the evening, if they had halted early enough, he employed the last hours of daylight in elaborating a chart. "_Dry watercourse, three deserted huts, stony ground...._" "We are now in the Amazon system of rivers," he announced with satisfaction one day. "You see, the water is running south." But almost immediately they crossed a stream flowing in the opposite direction. "Very curious," said Dr Messinger. "A discovery of genuine scientific value." Next day they waded through four streams at intervals of two miles, running alternately north and south. The chart began to have a mythical appearance. "Is there a name for any of these streams?"<|quote|>he asked Rosa.</|quote|>"Macushi people called him Waurupang." "No, not the river where we first camped. _These rivers._" "Yes, Waurupang." "_This river here._" "Macushi people call him all Waurupang." "It's hopeless," said Dr Messinger. When they were near water they forced their way through blind bush; the trail there was grown over and barred by timber; only Indian eyes and Indian memory could trace its course; sometimes they crossed little patches of dry savannah, dun grass growing in tufts from the baked earth; thousands of lizards scampered and darted before their feet and the grass rustled like newspaper; it was burning hot in these enclosed spaces. Sometimes they climbed up into the wind, over loose red pebbles that bruised their feet; after these painful ascents they would lie in the wind till their wet clothes grew cold against their bodies; from these low eminences they could see other hill-tops and the belts of bush through which they had travelled, and the file of porters trailing behind them. As each man and woman arrived he sank on to the dry grass and rested against his load; when the last of them came up with the party Dr Messinger would give the word and they would start off again, descending into the green heart of the forest before them. Tony and Dr Messinger seldom spoke to one another, either when they were marching or at the halts, for they were constantly strained and exhausted. In the evenings after they had washed and changed into dry shirts and flannel trousers, they talked a little, mostly about the number of miles they had done that day, their probable position and the state of their feet. They drank rum and water after their bath; for supper there was usually bully beef stewed with rice and flour dumplings. The Indians ate farine, smoked hog and occasional delicacies picked up by the way--armadillo, iguana, fat white grubs from the palm trees. The women had some dried fish with them that lasted for eight days; the smell grew stronger every day until the stuff was eaten; then it still hung about them and the stores, but grew fainter until it merged into the general, indefinable smell of the camp. There were no Indians living in this country. In the last five days of the march they suffered from lack of water. The streams they came to were mostly dry; they had
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are so many rumours going round. Is there going to be a divorce?" "I don't know." Mrs Beaver sighed. "Well, I must get back to work. Where are you lunching?" "Bratt's." "Poor John. By the way, I thought you were joining Brown's." "I haven't heard anything from them. I don't know whether they've had an election yet." "Your father was a member." "I've an idea I shan't get in... anyway I couldn't really afford it." "I'm not happy about you, John. I'm not sure that things are working out as well as I hoped about Christmas-time." "There's my telephone. Perhaps it's Margot. She hasn't asked me to anything for weeks." But it was only Brenda. "I'm afraid mother's got nothing for you at the shop," he said. "Oh well. I expect something will turn up. I could do with a little good luck just at the moment." "So could I. Have you asked Allan about Brown's?" "Yes, I did. He says they elected about ten chaps last week." "Oh, does that mean I've been blackballed?" "I shouldn't know. Gentlemen are so odd about their clubs." "I thought that you were going to make Allan and Reggie support me." "I asked them. What does it matter anyway? D'you want to come to Veronica's for the week-end?" "I'm not sure that I do." "_I'd_ like it." "It's a beastly little house--and I don't think Veronica likes me. Who'll be there?" "I shall be." "Yes... well, I'll let you know." "Am I seeing you this evening?" "I'll let you know." "Oh dear," said Brenda as she rang off. "Now he's taken against me. It isn't my fault he can't get into Brown's. As a matter of fact I believe Reggie _did_ try to help." Jenny Abdul Akbar was in the room with her. She came across every morning now in her dressing-gown and they read the newspaper together. Her dressing-gown was of striped Berber silk. "Let's go and have a cosy lunch at the Ritz," she said. "The Ritz isn't cosy at lunch-time and it costs eight and six. I daren't cash a cheque for three weeks, Jenny. The lawyers are so disagreeable. I've never been like this before." "What wouldn't I do to Tony? Leaving you stranded like this." "Oh, what's the good of knocking Tony? I don't suppose he's having a packet of fun himself in Brazil or wherever it is." "I hear they are putting in bathrooms at Hetton--while you are practically starving. And he hasn't even gone to Mrs Beaver for them." "Yes, I _do_ think that was mean." Presently Jenny went back to dress. Brenda telephoned to a delicatessen store round the corner for some sandwiches. She would spend that day in bed, as she spent two or three days a week at this time. Perhaps, if Allan was making a speech somewhere, as he usually was, Marjorie would have her to dinner. The Helm-Hubbards had a supper party that night but Beaver had not been asked. "If I went there without him it would be a major bust-up... Come to think of it, Marjorie's probably going. Well, I can always have sandwiches for dinner here. They make all kinds. Thank God for the little shop round the corner." She was reading a biography of Nelson that had lately appeared; it was very long and would keep her going well into the night. At one o'clock Jenny came in to say good-bye (she had a latch-key of Brenda's), dressed for a cosy lunch. "I got Polly and Souki," she said. "We're going to Daisy's joint. I _wish_ you were coming." "Me? Oh, I'm all right," said Brenda, and she thought, "It might occur to her to sock a girl a meal once in a way." * * * * * They walked for a fortnight, averaging about fifteen miles a day. Sometimes they would do much more and sometimes much less; the Indian who went in front decided the camping places; they depended on water and evil spirits. Dr Messinger made a compass traverse of their route. It gave him something to think about. He took readings every hour from an aneroid. In the evening, if they had halted early enough, he employed the last hours of daylight in elaborating a chart. "_Dry watercourse, three deserted huts, stony ground...._" "We are now in the Amazon system of rivers," he announced with satisfaction one day. "You see, the water is running south." But almost immediately they crossed a stream flowing in the opposite direction. "Very curious," said Dr Messinger. "A discovery of genuine scientific value." Next day they waded through four streams at intervals of two miles, running alternately north and south. The chart began to have a mythical appearance. "Is there a name for any of these streams?"<|quote|>he asked Rosa.</|quote|>"Macushi people called him Waurupang." "No, not the river where we first camped. _These rivers._" "Yes, Waurupang." "_This river here._" "Macushi people call him all Waurupang." "It's hopeless," said Dr Messinger. When they were near water they forced their way through blind bush; the trail there was grown over and barred by timber; only Indian eyes and Indian memory could trace its course; sometimes they crossed little patches of dry savannah, dun grass growing in tufts from the baked earth; thousands of lizards scampered and darted before their feet and the grass rustled like newspaper; it was burning hot in these enclosed spaces. Sometimes they climbed up into the wind, over loose red pebbles that bruised their feet; after these painful ascents they would lie in the wind till their wet clothes grew cold against their bodies; from these low eminences they could see other hill-tops and the belts of bush through which they had travelled, and the file of porters trailing behind them. As each man and woman arrived he sank on to the dry grass and rested against his load; when the last of them came up with the party Dr Messinger would give the word and they would start off again, descending into the green heart of the forest before them. Tony and Dr Messinger seldom spoke to one another, either when they were marching or at the halts, for they were constantly strained and exhausted. In the evenings after they had washed and changed into dry shirts and flannel trousers, they talked a little, mostly about the number of miles they had done that day, their probable position and the state of their feet. They drank rum and water after their bath; for supper there was usually bully beef stewed with rice and flour dumplings. The Indians ate farine, smoked hog and occasional delicacies picked up by the way--armadillo, iguana, fat white grubs from the palm trees. The women had some dried fish with them that lasted for eight days; the smell grew stronger every day until the stuff was eaten; then it still hung about them and the stores, but grew fainter until it merged into the general, indefinable smell of the camp. There were no Indians living in this country. In the last five days of the march they suffered from lack of water. The streams they came to were mostly dry; they had to reconnoitre up and down their beds in search of tepid, stagnant puddles. But after two weeks they came to a river once more, flowing deep and swift to the south-east. This was the border of the Pie-wie country and Dr Messinger marked the place where they stopped Second Base Camp. The cabouri fly infested this stream in clouds. * * * * * "John, I think it's time you had a holiday." "A holiday what from, mumsy?" "A change... I'm going to California in July. To the Fischbaums--Mrs Arnold Fischbaum, not the one who lives in Paris. I think it would do you good to come with me." "Yes, mumsy." "You _would_ like it, wouldn't you?" "Me? Yes, I'd like it." "You've picked up that way of talking from Brenda. It sounds ridiculous in a man." "Sorry, mumsy." "All right then, that's settled." * * * * * At sunset the cabouri fly disappeared. Until then, through the day, it was necessary to keep covered; they settled on any exposed flesh like house-flies upon jam; it was only when they were gorged that their bite was perceptible; they left behind a crimson, smarting circle with a black dot at its centre. Tony and Dr Messinger wore cotton gloves which they had brought for the purpose, and muslin veils, hanging down under their hats. Later they employed two women to squat beside their hammocks and fan them with leafy boughs; the slightest breeze was enough to disperse the flies, but as soon as Tony and Dr Messinger dozed the women would lay aside their work, and they woke instantly, stung in a hundred places. The Indians bore the insects as cows bear horse-flies; passively with occasional fretful outbursts when they would slap their shoulders and thighs. After dark there was some relief, for there were few mosquitoes at this camp, but they could hear the vampire bats all night long nuzzling and flapping against their netting. The Indians would not go hunting in this forest. They said there was no game, but Dr Messinger said it was because they were afraid of the evil spirits of the Pie-wie people. Provisions were not lasting as well as Dr Messinger had calculated. During the march it had been difficult to keep a proper guard over the stores. They were short of a bag of farine, half a bag of sugar and a
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a delicatessen store round the corner for some sandwiches. She would spend that day in bed, as she spent two or three days a week at this time. Perhaps, if Allan was making a speech somewhere, as he usually was, Marjorie would have her to dinner. The Helm-Hubbards had a supper party that night but Beaver had not been asked. "If I went there without him it would be a major bust-up... Come to think of it, Marjorie's probably going. Well, I can always have sandwiches for dinner here. They make all kinds. Thank God for the little shop round the corner." She was reading a biography of Nelson that had lately appeared; it was very long and would keep her going well into the night. At one o'clock Jenny came in to say good-bye (she had a latch-key of Brenda's), dressed for a cosy lunch. "I got Polly and Souki," she said. "We're going to Daisy's joint. I _wish_ you were coming." "Me? Oh, I'm all right," said Brenda, and she thought, "It might occur to her to sock a girl a meal once in a way." * * * * * They walked for a fortnight, averaging about fifteen miles a day. Sometimes they would do much more and sometimes much less; the Indian who went in front decided the camping places; they depended on water and evil spirits. Dr Messinger made a compass traverse of their route. It gave him something to think about. He took readings every hour from an aneroid. In the evening, if they had halted early enough, he employed the last hours of daylight in elaborating a chart. "_Dry watercourse, three deserted huts, stony ground...._" "We are now in the Amazon system of rivers," he announced with satisfaction one day. "You see, the water is running south." But almost immediately they crossed a stream flowing in the opposite direction. "Very curious," said Dr Messinger. "A discovery of genuine scientific value." Next day they waded through four streams at intervals of two miles, running alternately north and south. The chart began to have a mythical appearance. "Is there a name for any of these streams?"<|quote|>he asked Rosa.</|quote|>"Macushi people called him Waurupang." "No, not the river where we first camped. _These rivers._" "Yes, Waurupang." "_This river here._" "Macushi people call him all Waurupang." "It's hopeless," said Dr Messinger. When they were near water they forced their way through blind bush; the trail there was grown over and barred by timber; only Indian eyes and Indian memory could trace its course; sometimes they crossed little patches of dry savannah, dun grass growing in tufts from the baked earth; thousands of lizards scampered and darted before their feet and the grass rustled like newspaper; it was burning hot in these enclosed spaces. Sometimes they climbed up into the wind, over loose red pebbles that bruised their feet; after these painful ascents they would lie in the wind till their wet clothes grew cold against their bodies; from these low eminences they could see other hill-tops and the belts of bush through which they had travelled, and the file of porters trailing behind them. As each man and woman arrived he sank on to the dry grass and rested against his load; when the last of them came up with the party Dr Messinger would give the word and they would start off again, descending into the green heart of the forest before them. Tony and Dr Messinger seldom spoke to one another, either when they were marching or at the halts, for they were constantly strained and exhausted. In the evenings after they had washed and changed into dry shirts and flannel trousers, they talked a little, mostly about the number of miles they had done that day, their probable position and the state of their feet. They drank rum and water after their bath; for supper there was usually bully beef stewed with rice and flour dumplings. The Indians ate farine, smoked hog and occasional delicacies picked up by the way--armadillo, iguana, fat white grubs from the palm trees. The women had some dried fish with them that lasted for eight days; the smell grew stronger every day until the stuff was eaten; then it still hung about them and the stores, but grew fainter until it merged into the general, indefinable smell of the camp. There were no Indians living in this country. In the last five days of the march they suffered from lack of water. The streams they came to were mostly dry; they had to reconnoitre up and down their beds in search of tepid, stagnant puddles. But after two weeks they came to a river once more, flowing deep and swift to the south-east. This was the border of the Pie-wie country and Dr Messinger marked the place where they stopped Second Base Camp. The cabouri fly infested this stream in clouds. * * * * * "John, I think it's time you had a holiday." "A holiday what from, mumsy?" "A change... I'm going to California in July. To the Fischbaums--Mrs Arnold Fischbaum, not the one who lives in Paris. I think it would do you good to come with me." "Yes, mumsy." "You _would_ like it, wouldn't you?" "Me? Yes, I'd like it." "You've picked up that way of talking from Brenda. It sounds ridiculous in a man." "Sorry, mumsy." "All right then, that's settled." * * * * * At sunset the cabouri fly disappeared. Until then, through the day, it was necessary to keep covered; they settled on any exposed flesh like house-flies upon jam; it was only when they were gorged that
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A Handful Of Dust
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"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?"
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Basil Hallward
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too late, Basil," he faltered.<|quote|>"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?"</|quote|>"Those words mean nothing to
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with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered.<|quote|>"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?"</|quote|>"Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! Don t
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has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered.<|quote|>"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?"</|quote|>"Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! Don t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don t you see that accursed thing leering at us?" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over
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could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?" Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities. "Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered.<|quote|>"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?"</|quote|>"Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! Don t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don t you see that accursed thing leering at us?" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life
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the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?" Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities. "Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered.<|quote|>"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?"</|quote|>"Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! Don t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don t you see that accursed thing leering at us?" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. He rushed at him and dug the
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going over to the window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. "You told me you had destroyed it." "I was wrong. It has destroyed me." "I don t believe it is my picture." "Can t you see your ideal in it?" said Dorian bitterly. "My ideal, as you call it..." "As you called it." "There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr." "It is the face of my soul." "Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a devil." "Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian with a wild gesture of despair. Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?" Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities. "Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered.<|quote|>"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?"</|quote|>"Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! Don t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don t you see that accursed thing leering at us?" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man s head down on the table and stabbing again and again. There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife on the table, and listened. He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He opened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the balustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness. Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in as he did so. The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool
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noble curves had not yet completely passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognize his own brushwork, and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle, and held it to the picture. In the left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long letters of bright vermilion. It was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. He had never done that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His own picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat. The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. There was neither real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so. "What does this mean?" cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded shrill and curious in his ears. "Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in his hand, "you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my good looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment that, even now, I don t know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you would call it a prayer...." "I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is impossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the thing is impossible." "Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. "You told me you had destroyed it." "I was wrong. It has destroyed me." "I don t believe it is my picture." "Can t you see your ideal in it?" said Dorian bitterly. "My ideal, as you call it..." "As you called it." "There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr." "It is the face of my soul." "Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a devil." "Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian with a wild gesture of despair. Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?" Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities. "Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered.<|quote|>"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?"</|quote|>"Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! Don t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don t you see that accursed thing leering at us?" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man s head down on the table and stabbing again and again. There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife on the table, and listened. He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He opened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the balustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness. Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in as he did so. The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that was slowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was simply asleep. How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking over to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock s tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the policeman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on the doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl was creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and then she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse voice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She stumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. The gas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their black iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the window behind him. Having reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He did not even glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole thing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted the fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due had gone out of his life. That was enough. Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished steel, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps it might be missed by his servant, and questions would be asked. He hesitated for a moment, then he turned back and took it from the table. He could not help seeing the dead thing. How still it was! How horribly white the long hands looked! It was like a dreadful wax image. Having locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. The woodwork creaked and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stopped several times and waited. No: everything was still. It was merely the sound of his own footsteps. When he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner. They must be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press that was in the wainscoting, a
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"Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a devil." "Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian with a wild gesture of despair. Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?" Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities. "Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered.<|quote|>"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?"</|quote|>"Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! Don t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don t you see that accursed thing leering at us?" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man s head down on the table and stabbing again and again. There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife on the table, and listened. He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He opened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the balustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness. Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in as he did so. The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that was slowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was simply asleep. How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking over to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock s tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the policeman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on the doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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"No, thank ye,"
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Jem Wimble
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have a glass of grog."<|quote|>"No, thank ye,"</|quote|>said Jem; "I've got to
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an authoritative way. "Come and have a glass of grog."<|quote|>"No, thank ye,"</|quote|>said Jem; "I've got to be home." "So have we,
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out as if there were pistols beneath, all of which he could dimly make out in the faint glow of the lanthorn. "Come away, Jem, quick!" whispered Don. "Here, what's your hurry, my lads?" said the youngish man in rather an authoritative way. "Come and have a glass of grog."<|quote|>"No, thank ye,"</|quote|>said Jem; "I've got to be home." "So have we, mate," said the hoarse-voiced man who had asked for a light; "and when a horficer asks you to drink you shouldn't say no." "I knew it, Jem," whispered Don excitedly. "Officer! Do you hear?" "What are you whispering about, youngster?"
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"I don't know so much about that," said a voice; and a young-looking man in a heavy pea jacket whispered a few words to one of the sailors. Don felt more uneasy, for he saw that the point of a scabbard hung down below the last speaker's jacket, which bulged out as if there were pistols beneath, all of which he could dimly make out in the faint glow of the lanthorn. "Come away, Jem, quick!" whispered Don. "Here, what's your hurry, my lads?" said the youngish man in rather an authoritative way. "Come and have a glass of grog."<|quote|>"No, thank ye,"</|quote|>said Jem; "I've got to be home." "So have we, mate," said the hoarse-voiced man who had asked for a light; "and when a horficer asks you to drink you shouldn't say no." "I knew it, Jem," whispered Don excitedly. "Officer! Do you hear?" "What are you whispering about, youngster?" said the man in the pea jacket. "You let him be." "Good-night," said Jem shortly. "Come on, Mas' Don." He stepped forward, but the young man hurried on the men, who had now closed in round them; and as Jem gave one of them a sturdy push to get off,
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rays of the coarse candle showing something which startled Don. "Come on, Jem," he whispered; "make haste." "Ay? To be sure, my lad. There's nothing to mind though. Only sailors." As he spoke there were other steps behind, and more from the front, and Don realised that they were hemmed in that narrow lane between two little parties of armed men. Just then the door of the lanthorn was closed, and the man who bore it held it close to Jem's face. "Well?" said that worthy, good-temperedly, "what d'yer think of me, eh? Lost some one? 'Cause I arn't him." "I don't know so much about that," said a voice; and a young-looking man in a heavy pea jacket whispered a few words to one of the sailors. Don felt more uneasy, for he saw that the point of a scabbard hung down below the last speaker's jacket, which bulged out as if there were pistols beneath, all of which he could dimly make out in the faint glow of the lanthorn. "Come away, Jem, quick!" whispered Don. "Here, what's your hurry, my lads?" said the youngish man in rather an authoritative way. "Come and have a glass of grog."<|quote|>"No, thank ye,"</|quote|>said Jem; "I've got to be home." "So have we, mate," said the hoarse-voiced man who had asked for a light; "and when a horficer asks you to drink you shouldn't say no." "I knew it, Jem," whispered Don excitedly. "Officer! Do you hear?" "What are you whispering about, youngster?" said the man in the pea jacket. "You let him be." "Good-night," said Jem shortly. "Come on, Mas' Don." He stepped forward, but the young man hurried on the men, who had now closed in round them; and as Jem gave one of them a sturdy push to get off, the thrust was returned with interest. "Where are you shovin' to, mate?" growled the man. "Arn't the road wide enough for you?" "Quiet, my lad," said the officer sharply. "Here, you come below here and have a glass of grog." "I don't want no grog," said Jem; "and I should thank you to tell your men to let me pass." "Yes, by-and-by," said the officer. "Now then, my lads, sharp." A couple of men crowded on Jem, one of them forcing himself between the sturdy fellow and Don, whose cheeks flushed with anger as he felt himself rudely thrust up
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home. You aren't no worse?" "No, Jem, I am no worse." "Nothing like coming out when you're red hot, and cooling down. I'm cooled down, and so are you. Come along." Don felt a sensation of reluctance to return home, but it was getting late, and telling himself that he had nothing to do now but act a straightforward manly part, and glad that he had cast aside his foolish notions about going away, he trudged slowly back with his companion, till turning into one of the dark and narrow lanes leading from the water side, they suddenly became aware that they were not alone, for a stoutly-built sailor stepped in front of them. "Got a light, mate?" he said. "Light? Yes," said Jem readily; and he prepared to get out his flint and steel, when Don whispered something in his ear. "Ay, to be sure," he said; "why don't you take a light from him?" "Eh? Ah, to be sure," said the sailor. "I forgot. Here, Joe, mate, open the lanthorn and give us a light." Another sailor, a couple of yards away, opened a horn lanthorn, and the first man bent down to light his pipe, the dull rays of the coarse candle showing something which startled Don. "Come on, Jem," he whispered; "make haste." "Ay? To be sure, my lad. There's nothing to mind though. Only sailors." As he spoke there were other steps behind, and more from the front, and Don realised that they were hemmed in that narrow lane between two little parties of armed men. Just then the door of the lanthorn was closed, and the man who bore it held it close to Jem's face. "Well?" said that worthy, good-temperedly, "what d'yer think of me, eh? Lost some one? 'Cause I arn't him." "I don't know so much about that," said a voice; and a young-looking man in a heavy pea jacket whispered a few words to one of the sailors. Don felt more uneasy, for he saw that the point of a scabbard hung down below the last speaker's jacket, which bulged out as if there were pistols beneath, all of which he could dimly make out in the faint glow of the lanthorn. "Come away, Jem, quick!" whispered Don. "Here, what's your hurry, my lads?" said the youngish man in rather an authoritative way. "Come and have a glass of grog."<|quote|>"No, thank ye,"</|quote|>said Jem; "I've got to be home." "So have we, mate," said the hoarse-voiced man who had asked for a light; "and when a horficer asks you to drink you shouldn't say no." "I knew it, Jem," whispered Don excitedly. "Officer! Do you hear?" "What are you whispering about, youngster?" said the man in the pea jacket. "You let him be." "Good-night," said Jem shortly. "Come on, Mas' Don." He stepped forward, but the young man hurried on the men, who had now closed in round them; and as Jem gave one of them a sturdy push to get off, the thrust was returned with interest. "Where are you shovin' to, mate?" growled the man. "Arn't the road wide enough for you?" "Quiet, my lad," said the officer sharply. "Here, you come below here and have a glass of grog." "I don't want no grog," said Jem; "and I should thank you to tell your men to let me pass." "Yes, by-and-by," said the officer. "Now then, my lads, sharp." A couple of men crowded on Jem, one of them forcing himself between the sturdy fellow and Don, whose cheeks flushed with anger as he felt himself rudely thrust up against the wall of one of the houses. "Here, what are you doing of?" cried Jem sharply. "Being civil," said one of the men with a laugh. "There, no nonsense. Come quiet." He might just as well have said that to an angry bull, for as he and his companion seized Jem by the arms, they found for themselves how strong those arms were, one being sent staggering against Don, and the other being lifted off his legs and dropped upon his back. "Now, Mas' Don, run!" shouted Jem. But before the words were well out of his lips, the party closed in upon him, paying no heed to Don, who in accordance with Jem's command had rushed off in retreat. A few moments later he stopped, for Jem was not with him, but struggling with all his might in the midst of the knot of men who were trying to hold him. "Mas' Don! Help, help!" roared Jem; and Don dashed at the gang, his fists clenched, teeth set, and a curious singing noise in his ears. But as he reached the spot where his companion was making a desperate struggle for his liberty, Jem shouted again,-- "No, no!
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In half an hour I hadn't got a dry thread on me. Deal worse than Bristol, which isn't the most cheersome o' places when you're dull." "No, Jem, it isn't. Of course you'll be at the court to-morrow?" "I suppose so, Mas' Don. And I say they'd better ask me if I think you took that money. My! But I would give it to some on 'em straight. Can you fight, Mas' Don?" "I don't know, Jem. I never tried." "I can. You don't know what a crack I could give a man. It's my arms is so strong with moving sugar-hogsheads, I suppose. I shouldn't wish to be the man I hit if I did my best." "You mean your worst, Jem." "Course I do, Mas' Don. Well, as I was going to say, I should just like to settle that there matter with Mr Mike without the magistrates. You give him to me on a clear field for about ten minutes, and I'd make Master Mike down hisself on his knees, and say just whatever I pleased." "And what good would that do, Jem?" "Not much to him, Mas' Don, because he'd be so precious sore afterwards, but it would do me good, and I would feel afterwards what I don't feel now, and that's cheerful. Never mind, sir, it'll all come right in the end. Nothing like coming out and sitting all alone when you're crabby. Wind seems to blow it away. When you've been sitting here a bit you'll feel like a new man. Mind me smoking a pipe?" "No, Jem; smoke away." "Won't have one too, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem; you know I can't smoke." "Then here goes for mine," said Jem, taking a little dumpy clay pipe from one pocket and a canvas bag from another, in which were some rough pieces of tobacco leaf. These he crumbled up and thrust into the bowl, after which he took advantage of the shelter afforded by an empty cask to get in, strike a light, and start a pipe. Once lit up, Jem returned to his old seat, and the pair remained in the same place till it was getting dusk, and lights were twinkling among the shipping, when Jem rose and stretched himself. "That's your sort, Mas' Don," he said. "Now I feels better, and I can smile at my little woman when I get home. You aren't no worse?" "No, Jem, I am no worse." "Nothing like coming out when you're red hot, and cooling down. I'm cooled down, and so are you. Come along." Don felt a sensation of reluctance to return home, but it was getting late, and telling himself that he had nothing to do now but act a straightforward manly part, and glad that he had cast aside his foolish notions about going away, he trudged slowly back with his companion, till turning into one of the dark and narrow lanes leading from the water side, they suddenly became aware that they were not alone, for a stoutly-built sailor stepped in front of them. "Got a light, mate?" he said. "Light? Yes," said Jem readily; and he prepared to get out his flint and steel, when Don whispered something in his ear. "Ay, to be sure," he said; "why don't you take a light from him?" "Eh? Ah, to be sure," said the sailor. "I forgot. Here, Joe, mate, open the lanthorn and give us a light." Another sailor, a couple of yards away, opened a horn lanthorn, and the first man bent down to light his pipe, the dull rays of the coarse candle showing something which startled Don. "Come on, Jem," he whispered; "make haste." "Ay? To be sure, my lad. There's nothing to mind though. Only sailors." As he spoke there were other steps behind, and more from the front, and Don realised that they were hemmed in that narrow lane between two little parties of armed men. Just then the door of the lanthorn was closed, and the man who bore it held it close to Jem's face. "Well?" said that worthy, good-temperedly, "what d'yer think of me, eh? Lost some one? 'Cause I arn't him." "I don't know so much about that," said a voice; and a young-looking man in a heavy pea jacket whispered a few words to one of the sailors. Don felt more uneasy, for he saw that the point of a scabbard hung down below the last speaker's jacket, which bulged out as if there were pistols beneath, all of which he could dimly make out in the faint glow of the lanthorn. "Come away, Jem, quick!" whispered Don. "Here, what's your hurry, my lads?" said the youngish man in rather an authoritative way. "Come and have a glass of grog."<|quote|>"No, thank ye,"</|quote|>said Jem; "I've got to be home." "So have we, mate," said the hoarse-voiced man who had asked for a light; "and when a horficer asks you to drink you shouldn't say no." "I knew it, Jem," whispered Don excitedly. "Officer! Do you hear?" "What are you whispering about, youngster?" said the man in the pea jacket. "You let him be." "Good-night," said Jem shortly. "Come on, Mas' Don." He stepped forward, but the young man hurried on the men, who had now closed in round them; and as Jem gave one of them a sturdy push to get off, the thrust was returned with interest. "Where are you shovin' to, mate?" growled the man. "Arn't the road wide enough for you?" "Quiet, my lad," said the officer sharply. "Here, you come below here and have a glass of grog." "I don't want no grog," said Jem; "and I should thank you to tell your men to let me pass." "Yes, by-and-by," said the officer. "Now then, my lads, sharp." A couple of men crowded on Jem, one of them forcing himself between the sturdy fellow and Don, whose cheeks flushed with anger as he felt himself rudely thrust up against the wall of one of the houses. "Here, what are you doing of?" cried Jem sharply. "Being civil," said one of the men with a laugh. "There, no nonsense. Come quiet." He might just as well have said that to an angry bull, for as he and his companion seized Jem by the arms, they found for themselves how strong those arms were, one being sent staggering against Don, and the other being lifted off his legs and dropped upon his back. "Now, Mas' Don, run!" shouted Jem. But before the words were well out of his lips, the party closed in upon him, paying no heed to Don, who in accordance with Jem's command had rushed off in retreat. A few moments later he stopped, for Jem was not with him, but struggling with all his might in the midst of the knot of men who were trying to hold him. "Mas' Don! Help, help!" roared Jem; and Don dashed at the gang, his fists clenched, teeth set, and a curious singing noise in his ears. But as he reached the spot where his companion was making a desperate struggle for his liberty, Jem shouted again,-- "No, no! Mas' Don; run for it, my lad, and get help if you can." Like a flash it occurred to Don that long before he could get help Jem would be overpowered and carried off, and with the natural fighting instinct fully raised, he struck out with all his might as he strove to get to the poor fellow, who was writhing and heaving, and giving his captors a tremendous task to hold him. "Here, give him something to keep him quiet," growled a voice. "No, no; get hold of his hands; that's right. Serve this cockerel the same. Down with him, quick!" cried the officer sharply; and in obedience to his words the men hung on to poor Jem so tenaciously that he was dragged down on the rough pavement, and a couple of men sat panting upon him while his wrists were secured, and his voice silenced by a great bandage right over his mouth. "You cowards!" Jem tried to roar, as, breathless with exertion, bleeding from a sharp back-handed blow across the mouth, and giddy with excitement and the effects of a rough encounter between his head and the wall, Don made one more attempt to drag himself free, and then stood panting and mastered by two strong men. "Show the light," said the officer, and the lanthorn was held close to Don's face. "Well, if the boy can fight like that," said the officer, "he shall." "Let us go," cried Don. "Help! He--" A jacket was thrown over his head, as the officer said mockingly,-- "He shall fight for his Majesty the king. Now, my lads, quick. Some one coming, and the wrong sort." Don felt himself lifted off his feet, and half smothered by the hot jacket which seemed to keep him from breathing, he was hurried along two or three of the lanes, growing more faint and dizzy every moment, till in the midst of a curious nightmare-like sensation, lights began suddenly to dance before his eyes; then all was darkness, and he knew no more till he seemed to wake up from a curious sensation of sickness, and to be listening to Jem Wimble, who would keep on saying in a stupid, aggravating manner,--"Mas' Don, are you there?" The question must have been repeated many times before Don could get rid of the dizzy feeling of confusion and reply,--"Yes; what do you want?" "Oh,
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which were some rough pieces of tobacco leaf. These he crumbled up and thrust into the bowl, after which he took advantage of the shelter afforded by an empty cask to get in, strike a light, and start a pipe. Once lit up, Jem returned to his old seat, and the pair remained in the same place till it was getting dusk, and lights were twinkling among the shipping, when Jem rose and stretched himself. "That's your sort, Mas' Don," he said. "Now I feels better, and I can smile at my little woman when I get home. You aren't no worse?" "No, Jem, I am no worse." "Nothing like coming out when you're red hot, and cooling down. I'm cooled down, and so are you. Come along." Don felt a sensation of reluctance to return home, but it was getting late, and telling himself that he had nothing to do now but act a straightforward manly part, and glad that he had cast aside his foolish notions about going away, he trudged slowly back with his companion, till turning into one of the dark and narrow lanes leading from the water side, they suddenly became aware that they were not alone, for a stoutly-built sailor stepped in front of them. "Got a light, mate?" he said. "Light? Yes," said Jem readily; and he prepared to get out his flint and steel, when Don whispered something in his ear. "Ay, to be sure," he said; "why don't you take a light from him?" "Eh? Ah, to be sure," said the sailor. "I forgot. Here, Joe, mate, open the lanthorn and give us a light." Another sailor, a couple of yards away, opened a horn lanthorn, and the first man bent down to light his pipe, the dull rays of the coarse candle showing something which startled Don. "Come on, Jem," he whispered; "make haste." "Ay? To be sure, my lad. There's nothing to mind though. Only sailors." As he spoke there were other steps behind, and more from the front, and Don realised that they were hemmed in that narrow lane between two little parties of armed men. Just then the door of the lanthorn was closed, and the man who bore it held it close to Jem's face. "Well?" said that worthy, good-temperedly, "what d'yer think of me, eh? Lost some one? 'Cause I arn't him." "I don't know so much about that," said a voice; and a young-looking man in a heavy pea jacket whispered a few words to one of the sailors. Don felt more uneasy, for he saw that the point of a scabbard hung down below the last speaker's jacket, which bulged out as if there were pistols beneath, all of which he could dimly make out in the faint glow of the lanthorn. "Come away, Jem, quick!" whispered Don. "Here, what's your hurry, my lads?" said the youngish man in rather an authoritative way. "Come and have a glass of grog."<|quote|>"No, thank ye,"</|quote|>said Jem; "I've got to be home." "So have we, mate," said the hoarse-voiced man who had asked for a light; "and when a horficer asks you to drink you shouldn't say no." "I knew it, Jem," whispered Don excitedly. "Officer! Do you hear?" "What are you whispering about, youngster?" said the man in the pea jacket. "You let him be." "Good-night," said Jem shortly. "Come on, Mas' Don." He stepped forward, but the young man hurried on the men, who had now closed in round them; and as Jem gave one of them a sturdy push to get off, the thrust was returned with interest. "Where are you shovin' to, mate?" growled the man. "Arn't the road wide enough for you?" "Quiet, my lad," said the officer sharply. "Here, you come below here and have a glass of grog." "I don't want no grog," said Jem; "and I should thank you to tell your men to let me pass." "Yes, by-and-by," said the officer. "Now then, my lads, sharp." A couple of men crowded on Jem, one of them forcing himself between the sturdy fellow and Don, whose cheeks flushed with anger as he felt himself rudely thrust up against the wall of one of the houses. "Here, what are you doing of?" cried Jem sharply. "Being civil," said one of the men with a laugh. "There, no nonsense. Come quiet." He might just as well have said that to an angry bull, for as he and his companion seized Jem by the arms, they found for themselves how strong those arms were, one being sent staggering against
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Don Lavington
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“Once then at a private view?--when, with the squash they usually are, you might have been very near her indeed!”
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Lady Sandgate
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but alas not near her!”<|quote|>“Once then at a private view?--when, with the squash they usually are, you might have been very near her indeed!”</|quote|>The young man, his hilarity
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“Once again at dinner?” “Yes, but alas not near her!”<|quote|>“Once then at a private view?--when, with the squash they usually are, you might have been very near her indeed!”</|quote|>The young man, his hilarity quickened, took but a moment
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But she hasn’t told you?” Lady Sandgate neither affirmed nor denied; she only turned on him her thick lustre. “I wanted to see how much _you’d_ tell.” She waited even as for more, but this not coming she helped herself. “Once again at dinner?” “Yes, but alas not near her!”<|quote|>“Once then at a private view?--when, with the squash they usually are, you might have been very near her indeed!”</|quote|>The young man, his hilarity quickened, took but a moment for the truth. “Yes--it _was_ a squash!” “And once,” his hostess pursued, “in the lobby of the opera?” “After ‘Tristan’--yes; but with some awful grand people I didn’t know.” She recognised; she estimated the grandeur. “Oh, the Pennimans are nobody!
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proceeded, as they say, or being on the point of proceeding, to some foreign part.” “And you’ve learnt it from having seen her--these three or four weeks?” “I’ve met her--but just barely--two or three times: at a ‘private view’ at the opera, in the lobby, and that sort of thing. But she hasn’t told you?” Lady Sandgate neither affirmed nor denied; she only turned on him her thick lustre. “I wanted to see how much _you’d_ tell.” She waited even as for more, but this not coming she helped herself. “Once again at dinner?” “Yes, but alas not near her!”<|quote|>“Once then at a private view?--when, with the squash they usually are, you might have been very near her indeed!”</|quote|>The young man, his hilarity quickened, took but a moment for the truth. “Yes--it _was_ a squash!” “And once,” his hostess pursued, “in the lobby of the opera?” “After ‘Tristan’--yes; but with some awful grand people I didn’t know.” She recognised; she estimated the grandeur. “Oh, the Pennimans are nobody! But now,” she asked, “you’ve come, you say, on ‘business’?” “Very important, please--which accounts for the hour I’ve ventured and the appearance I present.” “I don’t ask you too much to ‘account,’” Lady Sandgate kindly said; “but I can’t not wonder if she hasn’t told you what things have happened.”
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might be coveted--!” It dropped with a yearning sigh. “You imagined me sent by some prowling collector?” Hugh asked. “Ah, I shall never do their work--unless to betray them: _that_ I shouldn’t in the least mind!--and I’m here, frankly, at this early hour, to ask your consent to my seeing Lady Grace a moment on a particular business, if she can kindly give me time.” “You’ve known then of her being with me?” “I’ve known of her coming to you straight on leaving Dedborough,” he explained; “of her wishing not to go to her sister’s, and of Lord Theign’s having proceeded, as they say, or being on the point of proceeding, to some foreign part.” “And you’ve learnt it from having seen her--these three or four weeks?” “I’ve met her--but just barely--two or three times: at a ‘private view’ at the opera, in the lobby, and that sort of thing. But she hasn’t told you?” Lady Sandgate neither affirmed nor denied; she only turned on him her thick lustre. “I wanted to see how much _you’d_ tell.” She waited even as for more, but this not coming she helped herself. “Once again at dinner?” “Yes, but alas not near her!”<|quote|>“Once then at a private view?--when, with the squash they usually are, you might have been very near her indeed!”</|quote|>The young man, his hilarity quickened, took but a moment for the truth. “Yes--it _was_ a squash!” “And once,” his hostess pursued, “in the lobby of the opera?” “After ‘Tristan’--yes; but with some awful grand people I didn’t know.” She recognised; she estimated the grandeur. “Oh, the Pennimans are nobody! But now,” she asked, “you’ve come, you say, on ‘business’?” “Very important, please--which accounts for the hour I’ve ventured and the appearance I present.” “I don’t ask you too much to ‘account,’” Lady Sandgate kindly said; “but I can’t not wonder if she hasn’t told you what things have happened.” He cast about. “She has had no chance to tell me anything--beyond the fact of her being here.” “Without the reason?” “‘The reason’?” he echoed. She gave it up, going straighter. “She’s with me then as an old firm friend. Under my care and protection.” “I see” --he took it, with more penetration than enthusiasm, as a hint in respect to himself. “She puts you on your guard.” Lady Sandgate expressed it more graciously. “She puts me on my honour--or at least her father does.” “As to her seeing _me_” “As to _my_ seeing at least--what may happen to her.”
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that gentleman, who emerged from the back room; Gotch observing the propriety of a prompt withdrawal. “I went in for a minute, with your servant’s permission,” Hugh explained, “to see your famous Lawrence--which is splendid; he was so good as to arrange the light.” The young man’s dress was of a form less relaxed than on the occasion of his visit to Dedborough; yet the soft felt hat that he rather restlessly crumpled as he talked marked the limit of his sacrifice to vain appearances. Lady Sandgate was at once interested in the punctuality of his reported act. “Gotch thinks as much of my grandmother as I do--and even seems to have ended by taking her for his very own.” “One sees, unmistakably, from her beauty, that you at any rate are of her line,” Hugh allowed himself, not without confidence, the amusement of replying; “and I must make sure of another look at her when I’ve a good deal more time.” His hostess heard him as with a lapse of hope. “You hadn’t then come _for_ the poor dear?” And then as he obviously hadn’t, but for something quite else: “I thought, from so prompt an interest, that she might be coveted--!” It dropped with a yearning sigh. “You imagined me sent by some prowling collector?” Hugh asked. “Ah, I shall never do their work--unless to betray them: _that_ I shouldn’t in the least mind!--and I’m here, frankly, at this early hour, to ask your consent to my seeing Lady Grace a moment on a particular business, if she can kindly give me time.” “You’ve known then of her being with me?” “I’ve known of her coming to you straight on leaving Dedborough,” he explained; “of her wishing not to go to her sister’s, and of Lord Theign’s having proceeded, as they say, or being on the point of proceeding, to some foreign part.” “And you’ve learnt it from having seen her--these three or four weeks?” “I’ve met her--but just barely--two or three times: at a ‘private view’ at the opera, in the lobby, and that sort of thing. But she hasn’t told you?” Lady Sandgate neither affirmed nor denied; she only turned on him her thick lustre. “I wanted to see how much _you’d_ tell.” She waited even as for more, but this not coming she helped herself. “Once again at dinner?” “Yes, but alas not near her!”<|quote|>“Once then at a private view?--when, with the squash they usually are, you might have been very near her indeed!”</|quote|>The young man, his hilarity quickened, took but a moment for the truth. “Yes--it _was_ a squash!” “And once,” his hostess pursued, “in the lobby of the opera?” “After ‘Tristan’--yes; but with some awful grand people I didn’t know.” She recognised; she estimated the grandeur. “Oh, the Pennimans are nobody! But now,” she asked, “you’ve come, you say, on ‘business’?” “Very important, please--which accounts for the hour I’ve ventured and the appearance I present.” “I don’t ask you too much to ‘account,’” Lady Sandgate kindly said; “but I can’t not wonder if she hasn’t told you what things have happened.” He cast about. “She has had no chance to tell me anything--beyond the fact of her being here.” “Without the reason?” “‘The reason’?” he echoed. She gave it up, going straighter. “She’s with me then as an old firm friend. Under my care and protection.” “I see” --he took it, with more penetration than enthusiasm, as a hint in respect to himself. “She puts you on your guard.” Lady Sandgate expressed it more graciously. “She puts me on my honour--or at least her father does.” “As to her seeing _me_” “As to _my_ seeing at least--what may happen to her.” “Because--you say--things _have_ happened?” His companion fairly sounded him. “You’ve only talked--when you’ve met--of ‘art’?” “Well,” he smiled, “‘art is long’!” “Then I hope it may see you through! But you should know first that Lord Theign is presently due--” “_Here_, back already from abroad?” --he was all alert. “He has not yet gone--he comes up this morning to start.” “And stops here on his way?” “To take the _train de luxe_ this afternoon to his annual Salsomaggiore. But with so little time to spare,” she went on reassuringly, “that, to simplify--as he wired me an hour ago from Dedborough--he has given rendezvous here to Mr. Bender, who is particularly to wait for him.” “And who may therefore arrive at any moment?” She looked at her bracelet watch. “Scarcely before noon. So you’ll just have your chance--” “Thank the powers then!” --Hugh grasped at it. “I shall have it best if you’ll be so good as to tell me first--well,” he faltered, “what it is that, to my great disquiet, you’ve further alluded to; what it is that has occurred.” Lady Sandgate took her time, but her good-nature and other sentiments pronounced. “Haven’t you at least guessed that she has
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threw him back so that he looked at her with sombre eyes. “Ah, it’s not for such a matter I’m here, Lady Grace--I’m here with that fond question of my own.” And then as she turned away, leaving him with a vehement motion of protest: “I’ve come for your kind answer--the answer your father instructed me to count on.” “I’ve no kind answer to give you!” --she raised forbidding hands. “I entreat you to leave me alone.” There was so high a spirit and so strong a force in it that he stared as if stricken by violence. “In God’s name then what has happened--when you almost gave me your word?” “What has happened is that I’ve found it impossible to listen to you.” And she moved as if fleeing she scarce knew whither before him. He had already hastened around another way, however, as to meet her in her quick circuit of the hall. “That’s all you’ve got to say to me after what has passed between us?” He had stopped her thus, but she had also stopped him, and her passionate denial set him a limit. “I’ve got to say--sorry as I am--that if you _must_ have an answer it’s this: that never, Lord John, never, can there be anything more between us.” And her gesture cleared her path, permitting her to achieve her flight. “Never, no, never,” she repeated as she went-- “never, never, never!” She got off by the door at which she had been aiming to some retreat of her own, while aghast and defeated, left to make the best of it, he sank after a moment into a chair and remained quite pitiably staring before him, appealing to the great blank splendour. BOOK SECOND I LADY SANDGATE, on a morning late in May, entered her drawing-room by the door that opened at the right of that charming retreat as a person coming in faced Bruton Street; and she met there at this moment Mr. Gotch, her butler, who had just appeared in the much wider doorway forming opposite the Bruton Street windows an apartment not less ample, lighted from the back of the house and having its independent connection with the upper floors and the lower. She showed surprise at not immediately finding the visitor to whom she had been called. “But Mr. Crimble------?” “Here he is, my lady.” And he made way for that gentleman, who emerged from the back room; Gotch observing the propriety of a prompt withdrawal. “I went in for a minute, with your servant’s permission,” Hugh explained, “to see your famous Lawrence--which is splendid; he was so good as to arrange the light.” The young man’s dress was of a form less relaxed than on the occasion of his visit to Dedborough; yet the soft felt hat that he rather restlessly crumpled as he talked marked the limit of his sacrifice to vain appearances. Lady Sandgate was at once interested in the punctuality of his reported act. “Gotch thinks as much of my grandmother as I do--and even seems to have ended by taking her for his very own.” “One sees, unmistakably, from her beauty, that you at any rate are of her line,” Hugh allowed himself, not without confidence, the amusement of replying; “and I must make sure of another look at her when I’ve a good deal more time.” His hostess heard him as with a lapse of hope. “You hadn’t then come _for_ the poor dear?” And then as he obviously hadn’t, but for something quite else: “I thought, from so prompt an interest, that she might be coveted--!” It dropped with a yearning sigh. “You imagined me sent by some prowling collector?” Hugh asked. “Ah, I shall never do their work--unless to betray them: _that_ I shouldn’t in the least mind!--and I’m here, frankly, at this early hour, to ask your consent to my seeing Lady Grace a moment on a particular business, if she can kindly give me time.” “You’ve known then of her being with me?” “I’ve known of her coming to you straight on leaving Dedborough,” he explained; “of her wishing not to go to her sister’s, and of Lord Theign’s having proceeded, as they say, or being on the point of proceeding, to some foreign part.” “And you’ve learnt it from having seen her--these three or four weeks?” “I’ve met her--but just barely--two or three times: at a ‘private view’ at the opera, in the lobby, and that sort of thing. But she hasn’t told you?” Lady Sandgate neither affirmed nor denied; she only turned on him her thick lustre. “I wanted to see how much _you’d_ tell.” She waited even as for more, but this not coming she helped herself. “Once again at dinner?” “Yes, but alas not near her!”<|quote|>“Once then at a private view?--when, with the squash they usually are, you might have been very near her indeed!”</|quote|>The young man, his hilarity quickened, took but a moment for the truth. “Yes--it _was_ a squash!” “And once,” his hostess pursued, “in the lobby of the opera?” “After ‘Tristan’--yes; but with some awful grand people I didn’t know.” She recognised; she estimated the grandeur. “Oh, the Pennimans are nobody! But now,” she asked, “you’ve come, you say, on ‘business’?” “Very important, please--which accounts for the hour I’ve ventured and the appearance I present.” “I don’t ask you too much to ‘account,’” Lady Sandgate kindly said; “but I can’t not wonder if she hasn’t told you what things have happened.” He cast about. “She has had no chance to tell me anything--beyond the fact of her being here.” “Without the reason?” “‘The reason’?” he echoed. She gave it up, going straighter. “She’s with me then as an old firm friend. Under my care and protection.” “I see” --he took it, with more penetration than enthusiasm, as a hint in respect to himself. “She puts you on your guard.” Lady Sandgate expressed it more graciously. “She puts me on my honour--or at least her father does.” “As to her seeing _me_” “As to _my_ seeing at least--what may happen to her.” “Because--you say--things _have_ happened?” His companion fairly sounded him. “You’ve only talked--when you’ve met--of ‘art’?” “Well,” he smiled, “‘art is long’!” “Then I hope it may see you through! But you should know first that Lord Theign is presently due--” “_Here_, back already from abroad?” --he was all alert. “He has not yet gone--he comes up this morning to start.” “And stops here on his way?” “To take the _train de luxe_ this afternoon to his annual Salsomaggiore. But with so little time to spare,” she went on reassuringly, “that, to simplify--as he wired me an hour ago from Dedborough--he has given rendezvous here to Mr. Bender, who is particularly to wait for him.” “And who may therefore arrive at any moment?” She looked at her bracelet watch. “Scarcely before noon. So you’ll just have your chance--” “Thank the powers then!” --Hugh grasped at it. “I shall have it best if you’ll be so good as to tell me first--well,” he faltered, “what it is that, to my great disquiet, you’ve further alluded to; what it is that has occurred.” Lady Sandgate took her time, but her good-nature and other sentiments pronounced. “Haven’t you at least guessed that she has fallen under her father’s extreme reprobation?” “Yes, so much as that--that she must have greatly annoyed him--I have been supposing. But isn’t it by her having asked me to act for her? I mean about the Mantovano--which I _have_ done.” Lady Sandgate wondered. “You’ve ‘acted’?” “It’s what I’ve come to tell her at last--and I’m all impatience.” “I see, I see” --she had caught a clue. “He hated that--yes; but you haven’t really made out,” she put to him, “the _other_ effect of your hour at Dedborough?” She recognised, however, while she spoke, that his divination had failed, and she didn’t trouble him to confess it. “Directly you had gone she ‘turned down’ Lord John. Declined, I mean, the offer of his hand in marriage.” Hugh was clearly as much mystified as anything else. “He proposed there--?” “He had spoken, that day, _before_--before your talk with Lord Theign, who had every confidence in her accepting him. But you came, Mr. Crimble, you went; and when her suitor reappeared, just after you _had_ gone, for his answer--” “She wouldn’t have him?” Hugh asked with a precipitation of interest. But Lady Sandgate could humour almost any curiosity. “She wouldn’t look at him.” He bethought himself. “But had she said she would?” “So her father indignantly considers.” “That’s the _ground_ of his indignation?” “He had his reasons for counting on her, and it has determined a painful crisis.” Hugh Crimble turned this over--feeling apparently for something he didn’t find. “I’m sorry to hear such things, but where’s the connection with me?” “Ah, you know best yourself, and if you don’t see any---!” In that case, Lady Sandgate’s motion implied, she washed her hands of it. Hugh had for a moment the air of a young man treated to the sweet chance to guess a conundrum--which he gave up. “I really don’t see any, Lady Sandgate. But,” he a little inconsistently said, “I’m greatly obliged to you for telling me.” “Don’t mention it!--though I think it _is_ good of me,” she smiled, “on so short an acquaintance.” To which she added more gravely: “I leave you the situation--but I’m willing to let you know that I’m all on Grace’s side.” “So am I, _rather!_--please let me frankly say.” He clearly refreshed, he even almost charmed her. “It’s the very least you can say!--though I’m not sure whether you say it as the simplest or
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the soft felt hat that he rather restlessly crumpled as he talked marked the limit of his sacrifice to vain appearances. Lady Sandgate was at once interested in the punctuality of his reported act. “Gotch thinks as much of my grandmother as I do--and even seems to have ended by taking her for his very own.” “One sees, unmistakably, from her beauty, that you at any rate are of her line,” Hugh allowed himself, not without confidence, the amusement of replying; “and I must make sure of another look at her when I’ve a good deal more time.” His hostess heard him as with a lapse of hope. “You hadn’t then come _for_ the poor dear?” And then as he obviously hadn’t, but for something quite else: “I thought, from so prompt an interest, that she might be coveted--!” It dropped with a yearning sigh. “You imagined me sent by some prowling collector?” Hugh asked. “Ah, I shall never do their work--unless to betray them: _that_ I shouldn’t in the least mind!--and I’m here, frankly, at this early hour, to ask your consent to my seeing Lady Grace a moment on a particular business, if she can kindly give me time.” “You’ve known then of her being with me?” “I’ve known of her coming to you straight on leaving Dedborough,” he explained; “of her wishing not to go to her sister’s, and of Lord Theign’s having proceeded, as they say, or being on the point of proceeding, to some foreign part.” “And you’ve learnt it from having seen her--these three or four weeks?” “I’ve met her--but just barely--two or three times: at a ‘private view’ at the opera, in the lobby, and that sort of thing. But she hasn’t told you?” Lady Sandgate neither affirmed nor denied; she only turned on him her thick lustre. “I wanted to see how much _you’d_ tell.” She waited even as for more, but this not coming she helped herself. “Once again at dinner?” “Yes, but alas not near her!”<|quote|>“Once then at a private view?--when, with the squash they usually are, you might have been very near her indeed!”</|quote|>The young man, his hilarity quickened, took but a moment for the truth. “Yes--it _was_ a squash!” “And once,” his hostess pursued, “in the lobby of the opera?” “After ‘Tristan’--yes; but with some awful grand people I didn’t know.” She recognised; she estimated the grandeur. “Oh, the Pennimans are nobody! But now,” she asked, “you’ve come, you say, on ‘business’?” “Very important, please--which accounts for the hour I’ve ventured and the appearance I present.” “I don’t ask you too much to ‘account,’” Lady Sandgate kindly said; “but I can’t not wonder if she hasn’t told you what things have happened.” He cast about. “She has had no chance to tell me anything--beyond the fact of her being here.” “Without the reason?” “‘The reason’?” he echoed. She gave it up, going straighter. “She’s with me then as an old firm friend. Under my care and protection.” “I see” --he took it, with more penetration than enthusiasm, as a hint in respect to himself. “She puts you on your guard.” Lady Sandgate expressed it more graciously. “She puts me on my honour--or at least her father does.” “As to her seeing _me_” “As to _my_ seeing at least--what may happen to her.” “Because--you say--things _have_ happened?” His companion fairly sounded him. “You’ve only talked--when you’ve met--of ‘art’?” “Well,” he smiled, “‘art is long’!” “Then I hope it may see you through! But you should know first that Lord Theign is presently due--” “_Here_, back already from abroad?” --he was all alert. “He has not yet gone--he comes up this morning to start.” “And stops here on his way?” “To take the _train de luxe_ this afternoon to his annual Salsomaggiore. But with so little time to spare,” she went on reassuringly, “that,
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The Outcry
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Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect. Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click.
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No speaker
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sacrilege than anything I know."<|quote|>Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect. Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click.</|quote|>"Signorina!" said the man to
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part them it's more like sacrilege than anything I know."<|quote|>Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect. Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click.</|quote|>"Signorina!" said the man to Lucy, when the display had
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chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. "Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers--A king might envy us, and if we part them it's more like sacrilege than anything I know."<|quote|>Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect. Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click.</|quote|>"Signorina!" said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy? "Signorina!" echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why? For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box. "Victory at
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if we were a party of Cook's tourists." "Surely no!" said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing. The other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behave themselves properly. "Leave them alone," Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. "Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers--A king might envy us, and if we part them it's more like sacrilege than anything I know."<|quote|>Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect. Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click.</|quote|>"Signorina!" said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy? "Signorina!" echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why? For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box. "Victory at last!" said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again. "It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson. "It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy." Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak
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whom the shock of stopping had awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated, and patted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish, though unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of Bohemianism. "Most certainly I would let them be," she cried. "But I dare say I shall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of the conventions all my life. This is what I call an adventure." "We must not submit," said Mr. Eager. "I knew he was trying it on. He is treating us as if we were a party of Cook's tourists." "Surely no!" said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing. The other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behave themselves properly. "Leave them alone," Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. "Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers--A king might envy us, and if we part them it's more like sacrilege than anything I know."<|quote|>Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect. Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click.</|quote|>"Signorina!" said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy? "Signorina!" echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why? For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box. "Victory at last!" said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again. "It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson. "It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy." Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son. "We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul." Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character. "He was not driving us well," she said. "He jolted us." "That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he
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his head. "Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene," crooned the driver, and whipped his horses up again. Now Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on the subject of Alessio Baldovinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, or was he one of its manifestations? The other carriage was left behind. As the pace increased to a gallop the large, slumbering form of Mr. Emerson was thrown against the chaplain with the regularity of a machine. "Piano! piano!" said he, with a martyred look at Lucy. An extra lurch made him turn angrily in his seat. Phaethon, who for some time had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded. A little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, was most unpleasant. The horses were stopped, the lovers were ordered to disentangle themselves, the boy was to lose his pourboire, the girl was immediately to get down. "She is my sister," said he, turning round on them with piteous eyes. Mr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that he was a liar. Phaethon hung down his head, not at the matter of the accusation, but at its manner. At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stopping had awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated, and patted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish, though unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of Bohemianism. "Most certainly I would let them be," she cried. "But I dare say I shall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of the conventions all my life. This is what I call an adventure." "We must not submit," said Mr. Eager. "I knew he was trying it on. He is treating us as if we were a party of Cook's tourists." "Surely no!" said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing. The other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behave themselves properly. "Leave them alone," Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. "Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers--A king might envy us, and if we part them it's more like sacrilege than anything I know."<|quote|>Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect. Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click.</|quote|>"Signorina!" said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy? "Signorina!" echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why? For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box. "Victory at last!" said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again. "It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson. "It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy." Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son. "We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul." Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character. "He was not driving us well," she said. "He jolted us." "That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now. Can you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I'd be frightened of the girl, too. It doesn't do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?" Miss Lavish bristled. "Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?" "The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'" Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. "Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the May' "would render a correct meaning." "The point is, we have warred with it. Look." He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees. "Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to admire them. Do you suppose there's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the
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else. The result is, they mix up towns, rivers, palaces in one inextricable whirl. You know the American girl in Punch who says:" 'Say, poppa, what did we see at Rome?' "And the father replies:" 'Why, guess Rome was the place where we saw the yaller dog.' "There's travelling for you. Ha! ha! ha!" "I quite agree," said Miss Lavish, who had several times tried to interrupt his mordant wit. "The narrowness and superficiality of the Anglo-Saxon tourist is nothing less than a menace." "Quite so. Now, the English colony at Florence, Miss Honeychurch--and it is of considerable size, though, of course, not all equally--a few are here for trade, for example. But the greater part are students. Lady Helen Laverstock is at present busy over Fra Angelico. I mention her name because we are passing her villa on the left. No, you can only see it if you stand--no, do not stand; you will fall. She is very proud of that thick hedge. Inside, perfect seclusion. One might have gone back six hundred years. Some critics believe that her garden was the scene of The Decameron, which lends it an additional interest, does it not?" "It does indeed!" cried Miss Lavish. "Tell me, where do they place the scene of that wonderful seventh day?" But Mr. Eager proceeded to tell Miss Honeychurch that on the right lived Mr. Someone Something, an American of the best type--so rare!--and that the Somebody Elses were farther down the hill. "Doubtless you know her monographs in the series of 'Mediaeval Byways'? He is working at Gemistus Pletho. Sometimes as I take tea in their beautiful grounds I hear, over the wall, the electric tram squealing up the new road with its loads of hot, dusty, unintelligent tourists who are going to 'do' Fiesole in an hour in order that they may say they have been there, and I think--think--I think how little they think what lies so near them." During this speech the two figures on the box were sporting with each other disgracefully. Lucy had a spasm of envy. Granted that they wished to misbehave, it was pleasant for them to be able to do so. They were probably the only people enjoying the expedition. The carriage swept with agonizing jolts up through the Piazza of Fiesole and into the Settignano road. "Piano! piano!" said Mr. Eager, elegantly waving his hand over his head. "Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene," crooned the driver, and whipped his horses up again. Now Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on the subject of Alessio Baldovinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, or was he one of its manifestations? The other carriage was left behind. As the pace increased to a gallop the large, slumbering form of Mr. Emerson was thrown against the chaplain with the regularity of a machine. "Piano! piano!" said he, with a martyred look at Lucy. An extra lurch made him turn angrily in his seat. Phaethon, who for some time had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded. A little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, was most unpleasant. The horses were stopped, the lovers were ordered to disentangle themselves, the boy was to lose his pourboire, the girl was immediately to get down. "She is my sister," said he, turning round on them with piteous eyes. Mr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that he was a liar. Phaethon hung down his head, not at the matter of the accusation, but at its manner. At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stopping had awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated, and patted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish, though unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of Bohemianism. "Most certainly I would let them be," she cried. "But I dare say I shall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of the conventions all my life. This is what I call an adventure." "We must not submit," said Mr. Eager. "I knew he was trying it on. He is treating us as if we were a party of Cook's tourists." "Surely no!" said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing. The other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behave themselves properly. "Leave them alone," Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. "Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers--A king might envy us, and if we part them it's more like sacrilege than anything I know."<|quote|>Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect. Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click.</|quote|>"Signorina!" said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy? "Signorina!" echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why? For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box. "Victory at last!" said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again. "It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson. "It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy." Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son. "We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul." Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character. "He was not driving us well," she said. "He jolted us." "That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now. Can you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I'd be frightened of the girl, too. It doesn't do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?" Miss Lavish bristled. "Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?" "The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'" Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. "Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the May' "would render a correct meaning." "The point is, we have warred with it. Look." He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees. "Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to admire them. Do you suppose there's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both." No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d'Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly had he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, had become equally enthusiastic. But it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in your head, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting. And the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest. The party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keep together being only equalled by their desire to go different directions. Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with the drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics in common, were left to each other. The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emerson what his profession was, and he had answered "the railway." She was very sorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be such a dreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe had turned the conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not very much hurt at her asking him. "The railway!" gasped Miss Lavish. "Oh, but I shall die! Of course it was the railway!" She could not
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envy. Granted that they wished to misbehave, it was pleasant for them to be able to do so. They were probably the only people enjoying the expedition. The carriage swept with agonizing jolts up through the Piazza of Fiesole and into the Settignano road. "Piano! piano!" said Mr. Eager, elegantly waving his hand over his head. "Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene," crooned the driver, and whipped his horses up again. Now Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on the subject of Alessio Baldovinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, or was he one of its manifestations? The other carriage was left behind. As the pace increased to a gallop the large, slumbering form of Mr. Emerson was thrown against the chaplain with the regularity of a machine. "Piano! piano!" said he, with a martyred look at Lucy. An extra lurch made him turn angrily in his seat. Phaethon, who for some time had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded. A little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, was most unpleasant. The horses were stopped, the lovers were ordered to disentangle themselves, the boy was to lose his pourboire, the girl was immediately to get down. "She is my sister," said he, turning round on them with piteous eyes. Mr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that he was a liar. Phaethon hung down his head, not at the matter of the accusation, but at its manner. At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stopping had awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated, and patted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish, though unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of Bohemianism. "Most certainly I would let them be," she cried. "But I dare say I shall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of the conventions all my life. This is what I call an adventure." "We must not submit," said Mr. Eager. "I knew he was trying it on. He is treating us as if we were a party of Cook's tourists." "Surely no!" said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing. The other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behave themselves properly. "Leave them alone," Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. "Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers--A king might envy us, and if we part them it's more like sacrilege than anything I know."<|quote|>Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect. Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click.</|quote|>"Signorina!" said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy? "Signorina!" echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why? For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box. "Victory at last!" said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again. "It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson. "It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy." Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son. "We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul." Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character. "He was not driving us well," she said. "He jolted us." "That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now. Can you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I'd be frightened of the girl, too. It doesn't do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?" Miss Lavish bristled. "Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?" "The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'" Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. "Non fate guerra al Maggio,"
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A Room With A View
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"I should be most happy,"
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Tom Bertram
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may bet half-guineas with _him_."<|quote|>"I should be most happy,"</|quote|>replied he aloud, and jumping
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but half-crowns, you know, you may bet half-guineas with _him_."<|quote|>"I should be most happy,"</|quote|>replied he aloud, and jumping up with alacrity, "it would
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for Mrs. Rushworth, you know. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well spare time to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I and Dr. Grant will just do; and though _we_ play but half-crowns, you know, you may bet half-guineas with _him_."<|quote|>"I should be most happy,"</|quote|>replied he aloud, and jumping up with alacrity, "it would give me the greatest pleasure; but that I am this moment going to dance. Come, Fanny," taking her hand, "do not be dawdling any longer, or the dance will be over." Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was
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dear Tom," cried his aunt soon afterwards, "as you are not dancing, I dare say you will have no objection to join us in a rubber; shall you?" Then leaving her seat, and coming to him to enforce the proposal, added in a whisper, "We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth, you know. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well spare time to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I and Dr. Grant will just do; and though _we_ play but half-crowns, you know, you may bet half-guineas with _him_."<|quote|>"I should be most happy,"</|quote|>replied he aloud, and jumping up with alacrity, "it would give me the greatest pleasure; but that I am this moment going to dance. Come, Fanny," taking her hand, "do not be dawdling any longer, or the dance will be over." Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to feel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly did, between the selfishness of another person and his own. "A pretty modest request upon my word," he indignantly exclaimed as they walked away. "To want to nail me to a card-table for the next
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Mrs. Grant and, between ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover as much as any one of them. A desperate dull life hers must be with the doctor," making a sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter, who proving, however, to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a change of expression and subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of everything, could hardly help laughing at. "A strange business this in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to know what I am to think of public matters." "My dear Tom," cried his aunt soon afterwards, "as you are not dancing, I dare say you will have no objection to join us in a rubber; shall you?" Then leaving her seat, and coming to him to enforce the proposal, added in a whisper, "We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth, you know. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well spare time to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I and Dr. Grant will just do; and though _we_ play but half-crowns, you know, you may bet half-guineas with _him_."<|quote|>"I should be most happy,"</|quote|>replied he aloud, and jumping up with alacrity, "it would give me the greatest pleasure; but that I am this moment going to dance. Come, Fanny," taking her hand, "do not be dawdling any longer, or the dance will be over." Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to feel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly did, between the selfishness of another person and his own. "A pretty modest request upon my word," he indignantly exclaimed as they walked away. "To want to nail me to a card-table for the next two hours with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that poking old woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish my good aunt would be a little less busy! And to ask me in such a way too! without ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me no possibility of refusing. _That_ is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my spleen more than anything, to have the pretence of being asked, of being given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as to oblige one to
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him, she thought it must happen. He came towards their little circle; but instead of asking her to dance, drew a chair near her, and gave her an account of the present state of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom, from whom he had just parted. Fanny found that it was not to be, and in the modesty of her nature immediately felt that she had been unreasonable in expecting it. When he had told of his horse, he took a newspaper from the table, and looking over it, said in a languid way, "If you want to dance, Fanny, I will stand up with you." With more than equal civility the offer was declined; she did not wish to dance. "I am glad of it," said he, in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the newspaper again, "for I am tired to death. I only wonder how the good people can keep it up so long. They had need be _all_ in love, to find any amusement in such folly; and so they are, I fancy. If you look at them you may see they are so many couple of lovers all but Yates and Mrs. Grant and, between ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover as much as any one of them. A desperate dull life hers must be with the doctor," making a sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter, who proving, however, to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a change of expression and subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of everything, could hardly help laughing at. "A strange business this in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to know what I am to think of public matters." "My dear Tom," cried his aunt soon afterwards, "as you are not dancing, I dare say you will have no objection to join us in a rubber; shall you?" Then leaving her seat, and coming to him to enforce the proposal, added in a whisper, "We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth, you know. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well spare time to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I and Dr. Grant will just do; and though _we_ play but half-crowns, you know, you may bet half-guineas with _him_."<|quote|>"I should be most happy,"</|quote|>replied he aloud, and jumping up with alacrity, "it would give me the greatest pleasure; but that I am this moment going to dance. Come, Fanny," taking her hand, "do not be dawdling any longer, or the dance will be over." Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to feel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly did, between the selfishness of another person and his own. "A pretty modest request upon my word," he indignantly exclaimed as they walked away. "To want to nail me to a card-table for the next two hours with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that poking old woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish my good aunt would be a little less busy! And to ask me in such a way too! without ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me no possibility of refusing. _That_ is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my spleen more than anything, to have the pretence of being asked, of being given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as to oblige one to do the very thing, whatever it be! If I had not luckily thought of standing up with you I could not have got out of it. It is a great deal too bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in her head, nothing can stop her." CHAPTER XIII The Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recommend him beyond habits of fashion and expense, and being the younger son of a lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would probably have thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr. Bertram's acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had spent ten days together in the same society, and the friendship, if friendship it might be called, had been proved and perfected by Mr. Yates's being invited to take Mansfield in his way, whenever he could, and by his promising to come; and he did come rather earlier than had been expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large party assembled for gaiety at the house of another friend, which he had left Weymouth to join. He came on the wings of disappointment, and with his head full of acting,
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and Maria, who were partners for the second time, "we shall see some happy faces again now." "Yes, ma'am, indeed," replied the other, with a stately simper, "there will be some satisfaction in looking on _now_, and I think it was rather a pity they should have been obliged to part. Young folks in their situation should be excused complying with the common forms. I wonder my son did not propose it." "I dare say he did, ma'am. Mr. Rushworth is never remiss. But dear Maria has such a strict sense of propriety, so much of that true delicacy which one seldom meets with nowadays, Mrs. Rushworth that wish of avoiding particularity! Dear ma'am, only look at her face at this moment; how different from what it was the two last dances!" Miss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes were sparkling with pleasure, and she was speaking with great animation, for Julia and her partner, Mr. Crawford, were close to her; they were all in a cluster together. How she had looked before, Fanny could not recollect, for she had been dancing with Edmund herself, and had not thought about her. Mrs. Norris continued, "It is quite delightful, ma'am, to see young people so properly happy, so well suited, and so much the thing! I cannot but think of dear Sir Thomas's delight. And what do you say, ma'am, to the chance of another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a good example, and such things are very catching." Mrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son, was quite at a loss. "The couple above, ma'am. Do you see no symptoms there?" "Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford. Yes, indeed, a very pretty match. What is his property?" "Four thousand a year." "Very well. Those who have not more must be satisfied with what they have. Four thousand a year is a pretty estate, and he seems a very genteel, steady young man, so I hope Miss Julia will be very happy." "It is not a settled thing, ma'am, yet. We only speak of it among friends. But I have very little doubt it _will_ be. He is growing extremely particular in his attentions." Fanny could listen no farther. Listening and wondering were all suspended for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in the room again; and though feeling it would be a great honour to be asked by him, she thought it must happen. He came towards their little circle; but instead of asking her to dance, drew a chair near her, and gave her an account of the present state of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom, from whom he had just parted. Fanny found that it was not to be, and in the modesty of her nature immediately felt that she had been unreasonable in expecting it. When he had told of his horse, he took a newspaper from the table, and looking over it, said in a languid way, "If you want to dance, Fanny, I will stand up with you." With more than equal civility the offer was declined; she did not wish to dance. "I am glad of it," said he, in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the newspaper again, "for I am tired to death. I only wonder how the good people can keep it up so long. They had need be _all_ in love, to find any amusement in such folly; and so they are, I fancy. If you look at them you may see they are so many couple of lovers all but Yates and Mrs. Grant and, between ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover as much as any one of them. A desperate dull life hers must be with the doctor," making a sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter, who proving, however, to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a change of expression and subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of everything, could hardly help laughing at. "A strange business this in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to know what I am to think of public matters." "My dear Tom," cried his aunt soon afterwards, "as you are not dancing, I dare say you will have no objection to join us in a rubber; shall you?" Then leaving her seat, and coming to him to enforce the proposal, added in a whisper, "We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth, you know. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well spare time to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I and Dr. Grant will just do; and though _we_ play but half-crowns, you know, you may bet half-guineas with _him_."<|quote|>"I should be most happy,"</|quote|>replied he aloud, and jumping up with alacrity, "it would give me the greatest pleasure; but that I am this moment going to dance. Come, Fanny," taking her hand, "do not be dawdling any longer, or the dance will be over." Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to feel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly did, between the selfishness of another person and his own. "A pretty modest request upon my word," he indignantly exclaimed as they walked away. "To want to nail me to a card-table for the next two hours with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that poking old woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish my good aunt would be a little less busy! And to ask me in such a way too! without ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me no possibility of refusing. _That_ is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my spleen more than anything, to have the pretence of being asked, of being given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as to oblige one to do the very thing, whatever it be! If I had not luckily thought of standing up with you I could not have got out of it. It is a great deal too bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in her head, nothing can stop her." CHAPTER XIII The Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recommend him beyond habits of fashion and expense, and being the younger son of a lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would probably have thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr. Bertram's acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had spent ten days together in the same society, and the friendship, if friendship it might be called, had been proved and perfected by Mr. Yates's being invited to take Mansfield in his way, whenever he could, and by his promising to come; and he did come rather earlier than had been expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large party assembled for gaiety at the house of another friend, which he had left Weymouth to join. He came on the wings of disappointment, and with his head full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; and the play in which he had borne a part was within two days of representation, when the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions of the family had destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To be so near happiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, in Cornwall, which would of course have immortalised the whole party for at least a twelvemonth! and being so near, to lose it all, was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates could talk of nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, with its arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing subject, and to boast of the past his only consolation. Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for acting so strong among young people, that he could hardly out-talk the interest of his hearers. From the first casting of the parts to the epilogue it was all bewitching, and there were few who did not wish to have been a party concerned, or would have hesitated to try their skill. The play had been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been Count Cassel. "A trifling part," said he, "and not at all to my taste, and such a one as I certainly would not accept again; but I was determined to make no difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had appropriated the only two characters worth playing before I reached Ecclesford; and though Lord Ravenshaw offered to resign his to me, it was impossible to take it, you know. I was sorry for _him_ that he should have so mistaken his powers, for he was no more equal to the Baron a little man with a weak voice, always hoarse after the first ten minutes. It must have injured the piece materially; but _I_ was resolved to make no difficulties. Sir Henry thought the duke not equal to Frederick, but that was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself; whereas it was certainly in the best hands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily the strength of the piece did not depend upon him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. And
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he had just parted. Fanny found that it was not to be, and in the modesty of her nature immediately felt that she had been unreasonable in expecting it. When he had told of his horse, he took a newspaper from the table, and looking over it, said in a languid way, "If you want to dance, Fanny, I will stand up with you." With more than equal civility the offer was declined; she did not wish to dance. "I am glad of it," said he, in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the newspaper again, "for I am tired to death. I only wonder how the good people can keep it up so long. They had need be _all_ in love, to find any amusement in such folly; and so they are, I fancy. If you look at them you may see they are so many couple of lovers all but Yates and Mrs. Grant and, between ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover as much as any one of them. A desperate dull life hers must be with the doctor," making a sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter, who proving, however, to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a change of expression and subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of everything, could hardly help laughing at. "A strange business this in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to know what I am to think of public matters." "My dear Tom," cried his aunt soon afterwards, "as you are not dancing, I dare say you will have no objection to join us in a rubber; shall you?" Then leaving her seat, and coming to him to enforce the proposal, added in a whisper, "We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth, you know. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well spare time to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I and Dr. Grant will just do; and though _we_ play but half-crowns, you know, you may bet half-guineas with _him_."<|quote|>"I should be most happy,"</|quote|>replied he aloud, and jumping up with alacrity, "it would give me the greatest pleasure; but that I am this moment going to dance. Come, Fanny," taking her hand, "do not be dawdling any longer, or the dance will be over." Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to feel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly did, between the selfishness of another person and his own. "A pretty modest request upon my word," he indignantly exclaimed as they walked away. "To want to nail me to a card-table for the next two hours with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that poking old woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish my good aunt would be a little less busy! And to ask me in such a way too! without ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me no possibility of refusing. _That_ is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my spleen more than anything, to have the pretence of being asked, of being given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as to oblige one to do the very thing, whatever it be! If I had not luckily thought of standing up with you I could not have got out of it. It is a great deal too bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in her head, nothing can stop her." CHAPTER XIII The Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recommend him beyond habits of fashion and expense, and being the younger son of a lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would probably have thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr. Bertram's acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had spent ten days together in the same society, and the friendship, if friendship it might be called, had been proved and perfected by Mr. Yates's being invited to take Mansfield in his way, whenever he could, and by his promising to come; and he did come rather earlier than had been expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large party assembled for gaiety at the house of another friend, which he had left Weymouth to join. He came on the wings of disappointment, and with his head full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; and the play in which he had borne a part was within two days of representation, when the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions of the family had destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To be so near happiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, in Cornwall,
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Mansfield Park
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"The lying-in room, I suppose?"
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Mr. Bumble
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rot 'em in the grave!"<|quote|>"The lying-in room, I suppose?"</|quote|>said Mr. Bumble, not quite
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rear; and hid their shame, rot 'em in the grave!"<|quote|>"The lying-in room, I suppose?"</|quote|>said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger's excited description.
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workhouse." "Good!" "And the time, night." "Yes." "And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot 'em in the grave!"<|quote|>"The lying-in room, I suppose?"</|quote|>said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger's excited description. "Yes," said the stranger. "A boy was born there." "A many boys," observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly. "A murrain on the young devils!" cried the stranger; "I speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down
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scrupulously examined the coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on: "Carry your memory back let me see twelve years, last winter." "It's a long time," said Mr. Bumble. "Very good. I've done it." "The scene, the workhouse." "Good!" "And the time, night." "Yes." "And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot 'em in the grave!"<|quote|>"The lying-in room, I suppose?"</|quote|>said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger's excited description. "Yes," said the stranger. "A boy was born there." "A many boys," observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly. "A murrain on the young devils!" cried the stranger; "I speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a coffin-maker I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed." "Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!" said Mr. Bumble; "I remember him, of course. There wasn't a obstinater young rascal" "It's not
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down to this place, to-day, to find you out; and, by one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my mind. I want some information from you. I don't ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up that, to begin with." As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on: "Carry your memory back let me see twelve years, last winter." "It's a long time," said Mr. Bumble. "Very good. I've done it." "The scene, the workhouse." "Good!" "And the time, night." "Yes." "And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot 'em in the grave!"<|quote|>"The lying-in room, I suppose?"</|quote|>said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger's excited description. "Yes," said the stranger. "A boy was born there." "A many boys," observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly. "A murrain on the young devils!" cried the stranger; "I speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a coffin-maker I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed." "Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!" said Mr. Bumble; "I remember him, of course. There wasn't a obstinater young rascal" "It's not of him I want to hear; I've heard enough of him," said the stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject of poor Oliver's vices. "It's of a woman; the hag that nursed his mother. Where is she?" "Where is she?" said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered facetious. "It would be hard to tell. There's no midwifery there, whichever place she's gone to; so I suppose she's out of employment, anyway." "What do you mean?" demanded the stranger, sternly. "That she died last winter," rejoined Mr. Bumble. The man looked fixedly at him
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Bumble's eyes, as he raised them in astonishment at the question. "Don't scruple to answer freely, man. I know you pretty well, you see." "I suppose, a married man," replied Mr. Bumble, shading his eyes with his hand, and surveying the stranger, from head to foot, in evident perplexity, "is not more averse to turning an honest penny when he can, than a single one. Porochial officers are not so well paid that they can afford to refuse any little extra fee, when it comes to them in a civil and proper manner." The stranger smiled, and nodded his head again: as much to say, he had not mistaken his man; then rang the bell. "Fill this glass again," he said, handing Mr. Bumble's empty tumbler to the landlord. "Let it be strong and hot. You like it so, I suppose?" "Not too strong," replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough. "You understand what that means, landlord!" said the stranger, drily. The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a steaming jorum: of which, the first gulp brought the water into Mr. Bumble's eyes. "Now listen to me," said the stranger, after closing the door and window. "I came down to this place, to-day, to find you out; and, by one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my mind. I want some information from you. I don't ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up that, to begin with." As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on: "Carry your memory back let me see twelve years, last winter." "It's a long time," said Mr. Bumble. "Very good. I've done it." "The scene, the workhouse." "Good!" "And the time, night." "Yes." "And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot 'em in the grave!"<|quote|>"The lying-in room, I suppose?"</|quote|>said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger's excited description. "Yes," said the stranger. "A boy was born there." "A many boys," observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly. "A murrain on the young devils!" cried the stranger; "I speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a coffin-maker I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed." "Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!" said Mr. Bumble; "I remember him, of course. There wasn't a obstinater young rascal" "It's not of him I want to hear; I've heard enough of him," said the stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject of poor Oliver's vices. "It's of a woman; the hag that nursed his mother. Where is she?" "Where is she?" said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered facetious. "It would be hard to tell. There's no midwifery there, whichever place she's gone to; so I suppose she's out of employment, anyway." "What do you mean?" demanded the stranger, sternly. "That she died last winter," rejoined Mr. Bumble. The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and although he did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his gaze gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in thought. For some time, he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or disappointed by the intelligence; but at length he breathed more freely; and withdrawing his eyes, observed that it was no great matter. With that he rose, as if to depart. But Mr. Bumble was cunning enough; and he at once saw that an opportunity was opened, for the lucrative disposal of some secret in the possession of his better half. He well remembered the night of old Sally's death, which the occurrences of that day had given him good reason to recollect, as the occasion on which he had proposed to Mrs. Corney; and although that lady had never confided to him the disclosure of which she had been the solitary witness, he had heard enough to know that it related to something that had occurred in the old woman's attendance, as workhouse nurse, upon the young mother of Oliver Twist. Hastily calling this circumstance to mind, he informed the stranger, with an air of mystery,
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his head in acknowledgment of his salutation. Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two; supposing even that the stranger had been more familiar: so he drank his gin-and-water in silence, and read the paper with great show of pomp and circumstance. It so happened, however: as it will happen very often, when men fall into company under such circumstances: that Mr. Bumble felt, every now and then, a powerful inducement, which he could not resist, to steal a look at the stranger: and that whenever he did so, he withdrew his eyes, in some confusion, to find that the stranger was at that moment stealing a look at him. Mr. Bumble's awkwardness was enhanced by the very remarkable expression of the stranger's eye, which was keen and bright, but shadowed by a scowl of distrust and suspicion, unlike anything he had ever observed before, and repulsive to behold. When they had encountered each other's glance several times in this way, the stranger, in a harsh, deep voice, broke silence. "Were you looking for me," he said, "when you peered in at the window?" "Not that I am aware of, unless you're Mr." Here Mr. Bumble stopped short; for he was curious to know the stranger's name, and thought in his impatience, he might supply the blank. "I see you were not," said the stranger; an expression of quiet sarcasm playing about his mouth; "or you have known my name. You don't know it. I would recommend you not to ask for it." "I meant no harm, young man," observed Mr. Bumble, majestically. "And have done none," said the stranger. Another silence succeeded this short dialogue: which was again broken by the stranger. "I have seen you before, I think?" said he. "You were differently dressed at that time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should know you again. You were beadle here, once; were you not?" "I was," said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise; "porochial beadle." "Just so," rejoined the other, nodding his head. "It was in that character I saw you. What are you now?" "Master of the workhouse," rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively, to check any undue familiarity the stranger might otherwise assume. "Master of the workhouse, young man!" "You have the same eye to your own interest, that you always had, I doubt not?" resumed the stranger, looking keenly into Mr. Bumble's eyes, as he raised them in astonishment at the question. "Don't scruple to answer freely, man. I know you pretty well, you see." "I suppose, a married man," replied Mr. Bumble, shading his eyes with his hand, and surveying the stranger, from head to foot, in evident perplexity, "is not more averse to turning an honest penny when he can, than a single one. Porochial officers are not so well paid that they can afford to refuse any little extra fee, when it comes to them in a civil and proper manner." The stranger smiled, and nodded his head again: as much to say, he had not mistaken his man; then rang the bell. "Fill this glass again," he said, handing Mr. Bumble's empty tumbler to the landlord. "Let it be strong and hot. You like it so, I suppose?" "Not too strong," replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough. "You understand what that means, landlord!" said the stranger, drily. The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a steaming jorum: of which, the first gulp brought the water into Mr. Bumble's eyes. "Now listen to me," said the stranger, after closing the door and window. "I came down to this place, to-day, to find you out; and, by one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my mind. I want some information from you. I don't ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up that, to begin with." As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on: "Carry your memory back let me see twelve years, last winter." "It's a long time," said Mr. Bumble. "Very good. I've done it." "The scene, the workhouse." "Good!" "And the time, night." "Yes." "And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot 'em in the grave!"<|quote|>"The lying-in room, I suppose?"</|quote|>said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger's excited description. "Yes," said the stranger. "A boy was born there." "A many boys," observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly. "A murrain on the young devils!" cried the stranger; "I speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a coffin-maker I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed." "Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!" said Mr. Bumble; "I remember him, of course. There wasn't a obstinater young rascal" "It's not of him I want to hear; I've heard enough of him," said the stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject of poor Oliver's vices. "It's of a woman; the hag that nursed his mother. Where is she?" "Where is she?" said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered facetious. "It would be hard to tell. There's no midwifery there, whichever place she's gone to; so I suppose she's out of employment, anyway." "What do you mean?" demanded the stranger, sternly. "That she died last winter," rejoined Mr. Bumble. The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and although he did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his gaze gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in thought. For some time, he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or disappointed by the intelligence; but at length he breathed more freely; and withdrawing his eyes, observed that it was no great matter. With that he rose, as if to depart. But Mr. Bumble was cunning enough; and he at once saw that an opportunity was opened, for the lucrative disposal of some secret in the possession of his better half. He well remembered the night of old Sally's death, which the occurrences of that day had given him good reason to recollect, as the occasion on which he had proposed to Mrs. Corney; and although that lady had never confided to him the disclosure of which she had been the solitary witness, he had heard enough to know that it related to something that had occurred in the old woman's attendance, as workhouse nurse, upon the young mother of Oliver Twist. Hastily calling this circumstance to mind, he informed the stranger, with an air of mystery, that one woman had been closeted with the old harridan shortly before she died; and that she could, as he had reason to believe, throw some light on the subject of his inquiry. "How can I find her?" said the stranger, thrown off his guard; and plainly showing that all his fears (whatever they were) were aroused afresh by the intelligence. "Only through me," rejoined Mr. Bumble. "When?" cried the stranger, hastily. "To-morrow," rejoined Bumble. "At nine in the evening," said the stranger, producing a scrap of paper, and writing down upon it, an obscure address by the water-side, in characters that betrayed his agitation; "at nine in the evening, bring her to me there. I needn't tell you to be secret. It's your interest." With these words, he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for the liquor that had been drunk. Shortly remarking that their roads were different, he departed, without more ceremony than an emphatic repetition of the hour of appointment for the following night. On glancing at the address, the parochial functionary observed that it contained no name. The stranger had not gone far, so he made after him to ask it. "What do you want?" cried the man, turning quickly round, as Bumble touched him on the arm. "Following me?" "Only to ask a question," said the other, pointing to the scrap of paper. "What name am I to ask for?" "Monks!" rejoined the man; and strode hastily away. CHAPTER XXXVIII. CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MR. AND MRS. BUMBLE, AND MR. MONKS, AT THEIR NOCTURNAL INTERVIEW It was a dull, close, overcast summer evening. The clouds, which had been threatening all day, spread out in a dense and sluggish mass of vapour, already yielded large drops of rain, and seemed to presage a violent thunder-storm, when Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, turning out of the main street of the town, directed their course towards a scattered little colony of ruinous houses, distant from it some mile and a-half, or thereabouts, and erected on a low unwholesome swamp, bordering upon the river. They were both wrapped in old and shabby outer garments, which might, perhaps, serve the double purpose of protecting their persons from the rain, and sheltering them from observation. The husband carried a lantern, from which, however, no light yet shone; and trudged on, a few paces in front,
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any little extra fee, when it comes to them in a civil and proper manner." The stranger smiled, and nodded his head again: as much to say, he had not mistaken his man; then rang the bell. "Fill this glass again," he said, handing Mr. Bumble's empty tumbler to the landlord. "Let it be strong and hot. You like it so, I suppose?" "Not too strong," replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough. "You understand what that means, landlord!" said the stranger, drily. The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a steaming jorum: of which, the first gulp brought the water into Mr. Bumble's eyes. "Now listen to me," said the stranger, after closing the door and window. "I came down to this place, to-day, to find you out; and, by one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my mind. I want some information from you. I don't ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up that, to begin with." As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on: "Carry your memory back let me see twelve years, last winter." "It's a long time," said Mr. Bumble. "Very good. I've done it." "The scene, the workhouse." "Good!" "And the time, night." "Yes." "And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot 'em in the grave!"<|quote|>"The lying-in room, I suppose?"</|quote|>said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger's excited description. "Yes," said the stranger. "A boy was born there." "A many boys," observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly. "A murrain on the young devils!" cried the stranger; "I speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a coffin-maker I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed." "Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!" said Mr. Bumble; "I remember him, of course. There wasn't a obstinater young rascal" "It's not of him I want to hear; I've heard enough of him," said the stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject of poor Oliver's vices. "It's of a woman; the hag that nursed his mother. Where is she?" "Where is she?" said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered facetious. "It would be hard to tell. There's no midwifery there, whichever place she's gone to; so I suppose she's out of employment, anyway." "What do you mean?" demanded the stranger, sternly. "That she died last winter," rejoined Mr. Bumble. The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and although he did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his gaze gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in thought. For some time, he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or disappointed by the intelligence; but at length he breathed more freely; and withdrawing his eyes, observed that it was no great matter. With that he rose, as if to depart. But Mr. Bumble was cunning enough; and he at once saw that an opportunity was opened, for the lucrative disposal of some secret in the possession of his better half. He well remembered the night of old Sally's death, which the occurrences of that day had given him good reason to recollect, as the
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Oliver Twist
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he said.
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No speaker
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red. "Come back in, Edna,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Go on in there and
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help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly,"
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Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row." "Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said. "Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub." "Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and insult Mike
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in the caf , twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. CHAPTER 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row." "Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said. "Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub." "Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and insult Mike and try and spoil the fiesta." "They're so bloody," Mike said. "I hate the English." "They can't insult Mike," Bill said. "Mike is a swell fellow. They can't insult Mike. I won't stand it. Who cares if he is a damn bankrupt?" His voice broke. "Who cares?" Mike said. "I
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get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right. "Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the caf , twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. CHAPTER 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row." "Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said. "Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub." "Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and insult Mike and try and spoil the fiesta." "They're so bloody," Mike said. "I hate the English." "They can't insult Mike," Bill said. "Mike is a swell fellow. They can't insult Mike. I won't stand it. Who cares if he is a damn bankrupt?" His voice broke. "Who cares?" Mike said. "I don't care. Jake doesn't care. Do _you_ care?" "No," Edna said. "Are you a bankrupt?" "Of course I am. You don't care, do you, Bill?" Bill put his arm around Mike's shoulder. "I wish to hell I was a bankrupt. I'd show those bastards." "They're just English," Mike said. "It never makes any difference what the English say." "The dirty swine," Bill said. "I'm going to clean them out." "Bill," Edna looked at me. "Please don't go in again, Bill. They're so stupid." "That's it," said Mike. "They're stupid. I knew that was what it was." "They can't say things
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a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?" "No." "All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat like that," Brett said. "Good. I'll get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right. "Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the caf , twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. CHAPTER 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row." "Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said. "Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub." "Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and insult Mike and try and spoil the fiesta." "They're so bloody," Mike said. "I hate the English." "They can't insult Mike," Bill said. "Mike is a swell fellow. They can't insult Mike. I won't stand it. Who cares if he is a damn bankrupt?" His voice broke. "Who cares?" Mike said. "I don't care. Jake doesn't care. Do _you_ care?" "No," Edna said. "Are you a bankrupt?" "Of course I am. You don't care, do you, Bill?" Bill put his arm around Mike's shoulder. "I wish to hell I was a bankrupt. I'd show those bastards." "They're just English," Mike said. "It never makes any difference what the English say." "The dirty swine," Bill said. "I'm going to clean them out." "Bill," Edna looked at me. "Please don't go in again, Bill. They're so stupid." "That's it," said Mike. "They're stupid. I knew that was what it was." "They can't say things like that about Mike," Bill said. "Do you know them?" I asked Mike. "No. I never saw them. They say they know me." "I won't stand it," Bill said. "Come on. Let's go over to the Suizo," I said. "They're a bunch of Edna's friends from Biarritz," Bill said. "They're simply stupid," Edna said. "One of them's Charley Blackman, from Chicago," Bill said. "I was never in Chicago," Mike said. Edna started to laugh and could not stop. "Take me away from here," she said, "you bankrupts." "What kind of a row was it?" I asked Edna. We were walking across the square to the Suizo. Bill was gone. "I don't know what happened, but some one had the police called to keep Mike out of the back room. There were some people that had known Mike at Cannes. What's the matter with Mike?" "Probably he owes them money" I said. "That's what people usually get bitter about." In front of the ticket-booths out in the square there were two lines of people waiting. They were sitting on chairs or crouched on the ground with blankets and newspapers around them. They were waiting for the wickets to open in the
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down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!" said Brett, "the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't you have a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars." It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand," Brett said. "I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?" "No." "All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat like that," Brett said. "Good. I'll get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right. "Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the caf , twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. CHAPTER 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row." "Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said. "Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub." "Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and insult Mike and try and spoil the fiesta." "They're so bloody," Mike said. "I hate the English." "They can't insult Mike," Bill said. "Mike is a swell fellow. They can't insult Mike. I won't stand it. Who cares if he is a damn bankrupt?" His voice broke. "Who cares?" Mike said. "I don't care. Jake doesn't care. Do _you_ care?" "No," Edna said. "Are you a bankrupt?" "Of course I am. You don't care, do you, Bill?" Bill put his arm around Mike's shoulder. "I wish to hell I was a bankrupt. I'd show those bastards." "They're just English," Mike said. "It never makes any difference what the English say." "The dirty swine," Bill said. "I'm going to clean them out." "Bill," Edna looked at me. "Please don't go in again, Bill. They're so stupid." "That's it," said Mike. "They're stupid. I knew that was what it was." "They can't say things like that about Mike," Bill said. "Do you know them?" I asked Mike. "No. I never saw them. They say they know me." "I won't stand it," Bill said. "Come on. Let's go over to the Suizo," I said. "They're a bunch of Edna's friends from Biarritz," Bill said. "They're simply stupid," Edna said. "One of them's Charley Blackman, from Chicago," Bill said. "I was never in Chicago," Mike said. Edna started to laugh and could not stop. "Take me away from here," she said, "you bankrupts." "What kind of a row was it?" I asked Edna. We were walking across the square to the Suizo. Bill was gone. "I don't know what happened, but some one had the police called to keep Mike out of the back room. There were some people that had known Mike at Cannes. What's the matter with Mike?" "Probably he owes them money" I said. "That's what people usually get bitter about." In front of the ticket-booths out in the square there were two lines of people waiting. They were sitting on chairs or crouched on the ground with blankets and newspapers around them. They were waiting for the wickets to open in the morning to buy tickets for the bull-fight. The night was clearing and the moon was out. Some of the people in the line were sleeping. At the Caf Suizo we had just sat down and ordered Fundador when Robert Cohn came up. "Where's Brett?" he asked. "I don't know." "She was with you." "She must have gone to bed." "She's not." "I don't know where she is." His face was sallow under the light. He was standing up. "Tell me where she is." "Sit down," I said. "I don't know where she is." "The hell you don't!" "You can shut your face." "Tell me where Brett is." "I'll not tell you a damn thing." "You know where she is." "If I did I wouldn't tell you." "Oh, go to hell, Cohn," Mike called from the table. "Brett's gone off with the bull-fighter chap. They're on their honeymoon." "You shut up." "Oh, go to hell!" Mike said languidly. "Is that where she is?" Cohn turned to me. "Go to hell!" "She was with you. Is that where she is?" "Go to hell!" "I'll make you tell me" "--he stepped forward--" "you damned pimp." I swung at him and he ducked. I saw his face duck sideways in the light. He hit me and I sat down on the pavement. As I started to get on my feet he hit me twice. I went down backward under a table. I tried to get up and felt I did not have any legs. I felt I must get on my feet and try and hit him. Mike helped me up. Some one poured a carafe of water on my head. Mike had an arm around me, and I found I was sitting on a chair. Mike was pulling at my ears. "I say, you were cold," Mike said. "Where the hell were you?" "Oh, I was around." "You didn't want to mix in it?" "He knocked Mike down, too," Edna said. "He didn't knock me out," Mike said. "I just lay there." "Does this happen every night at your fiestas?" Edna asked. "Wasn't that Mr. Cohn?" "I'm all right," I said. "My head's a little wobbly." There were several waiters and a crowd of people standing around. "Vaya!" said Mike. "Get away. Go on." The waiters moved the people away. "It was quite a thing to watch," Edna said. "He must be a
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said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?" "No." "All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat like that," Brett said. "Good. I'll get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right. "Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the caf , twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. CHAPTER 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row." "Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said. "Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub." "Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and insult Mike and try and spoil the fiesta." "They're so bloody," Mike said. "I hate the English." "They can't insult Mike," Bill said. "Mike is a swell fellow. They can't insult Mike. I won't stand it. Who cares if he is a damn bankrupt?" His voice broke. "Who cares?" Mike said. "I don't care. Jake doesn't care. Do _you_ care?" "No," Edna said. "Are you a bankrupt?" "Of course I am. You don't care, do you, Bill?" Bill put his arm around Mike's shoulder. "I wish to hell I was a bankrupt. I'd show those bastards." "They're just English," Mike said. "It never makes any difference what the English say." "The dirty swine," Bill said. "I'm going to clean them out." "Bill," Edna looked at me. "Please don't go in again, Bill. They're so stupid." "That's it," said Mike. "They're stupid. I knew that was what it was." "They can't say things like that about Mike," Bill said. "Do you know them?" I asked Mike. "No. I never saw them. They say they know me." "I won't stand it," Bill said. "Come on. Let's go over to the Suizo," I said. "They're a bunch of Edna's friends from Biarritz," Bill said. "They're simply stupid," Edna said. "One of them's Charley Blackman, from Chicago," Bill said.
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The Sun Also Rises
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You must either be with us now or you must be silenced forever. The thing is too great a one for us to hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with us on your oath on the cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown into the ditch and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel army. There is no middle way. Which is it to be, death or life? We can only give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing, and all must be done before the rounds come again. " How can I decide?
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No speaker
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whom they called Abdullah Khan."<|quote|>You must either be with us now or you must be silenced forever. The thing is too great a one for us to hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with us on your oath on the cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown into the ditch and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel army. There is no middle way. Which is it to be, death or life? We can only give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing, and all must be done before the rounds come again. " How can I decide?</|quote|>"said I." You have not
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of the pair, the one whom they called Abdullah Khan."<|quote|>You must either be with us now or you must be silenced forever. The thing is too great a one for us to hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with us on your oath on the cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown into the ditch and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel army. There is no middle way. Which is it to be, death or life? We can only give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing, and all must be done before the rounds come again. " How can I decide?</|quote|>"said I." You have not told me what you want
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voice I was a dead man. I could read it in the fellow s brown eyes. I waited, therefore, in silence, to see what it was that they wanted from me." Listen to me, Sahib, "said the taller and fiercer of the pair, the one whom they called Abdullah Khan."<|quote|>You must either be with us now or you must be silenced forever. The thing is too great a one for us to hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with us on your oath on the cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown into the ditch and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel army. There is no middle way. Which is it to be, death or life? We can only give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing, and all must be done before the rounds come again. " How can I decide?</|quote|>"said I." You have not told me what you want of me. But I tell you now that if it is anything against the safety of the fort I will have no truck with it, so you can drive home your knife and welcome. " It is nothing against the
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thoughts; for, even as I braced myself to it, he whispered," Don t make a noise. The fort is safe enough. There are no rebel dogs on this side of the river. "There was the ring of truth in what he said, and I knew that if I raised my voice I was a dead man. I could read it in the fellow s brown eyes. I waited, therefore, in silence, to see what it was that they wanted from me." Listen to me, Sahib, "said the taller and fiercer of the pair, the one whom they called Abdullah Khan."<|quote|>You must either be with us now or you must be silenced forever. The thing is too great a one for us to hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with us on your oath on the cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown into the ditch and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel army. There is no middle way. Which is it to be, death or life? We can only give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing, and all must be done before the rounds come again. " How can I decide?</|quote|>"said I." You have not told me what you want of me. But I tell you now that if it is anything against the safety of the fort I will have no truck with it, so you can drive home your knife and welcome. " It is nothing against the fort, "said he." We only ask you to do that which your countrymen come to this land for. We ask you to be rich. If you will be one of us this night, we will swear to you upon the naked knife, and by the threefold oath which no Sikh
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the beginning of an assault. If our door were in the hands of the Sepoys the place must fall, and the women and children be treated as they were in Cawnpore. Maybe you gentlemen think that I am just making out a case for myself, but I give you my word that when I thought of that, though I felt the point of the knife at my throat, I opened my mouth with the intention of giving a scream, if it was my last one, which might alarm the main guard. The man who held me seemed to know my thoughts; for, even as I braced myself to it, he whispered," Don t make a noise. The fort is safe enough. There are no rebel dogs on this side of the river. "There was the ring of truth in what he said, and I knew that if I raised my voice I was a dead man. I could read it in the fellow s brown eyes. I waited, therefore, in silence, to see what it was that they wanted from me." Listen to me, Sahib, "said the taller and fiercer of the pair, the one whom they called Abdullah Khan."<|quote|>You must either be with us now or you must be silenced forever. The thing is too great a one for us to hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with us on your oath on the cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown into the ditch and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel army. There is no middle way. Which is it to be, death or life? We can only give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing, and all must be done before the rounds come again. " How can I decide?</|quote|>"said I." You have not told me what you want of me. But I tell you now that if it is anything against the safety of the fort I will have no truck with it, so you can drive home your knife and welcome. " It is nothing against the fort, "said he." We only ask you to do that which your countrymen come to this land for. We ask you to be rich. If you will be one of us this night, we will swear to you upon the naked knife, and by the threefold oath which no Sikh was ever known to break, that you shall have your fair share of the loot. A quarter of the treasure shall be yours. We can say no fairer. " But what is the treasure, then? "I asked." I am as ready to be rich as you can be, if you will but show me how it can be done. " You will swear, then, "said he," by the bones of your father, by the honour of your mother, by the cross of your faith, to raise no hand and speak no word against us, either now or afterwards? " I
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yells and howls of the rebels, drunk with opium and with bang, were enough to remind us all night of our dangerous neighbours across the stream. Every two hours the officer of the night used to come round to all the posts, to make sure that all was well." "The third night of my watch was dark and dirty, with a small, driving rain. It was dreary work standing in the gateway hour after hour in such weather. I tried again and again to make my Sikhs talk, but without much success. At two in the morning the rounds passed, and broke for a moment the weariness of the night. Finding that my companions would not be led into conversation, I took out my pipe, and laid down my musket to strike the match. In an instant the two Sikhs were upon me. One of them snatched my firelock up and levelled it at my head, while the other held a great knife to my throat and swore between his teeth that he would plunge it into me if I moved a step." "My first thought was that these fellows were in league with the rebels, and that this was the beginning of an assault. If our door were in the hands of the Sepoys the place must fall, and the women and children be treated as they were in Cawnpore. Maybe you gentlemen think that I am just making out a case for myself, but I give you my word that when I thought of that, though I felt the point of the knife at my throat, I opened my mouth with the intention of giving a scream, if it was my last one, which might alarm the main guard. The man who held me seemed to know my thoughts; for, even as I braced myself to it, he whispered," Don t make a noise. The fort is safe enough. There are no rebel dogs on this side of the river. "There was the ring of truth in what he said, and I knew that if I raised my voice I was a dead man. I could read it in the fellow s brown eyes. I waited, therefore, in silence, to see what it was that they wanted from me." Listen to me, Sahib, "said the taller and fiercer of the pair, the one whom they called Abdullah Khan."<|quote|>You must either be with us now or you must be silenced forever. The thing is too great a one for us to hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with us on your oath on the cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown into the ditch and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel army. There is no middle way. Which is it to be, death or life? We can only give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing, and all must be done before the rounds come again. " How can I decide?</|quote|>"said I." You have not told me what you want of me. But I tell you now that if it is anything against the safety of the fort I will have no truck with it, so you can drive home your knife and welcome. " It is nothing against the fort, "said he." We only ask you to do that which your countrymen come to this land for. We ask you to be rich. If you will be one of us this night, we will swear to you upon the naked knife, and by the threefold oath which no Sikh was ever known to break, that you shall have your fair share of the loot. A quarter of the treasure shall be yours. We can say no fairer. " But what is the treasure, then? "I asked." I am as ready to be rich as you can be, if you will but show me how it can be done. " You will swear, then, "said he," by the bones of your father, by the honour of your mother, by the cross of your faith, to raise no hand and speak no word against us, either now or afterwards? " I will swear it, "I answered," provided that the fort is not endangered. " Then my comrade and I will swear that you shall have a quarter of the treasure which shall be equally divided among the four of us. " There are but three, "said I." No; Dost Akbar must have his share. We can tell the tale to you while we await them. Do you stand at the gate, Mahomet Singh, and give notice of their coming. The thing stands thus, Sahib, and I tell it to you because I know that an oath is binding upon a Feringhee, and that we may trust you. Had you been a lying Hindoo, though you had sworn by all the gods in their false temples, your blood would have been upon the knife, and your body in the water. But the Sikh knows the Englishman, and the Englishman knows the Sikh. Hearken, then, to what I have to say. " There is a rajah in the northern provinces who has much wealth, though his lands are small. Much has come to him from his father, and more still he has set by himself, for he is of a low nature and
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and the centipedes. It is all full of great deserted halls, and winding passages, and long corridors twisting in and out, so that it is easy enough for folk to get lost in it. For this reason it was seldom that any one went into it, though now and again a party with torches might go exploring." "The river washes along the front of the old fort, and so protects it, but on the sides and behind there are many doors, and these had to be guarded, of course, in the old quarter as well as in that which was actually held by our troops. We were short-handed, with hardly men enough to man the angles of the building and to serve the guns. It was impossible for us, therefore, to station a strong guard at every one of the innumerable gates. What we did was to organise a central guard-house in the middle of the fort, and to leave each gate under the charge of one white man and two or three natives. I was selected to take charge during certain hours of the night of a small isolated door upon the southwest side of the building. Two Sikh troopers were placed under my command, and I was instructed if anything went wrong to fire my musket, when I might rely upon help coming at once from the central guard. As the guard was a good two hundred paces away, however, and as the space between was cut up into a labyrinth of passages and corridors, I had great doubts as to whether they could arrive in time to be of any use in case of an actual attack." "Well, I was pretty proud at having this small command given me, since I was a raw recruit, and a game-legged one at that. For two nights I kept the watch with my Punjaubees. They were tall, fierce-looking chaps, Mahomet Singh and Abdullah Khan by name, both old fighting-men who had borne arms against us at Chilian-wallah. They could talk English pretty well, but I could get little out of them. They preferred to stand together and jabber all night in their queer Sikh lingo. For myself, I used to stand outside the gateway, looking down on the broad, winding river and on the twinkling lights of the great city. The beating of drums, the rattle of tomtoms, and the yells and howls of the rebels, drunk with opium and with bang, were enough to remind us all night of our dangerous neighbours across the stream. Every two hours the officer of the night used to come round to all the posts, to make sure that all was well." "The third night of my watch was dark and dirty, with a small, driving rain. It was dreary work standing in the gateway hour after hour in such weather. I tried again and again to make my Sikhs talk, but without much success. At two in the morning the rounds passed, and broke for a moment the weariness of the night. Finding that my companions would not be led into conversation, I took out my pipe, and laid down my musket to strike the match. In an instant the two Sikhs were upon me. One of them snatched my firelock up and levelled it at my head, while the other held a great knife to my throat and swore between his teeth that he would plunge it into me if I moved a step." "My first thought was that these fellows were in league with the rebels, and that this was the beginning of an assault. If our door were in the hands of the Sepoys the place must fall, and the women and children be treated as they were in Cawnpore. Maybe you gentlemen think that I am just making out a case for myself, but I give you my word that when I thought of that, though I felt the point of the knife at my throat, I opened my mouth with the intention of giving a scream, if it was my last one, which might alarm the main guard. The man who held me seemed to know my thoughts; for, even as I braced myself to it, he whispered," Don t make a noise. The fort is safe enough. There are no rebel dogs on this side of the river. "There was the ring of truth in what he said, and I knew that if I raised my voice I was a dead man. I could read it in the fellow s brown eyes. I waited, therefore, in silence, to see what it was that they wanted from me." Listen to me, Sahib, "said the taller and fiercer of the pair, the one whom they called Abdullah Khan."<|quote|>You must either be with us now or you must be silenced forever. The thing is too great a one for us to hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with us on your oath on the cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown into the ditch and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel army. There is no middle way. Which is it to be, death or life? We can only give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing, and all must be done before the rounds come again. " How can I decide?</|quote|>"said I." You have not told me what you want of me. But I tell you now that if it is anything against the safety of the fort I will have no truck with it, so you can drive home your knife and welcome. " It is nothing against the fort, "said he." We only ask you to do that which your countrymen come to this land for. We ask you to be rich. If you will be one of us this night, we will swear to you upon the naked knife, and by the threefold oath which no Sikh was ever known to break, that you shall have your fair share of the loot. A quarter of the treasure shall be yours. We can say no fairer. " But what is the treasure, then? "I asked." I am as ready to be rich as you can be, if you will but show me how it can be done. " You will swear, then, "said he," by the bones of your father, by the honour of your mother, by the cross of your faith, to raise no hand and speak no word against us, either now or afterwards? " I will swear it, "I answered," provided that the fort is not endangered. " Then my comrade and I will swear that you shall have a quarter of the treasure which shall be equally divided among the four of us. " There are but three, "said I." No; Dost Akbar must have his share. We can tell the tale to you while we await them. Do you stand at the gate, Mahomet Singh, and give notice of their coming. The thing stands thus, Sahib, and I tell it to you because I know that an oath is binding upon a Feringhee, and that we may trust you. Had you been a lying Hindoo, though you had sworn by all the gods in their false temples, your blood would have been upon the knife, and your body in the water. But the Sikh knows the Englishman, and the Englishman knows the Sikh. Hearken, then, to what I have to say. " There is a rajah in the northern provinces who has much wealth, though his lands are small. Much has come to him from his father, and more still he has set by himself, for he is of a low nature and hoards his gold rather than spend it. When the troubles broke out he would be friends both with the lion and the tiger, with the Sepoy and with the Company s Raj. Soon, however, it seemed to him that the white men s day was come, for through all the land he could hear of nothing but of their death and their overthrow. Yet, being a careful man, he made such plans that, come what might, half at least of his treasure should be left to him. That which was in gold and silver he kept by him in the vaults of his palace, but the most precious stones and the choicest pearls that he had he put in an iron box, and sent it by a trusty servant who, under the guise of a merchant, should take it to the fort at Agra, there to lie until the land is at peace. Thus, if the rebels won he would have his money, but if the Company conquered his jewels would be saved to him. Having thus divided his hoard, he threw himself into the cause of the Sepoys, since they were strong upon his borders. By doing this, mark you, Sahib, his property becomes the due of those who have been true to their salt. " This pretended merchant, who travels under the name of Achmet, is now in the city of Agra, and desires to gain his way into the fort. He has with him as travelling-companion my foster-brother Dost Akbar, who knows his secret. Dost Akbar has promised this night to lead him to a side-postern of the fort, and has chosen this one for his purpose. Here he will come presently, and here he will find Mahomet Singh and myself awaiting him. The place is lonely, and none shall know of his coming. The world shall know of the merchant Achmet no more, but the great treasure of the rajah shall be divided among us. What say you to it, Sahib? "In Worcestershire the life of a man seems a great and a sacred thing; but it is very different when there is fire and blood all round you and you have been used to meeting death at every turn. Whether Achmet the merchant lived or died was a thing as light as air to me, but at the talk about the treasure my heart turned
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opium and with bang, were enough to remind us all night of our dangerous neighbours across the stream. Every two hours the officer of the night used to come round to all the posts, to make sure that all was well." "The third night of my watch was dark and dirty, with a small, driving rain. It was dreary work standing in the gateway hour after hour in such weather. I tried again and again to make my Sikhs talk, but without much success. At two in the morning the rounds passed, and broke for a moment the weariness of the night. Finding that my companions would not be led into conversation, I took out my pipe, and laid down my musket to strike the match. In an instant the two Sikhs were upon me. One of them snatched my firelock up and levelled it at my head, while the other held a great knife to my throat and swore between his teeth that he would plunge it into me if I moved a step." "My first thought was that these fellows were in league with the rebels, and that this was the beginning of an assault. If our door were in the hands of the Sepoys the place must fall, and the women and children be treated as they were in Cawnpore. Maybe you gentlemen think that I am just making out a case for myself, but I give you my word that when I thought of that, though I felt the point of the knife at my throat, I opened my mouth with the intention of giving a scream, if it was my last one, which might alarm the main guard. The man who held me seemed to know my thoughts; for, even as I braced myself to it, he whispered," Don t make a noise. The fort is safe enough. There are no rebel dogs on this side of the river. "There was the ring of truth in what he said, and I knew that if I raised my voice I was a dead man. I could read it in the fellow s brown eyes. I waited, therefore, in silence, to see what it was that they wanted from me." Listen to me, Sahib, "said the taller and fiercer of the pair, the one whom they called Abdullah Khan."<|quote|>You must either be with us now or you must be silenced forever. The thing is too great a one for us to hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with us on your oath on the cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown into the ditch and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel army. There is no middle way. Which is it to be, death or life? We can only give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing, and all must be done before the rounds come again. " How can I decide?</|quote|>"said I." You have not told me what you want of me. But I tell you now that if it is anything against the safety of the fort I will have no truck with it, so you can drive home your knife and welcome. " It is nothing against the fort, "said he." We only ask you to do that which your countrymen come to this land for. We ask you to be rich. If you will be one of us this night, we will swear to you upon the naked knife, and by the threefold oath which no Sikh was ever known to break, that you shall have your fair share of the loot. A quarter of the treasure shall be yours. We can say no fairer. " But what is the treasure, then? "I asked." I am as ready to be rich as you can be, if you will but show me how it can be done. " You will swear, then, "said he," by the bones of your father, by the honour of your mother, by the cross of your faith, to raise no hand and speak no word against us, either now or afterwards? " I will swear it, "I answered," provided that the fort is not endangered. " Then my comrade and I will swear that you shall have a quarter of the treasure which shall be equally divided among the four of us. " There are but three, "said I." No; Dost Akbar must have his share. We can tell the tale to you while we await them. Do you stand at the gate, Mahomet Singh, and give notice of their coming. The thing stands thus, Sahib, and I tell it to you because I know that an oath is binding upon a Feringhee, and that we may trust you. Had you been a lying Hindoo, though you had sworn by all the gods in their false temples, your blood would have been upon the knife, and your body in the water. But the Sikh knows the Englishman, and the Englishman knows the Sikh. Hearken, then, to what I have to say. " There is a rajah in the northern provinces who has much wealth, though his lands are small. Much has come to him from his father, and more still he has set by himself, for he is of a low nature and hoards his gold rather than spend it. When the troubles broke out he would be friends both with the lion and the tiger, with the Sepoy and with the
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The Sign Of The Four
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she repeated.
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No speaker
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Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!"<|quote|>she repeated.</|quote|>"You ve come back?" said
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embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!"<|quote|>she repeated.</|quote|>"You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up
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yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!"<|quote|>she repeated.</|quote|>"You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown
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sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!"<|quote|>she repeated.</|quote|>"You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell
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of the door, and the door, which could be thrown open in a second, was her only protection against the world. But she had somehow risen to be mistress in her own kingdom, assuming her sovereignty unconsciously. Steps approached her unheard. It is true that they were steps that lingered, divagated, and mounted with the deliberation natural to one past sixty whose arms, moreover, are full of leaves and blossoms; but they came on steadily, and soon a tap of laurel boughs against the door arrested Katharine s pencil as it touched the page. She did not move, however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!"<|quote|>she repeated.</|quote|>"You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak. "The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him." Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And
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now, he wondered, as he addressed the envelope to his wife. He could not control the telephone. He could not play the spy. She might be making any arrangements she chose. Yet the thought did not disturb him so much as the strange, unpleasant, illicit atmosphere of the whole scene with the young people the night before. His sense of discomfort was almost physical. Had he known it, Katharine was far enough withdrawn, both physically and spiritually, from the telephone. She sat in her room with the dictionaries spreading their wide leaves on the table before her, and all the pages which they had concealed for so many years arranged in a pile. She worked with the steady concentration that is produced by the successful effort to think down some unwelcome thought by means of another thought. Having absorbed the unwelcome thought, her mind went on with additional vigor, derived from the victory; on a sheet of paper lines of figures and symbols frequently and firmly written down marked the different stages of its progress. And yet it was broad daylight; there were sounds of knocking and sweeping, which proved that living people were at work on the other side of the door, and the door, which could be thrown open in a second, was her only protection against the world. But she had somehow risen to be mistress in her own kingdom, assuming her sovereignty unconsciously. Steps approached her unheard. It is true that they were steps that lingered, divagated, and mounted with the deliberation natural to one past sixty whose arms, moreover, are full of leaves and blossoms; but they came on steadily, and soon a tap of laurel boughs against the door arrested Katharine s pencil as it touched the page. She did not move, however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!"<|quote|>she repeated.</|quote|>"You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak. "The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him." Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her
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He made his own choice, and before his daughter could protest or make her escape, she found herself being turned by the agency of Sir Walter Scott into a civilized human being. Yet Mr. Hilbery had grave doubts, as he read, whether the process was more than skin-deep. Civilization had been very profoundly and unpleasantly overthrown that evening; the extent of the ruin was still undetermined; he had lost his temper, a physical disaster not to be matched for the space of ten years or so; and his own condition urgently required soothing and renovating at the hands of the classics. His house was in a state of revolution; he had a vision of unpleasant encounters on the staircase; his meals would be poisoned for days to come; was literature itself a specific against such disagreeables? A note of hollowness was in his voice as he read. CHAPTER XXXIII Considering that Mr. Hilbery lived in a house which was accurately numbered in order with its fellows, and that he filled up forms, paid rent, and had seven more years of tenancy to run, he had an excuse for laying down laws for the conduct of those who lived in his house, and this excuse, though profoundly inadequate, he found useful during the interregnum of civilization with which he now found himself faced. In obedience to those laws, Rodney disappeared; Cassandra was dispatched to catch the eleven-thirty on Monday morning; Denham was seen no more; so that only Katharine, the lawful occupant of the upper rooms, remained, and Mr. Hilbery thought himself competent to see that she did nothing further to compromise herself. As he bade her good morning next day he was aware that he knew nothing of what she was thinking, but, as he reflected with some bitterness, even this was an advance upon the ignorance of the previous mornings. He went to his study, wrote, tore up, and wrote again a letter to his wife, asking her to come back on account of domestic difficulties which he specified at first, but in a later draft more discreetly left unspecified. Even if she started the very moment that she got it, he reflected, she would not be home till Tuesday night, and he counted lugubriously the number of hours that he would have to spend in a position of detestable authority alone with his daughter. What was she doing now, he wondered, as he addressed the envelope to his wife. He could not control the telephone. He could not play the spy. She might be making any arrangements she chose. Yet the thought did not disturb him so much as the strange, unpleasant, illicit atmosphere of the whole scene with the young people the night before. His sense of discomfort was almost physical. Had he known it, Katharine was far enough withdrawn, both physically and spiritually, from the telephone. She sat in her room with the dictionaries spreading their wide leaves on the table before her, and all the pages which they had concealed for so many years arranged in a pile. She worked with the steady concentration that is produced by the successful effort to think down some unwelcome thought by means of another thought. Having absorbed the unwelcome thought, her mind went on with additional vigor, derived from the victory; on a sheet of paper lines of figures and symbols frequently and firmly written down marked the different stages of its progress. And yet it was broad daylight; there were sounds of knocking and sweeping, which proved that living people were at work on the other side of the door, and the door, which could be thrown open in a second, was her only protection against the world. But she had somehow risen to be mistress in her own kingdom, assuming her sovereignty unconsciously. Steps approached her unheard. It is true that they were steps that lingered, divagated, and mounted with the deliberation natural to one past sixty whose arms, moreover, are full of leaves and blossoms; but they came on steadily, and soon a tap of laurel boughs against the door arrested Katharine s pencil as it touched the page. She did not move, however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!"<|quote|>she repeated.</|quote|>"You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak. "The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him." Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired. "Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair." Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally benignant, the mother of her earliest childhood, whose silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked. Mrs. Hilbery listened without making any remark for a considerable time. She seemed to draw her conclusions rather by looking at her daughter than by listening to her, and, if cross-examined, she would probably have given a highly inaccurate version of Ralph Denham s life-history except that he was penniless, fatherless,
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means of another thought. Having absorbed the unwelcome thought, her mind went on with additional vigor, derived from the victory; on a sheet of paper lines of figures and symbols frequently and firmly written down marked the different stages of its progress. And yet it was broad daylight; there were sounds of knocking and sweeping, which proved that living people were at work on the other side of the door, and the door, which could be thrown open in a second, was her only protection against the world. But she had somehow risen to be mistress in her own kingdom, assuming her sovereignty unconsciously. Steps approached her unheard. It is true that they were steps that lingered, divagated, and mounted with the deliberation natural to one past sixty whose arms, moreover, are full of leaves and blossoms; but they came on steadily, and soon a tap of laurel boughs against the door arrested Katharine s pencil as it touched the page. She did not move, however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!"<|quote|>she repeated.</|quote|>"You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak. "The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him." Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine
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Night And Day
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"That if I had been asked to serve the king I might have joined a ship; but I've been dragged here in a cruel way, and the very first time I can get ashore, I mean to stay."
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Don Lavington
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I feel." "How's that, sir?"<|quote|>"That if I had been asked to serve the king I might have joined a ship; but I've been dragged here in a cruel way, and the very first time I can get ashore, I mean to stay."</|quote|>"Well, I felt something like
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Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?"<|quote|>"That if I had been asked to serve the king I might have joined a ship; but I've been dragged here in a cruel way, and the very first time I can get ashore, I mean to stay."</|quote|>"Well, I felt something like that, Mas' Don; but they'd
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time enough now. You must get up and shake all this off. You'll all be on deck in a quarter of an hour, so look sharp." "This here's a nice game, Mas' Don. Do you know how I feel?" "No, Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?"<|quote|>"That if I had been asked to serve the king I might have joined a ship; but I've been dragged here in a cruel way, and the very first time I can get ashore, I mean to stay."</|quote|>"Well, I felt something like that, Mas' Don; but they'd call it desertion." "Let them call it what they like, Jem. They treated us like dogs, and I will not stand it. I shall leave the ship first chance. You can do as you like, but that's what I mean
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king wants men, and he must have them. Now, young as you are, show that you can act like a man." Don gave him an agonised look, but the bluff boatswain did not see it. "Here, you fellows," he cried to the rest of the sick men; "we've given you time enough now. You must get up and shake all this off. You'll all be on deck in a quarter of an hour, so look sharp." "This here's a nice game, Mas' Don. Do you know how I feel?" "No, Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?"<|quote|>"That if I had been asked to serve the king I might have joined a ship; but I've been dragged here in a cruel way, and the very first time I can get ashore, I mean to stay."</|quote|>"Well, I felt something like that, Mas' Don; but they'd call it desertion." "Let them call it what they like, Jem. They treated us like dogs, and I will not stand it. I shall leave the ship first chance. You can do as you like, but that's what I mean to do." "Oh, I shall do as you do, Mas' Don. I was never meant for a sailor, and I shall get away as soon as I can." "Shall you?" said a voice that seemed familiar; and they both turned in the direction from which it came, to see a
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on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you like, at the first port we touch at, or by any ship we speak. But come, my lad, you've been sea-sick for days; don't begin to be home sick. You've been pressed as many a better fellow has been before you. The king wants men, and he must have them. Now, young as you are, show that you can act like a man." Don gave him an agonised look, but the bluff boatswain did not see it. "Here, you fellows," he cried to the rest of the sick men; "we've given you time enough now. You must get up and shake all this off. You'll all be on deck in a quarter of an hour, so look sharp." "This here's a nice game, Mas' Don. Do you know how I feel?" "No, Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?"<|quote|>"That if I had been asked to serve the king I might have joined a ship; but I've been dragged here in a cruel way, and the very first time I can get ashore, I mean to stay."</|quote|>"Well, I felt something like that, Mas' Don; but they'd call it desertion." "Let them call it what they like, Jem. They treated us like dogs, and I will not stand it. I shall leave the ship first chance. You can do as you like, but that's what I mean to do." "Oh, I shall do as you do, Mas' Don. I was never meant for a sailor, and I shall get away as soon as I can." "Shall you?" said a voice that seemed familiar; and they both turned in the direction from which it came, to see a dark figure rise from beside the bulk head, where it had lain unnoticed by the invalids, though if they had noted its presence, they would have taken it for one of their fellow-sufferers. "What's it got to do with you?" said Jem, shortly, as he scowled at the man, who now came forward sufficiently near the dim light for them to recognise the grim, sinister-looking sailor, who had played so unpleasant a part at the _rendez-vous_ where they were taken after being seized. "What's it got to do with me? Everything. So you're goin' to desert, both of you, are
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you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?" said Jem, with a groan. "Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here." "We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up." "But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or Portsmouth, or some place like that. China?" "We're going straight away or China, my lad, to be on that station for some time." "And when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's get up on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you like, at the first port we touch at, or by any ship we speak. But come, my lad, you've been sea-sick for days; don't begin to be home sick. You've been pressed as many a better fellow has been before you. The king wants men, and he must have them. Now, young as you are, show that you can act like a man." Don gave him an agonised look, but the bluff boatswain did not see it. "Here, you fellows," he cried to the rest of the sick men; "we've given you time enough now. You must get up and shake all this off. You'll all be on deck in a quarter of an hour, so look sharp." "This here's a nice game, Mas' Don. Do you know how I feel?" "No, Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?"<|quote|>"That if I had been asked to serve the king I might have joined a ship; but I've been dragged here in a cruel way, and the very first time I can get ashore, I mean to stay."</|quote|>"Well, I felt something like that, Mas' Don; but they'd call it desertion." "Let them call it what they like, Jem. They treated us like dogs, and I will not stand it. I shall leave the ship first chance. You can do as you like, but that's what I mean to do." "Oh, I shall do as you do, Mas' Don. I was never meant for a sailor, and I shall get away as soon as I can." "Shall you?" said a voice that seemed familiar; and they both turned in the direction from which it came, to see a dark figure rise from beside the bulk head, where it had lain unnoticed by the invalids, though if they had noted its presence, they would have taken it for one of their fellow-sufferers. "What's it got to do with you?" said Jem, shortly, as he scowled at the man, who now came forward sufficiently near the dim light for them to recognise the grim, sinister-looking sailor, who had played so unpleasant a part at the _rendez-vous_ where they were taken after being seized. "What's it got to do with me? Everything. So you're goin' to desert, both of you, are you? Do you know what that means?" "No; nor don't want," growled Jem. "Then I'll tell you. Flogging, for sartain, and p'r'aps stringing up at the yard-arm, as an example to others." "Ho!" said Jem; "do it? Well, you look the sort o' man as is best suited for that; and just you look here. Nex' time I ketches you spying and listening to what I say, I shall give you a worse dressing down than I give you last time, so be off." "Mutinous, threatening, and talking about deserting," said the sinister-looking sailor, with a harsh laugh, which sounded as if he had a young watchman's rattle somewhere in his chest. "Nice thing to report. I think this will do." He went off rubbing his hands softly, and mounted the ladder, Jem watching him till his legs had disappeared, when he turned sharply to Don. "Him and me's going to have a regular set-to some day, Mas' Don. He makes me feel warm, and somehow that bit of a row has done me no end o' good. Here, come on deck, and let's see if he's telling tales. Come on, lad. P'r'aps I've got a word or two to
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order was given for them to get up and form in line again, Jem clung tightly to Don, and said, dolefully,-- "It's of no use, Mas' Don; I can't. It's like trying to stand on running barrels; and--oh, dear me!--I do feel so precious bad." Don made no reply, but caught at the side of the vessel, for everything around seemed to be swimming, and a peculiarly faint sensation had attacked him, such as he had never experienced before. "There, send 'em all below," said the officer, who seemed half angry, half-amused. "Pretty way this is, of manning His Majesty's ships. There, down with you. Get 'em all below." Don did not know how he got below. He had some recollection of knocking the skin off his elbows, and being half dragged into a corner of the lower deck, where, for three days, he lay in the most abjectly miserable state, listening to the sighs and groans of his equally unfortunate companions, and the remarks of Jem, who kept up in his waking moments a running commentary on the miseries of going to sea. "It's wuss than anything I ever felt or saw," he muttered. "I've been ill, and I've been in hospital, but this here's about the most terrible. I say, Mas' Don, how do you feel now?" "As if I'd give anything to have the ship stopped, for us to be set ashore." "No, no, you can't feel like that, Mas' Don, because that's exactly how I feel. I am so ill. Well, all I can say is that it serves the captain and the lieutenant and all the rest of 'em jolly well right for press-ganging me." "What do you mean?" said Don, dolefully. "Why, that they took all that trouble to bring me aboard to make a sailor of me, and they'll never do it. I'm fit to go into a hospital, and that's about all I'm fit for. Sailor? Why, I can't even stand upright on the precious deck." "Well, my lads," said a hearty voice just then; "how long are you going to play at being old women? Come, rouse a bit." "No, thankye, sir," said Jem, in a miserable tone. "Bit? I haven't bit anything since I've been aboard." "Then rouse up, and bite something now," cried the boatswain. "Come, my lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?" said Jem, with a groan. "Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here." "We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up." "But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or Portsmouth, or some place like that. China?" "We're going straight away or China, my lad, to be on that station for some time." "And when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's get up on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you like, at the first port we touch at, or by any ship we speak. But come, my lad, you've been sea-sick for days; don't begin to be home sick. You've been pressed as many a better fellow has been before you. The king wants men, and he must have them. Now, young as you are, show that you can act like a man." Don gave him an agonised look, but the bluff boatswain did not see it. "Here, you fellows," he cried to the rest of the sick men; "we've given you time enough now. You must get up and shake all this off. You'll all be on deck in a quarter of an hour, so look sharp." "This here's a nice game, Mas' Don. Do you know how I feel?" "No, Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?"<|quote|>"That if I had been asked to serve the king I might have joined a ship; but I've been dragged here in a cruel way, and the very first time I can get ashore, I mean to stay."</|quote|>"Well, I felt something like that, Mas' Don; but they'd call it desertion." "Let them call it what they like, Jem. They treated us like dogs, and I will not stand it. I shall leave the ship first chance. You can do as you like, but that's what I mean to do." "Oh, I shall do as you do, Mas' Don. I was never meant for a sailor, and I shall get away as soon as I can." "Shall you?" said a voice that seemed familiar; and they both turned in the direction from which it came, to see a dark figure rise from beside the bulk head, where it had lain unnoticed by the invalids, though if they had noted its presence, they would have taken it for one of their fellow-sufferers. "What's it got to do with you?" said Jem, shortly, as he scowled at the man, who now came forward sufficiently near the dim light for them to recognise the grim, sinister-looking sailor, who had played so unpleasant a part at the _rendez-vous_ where they were taken after being seized. "What's it got to do with me? Everything. So you're goin' to desert, both of you, are you? Do you know what that means?" "No; nor don't want," growled Jem. "Then I'll tell you. Flogging, for sartain, and p'r'aps stringing up at the yard-arm, as an example to others." "Ho!" said Jem; "do it? Well, you look the sort o' man as is best suited for that; and just you look here. Nex' time I ketches you spying and listening to what I say, I shall give you a worse dressing down than I give you last time, so be off." "Mutinous, threatening, and talking about deserting," said the sinister-looking sailor, with a harsh laugh, which sounded as if he had a young watchman's rattle somewhere in his chest. "Nice thing to report. I think this will do." He went off rubbing his hands softly, and mounted the ladder, Jem watching him till his legs had disappeared, when he turned sharply to Don. "Him and me's going to have a regular set-to some day, Mas' Don. He makes me feel warm, and somehow that bit of a row has done me no end o' good. Here, come on deck, and let's see if he's telling tales. Come on, lad. P'r'aps I've got a word or two to say as well." Don had not realised it before, but as he followed Jem, he suddenly woke to the fact that he did not feel so weak and giddy, while, by the time he was on deck, it as suddenly occurred to him that he could eat some breakfast. "I thought as much," said Jem. "Lookye there, Mas' Don. Did you ever see such a miserable sneak?" For there, not half-a-dozen yards away, was the sinister-looking sailor talking to the bluff boatswain. "Oh, yes, of course," said the latter, as he caught sight of the recruits. "So does every man who is pressed, and if he does not say it, he thinks it. There, be off." The ill-looking sailor gave Jem an ugly look and went aft, while the boatswain turned to Don. "That's right," he said. "Make a bit of an effort, and you're all the better for it. You'll get your sea legs directly." "I wish he'd tell us where to get a sea leg o' mutton, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I _am_ hungry." "What's that?" said the boatswain. "Only said I was hungry," growled Jem. "Better and better. And, now, look here, you two may as well set to work without grumbling. And take my advice; don't let such men as that hear either of you talk about desertion again. It doesn't matter this time, but, by-and-by, it may mean punishment." CHAPTER NINETEEN. A CONVERSATION. The gale was left behind, and the weather proved glorious as they sped on towards the tropics, both going through all the drudgery to be learned by Government men, in company with the naval drill. There was so much to see and learn that Don found it impossible to be moody; and, for the most part, his homesickness and regrets were felt merely when he went to his hammock at nights; while the time spent unhappily there was very short, for fatigue soon sent him to sleep. The boatswain was always bluff, manly, and kind, and following out his advice, both Jem and Don picked up the routine of their life so rapidly as to gain many an encouraging word from their officers--words which, in spite of the hidden determination to escape at the first opportunity, set them striving harder and harder to master that which they had to do. "Yes," Jem used to say, "they may be civil, but soft words
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when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's get up on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you like, at the first port we touch at, or by any ship we speak. But come, my lad, you've been sea-sick for days; don't begin to be home sick. You've been pressed as many a better fellow has been before you. The king wants men, and he must have them. Now, young as you are, show that you can act like a man." Don gave him an agonised look, but the bluff boatswain did not see it. "Here, you fellows," he cried to the rest of the sick men; "we've given you time enough now. You must get up and shake all this off. You'll all be on deck in a quarter of an hour, so look sharp." "This here's a nice game, Mas' Don. Do you know how I feel?" "No, Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?"<|quote|>"That if I had been asked to serve the king I might have joined a ship; but I've been dragged here in a cruel way, and the very first time I can get ashore, I mean to stay."</|quote|>"Well, I felt something like that, Mas' Don; but they'd call it desertion." "Let them call it what they like, Jem. They treated us like dogs, and I will not stand it. I shall leave the ship first chance. You can do as you like, but that's what I mean to do." "Oh, I shall do as you do, Mas' Don. I was never meant for a sailor, and I shall get away as soon as I can." "Shall you?" said a voice that seemed familiar; and they both turned in the direction from which it came, to see a dark figure rise from beside the bulk head, where it had lain unnoticed by the invalids, though if they had noted its presence, they would have taken it for one of their fellow-sufferers. "What's it got to do with you?" said Jem, shortly, as he scowled at the man, who now came forward sufficiently near the dim light for them to recognise the grim, sinister-looking sailor, who had played so unpleasant a part at the _rendez-vous_ where they were taken after being seized. "What's it got to do with me? Everything. So you're goin' to desert, both of you, are you? Do you know what that means?" "No; nor don't want," growled Jem. "Then I'll tell you. Flogging, for sartain, and p'r'aps stringing up at the yard-arm, as an example to others." "Ho!" said Jem; "do it? Well, you look the sort o' man as is best suited for that; and just you look here. Nex' time I ketches you spying and listening to what I say, I shall give you a worse dressing down than I give you last time, so be off." "Mutinous, threatening, and talking about deserting," said the sinister-looking sailor, with a harsh laugh, which sounded as if he had a young watchman's rattle somewhere in his chest. "Nice thing to report. I think this will do." He went off rubbing his hands softly, and mounted the ladder, Jem watching him till his legs had disappeared, when he turned sharply to Don. "Him and me's going to have a regular set-to some day, Mas' Don. He makes me feel
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Don Lavington
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"Some misunderstanding,"
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Cyril Fielding
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we can't think what happened."<|quote|>"Some misunderstanding,"</|quote|>said Fielding, seeing at once
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waited and waited and waited; we can't think what happened."<|quote|>"Some misunderstanding,"</|quote|>said Fielding, seeing at once that it was the type
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some blunder and given offence," said Mrs. Moore. "That is even more impossible. But may I know the facts?" "An Indian lady and gentleman were to send their carriage for us this morning at nine. It has never come. We waited and waited and waited; we can't think what happened."<|quote|>"Some misunderstanding,"</|quote|>said Fielding, seeing at once that it was the type of incident that had better not be cleared up. "Oh no, it wasn't that," Miss Quested persisted. "They even gave up going to Calcutta to entertain us. We must have made some stupid blunder, we both feel sure." "I wouldn't
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there anything else I may tell you about my country?" "I want you to explain a disappointment we had this morning; it must be some point of Indian etiquette." "There honestly is none," he replied. "We are by nature a most informal people." "I am afraid we must have made some blunder and given offence," said Mrs. Moore. "That is even more impossible. But may I know the facts?" "An Indian lady and gentleman were to send their carriage for us this morning at nine. It has never come. We waited and waited and waited; we can't think what happened."<|quote|>"Some misunderstanding,"</|quote|>said Fielding, seeing at once that it was the type of incident that had better not be cleared up. "Oh no, it wasn't that," Miss Quested persisted. "They even gave up going to Calcutta to entertain us. We must have made some stupid blunder, we both feel sure." "I wouldn't worry about that." "Exactly what Mr. Heaslop tells me," she retorted, reddening a little. "If one doesn't worry, how's one to understand?" The host was inclined to change the subject, but Aziz took it up warmly, and on learning fragments of the delinquents' name pronounced that they were Hindus. "Slack
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was spared this anxiety. Adela's angular body and the freckles on her face were terrible defects in his eyes, and he wondered how God could have been so unkind to any female form. His attitude towards her remained entirely straightforward in consequence. "I want to ask you something, Dr. Aziz," she began. "I heard from Mrs. Moore how helpful you were to her in the mosque, and how interesting. She learnt more about India in those few minutes' talk with you than in the three weeks since we landed." "Oh, please do not mention a little thing like that. Is there anything else I may tell you about my country?" "I want you to explain a disappointment we had this morning; it must be some point of Indian etiquette." "There honestly is none," he replied. "We are by nature a most informal people." "I am afraid we must have made some blunder and given offence," said Mrs. Moore. "That is even more impossible. But may I know the facts?" "An Indian lady and gentleman were to send their carriage for us this morning at nine. It has never come. We waited and waited and waited; we can't think what happened."<|quote|>"Some misunderstanding,"</|quote|>said Fielding, seeing at once that it was the type of incident that had better not be cleared up. "Oh no, it wasn't that," Miss Quested persisted. "They even gave up going to Calcutta to entertain us. We must have made some stupid blunder, we both feel sure." "I wouldn't worry about that." "Exactly what Mr. Heaslop tells me," she retorted, reddening a little. "If one doesn't worry, how's one to understand?" The host was inclined to change the subject, but Aziz took it up warmly, and on learning fragments of the delinquents' name pronounced that they were Hindus. "Slack Hindus they have no idea of society; I know them very well because of a doctor at the hospital. Such a slack, unpunctual fellow! It is as well you did not go to their house, for it would give you a wrong idea of India. Nothing sanitary. I think for my own part they grew ashamed of their house and that is why they did not send." "That's a notion," said the other man. "I do so hate mysteries," Adela announced. "We English do." "I dislike them not because I'm English, but from my own personal point of view," she
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that it had come right, but he didn't fidget, being an optimist where personal relations were concerned, and their talk rattled on as before. "Besides the ladies I am expecting one of my assistants Narayan Godbole." "Oho, the Deccani Brahman!" "He wants the past back too, but not precisely Alamgir." "I should think not. Do you know what Deccani Brahmans say? That England conquered India from them from them, mind, and not from the Moguls. Is not that like their cheek? They have even bribed it to appear in text-books, for they are so subtle and immensely rich. Professor Godbole must be quite unlike all other Deccani Brahmans from all I can hear say. A most sincere chap." "Why don't you fellows run a club in Chandrapore, Aziz?" "Perhaps some day . . . just now I see Mrs. Moore and what's her name coming." How fortunate that it was an "unconventional" party, where formalities are ruled out! On this basis Aziz found the English ladies easy to talk to, he treated them like men. Beauty would have troubled him, for it entails rules of its own, but Mrs. Moore was so old and Miss Quested so plain that he was spared this anxiety. Adela's angular body and the freckles on her face were terrible defects in his eyes, and he wondered how God could have been so unkind to any female form. His attitude towards her remained entirely straightforward in consequence. "I want to ask you something, Dr. Aziz," she began. "I heard from Mrs. Moore how helpful you were to her in the mosque, and how interesting. She learnt more about India in those few minutes' talk with you than in the three weeks since we landed." "Oh, please do not mention a little thing like that. Is there anything else I may tell you about my country?" "I want you to explain a disappointment we had this morning; it must be some point of Indian etiquette." "There honestly is none," he replied. "We are by nature a most informal people." "I am afraid we must have made some blunder and given offence," said Mrs. Moore. "That is even more impossible. But may I know the facts?" "An Indian lady and gentleman were to send their carriage for us this morning at nine. It has never come. We waited and waited and waited; we can't think what happened."<|quote|>"Some misunderstanding,"</|quote|>said Fielding, seeing at once that it was the type of incident that had better not be cleared up. "Oh no, it wasn't that," Miss Quested persisted. "They even gave up going to Calcutta to entertain us. We must have made some stupid blunder, we both feel sure." "I wouldn't worry about that." "Exactly what Mr. Heaslop tells me," she retorted, reddening a little. "If one doesn't worry, how's one to understand?" The host was inclined to change the subject, but Aziz took it up warmly, and on learning fragments of the delinquents' name pronounced that they were Hindus. "Slack Hindus they have no idea of society; I know them very well because of a doctor at the hospital. Such a slack, unpunctual fellow! It is as well you did not go to their house, for it would give you a wrong idea of India. Nothing sanitary. I think for my own part they grew ashamed of their house and that is why they did not send." "That's a notion," said the other man. "I do so hate mysteries," Adela announced. "We English do." "I dislike them not because I'm English, but from my own personal point of view," she corrected. "I like mysteries but I rather dislike muddles," said Mrs. Moore. "A mystery is a muddle." "Oh, do you think so, Mr. Fielding?" "A mystery is only a high-sounding term for a muddle. No advantage in stirring it up, in either case. Aziz and I know well that India's a muddle." "India's Oh, what an alarming idea!" "There'll be no muddle when you come to see me," said Aziz, rather out of his depth. "Mrs. Moore and everyone I invite you all oh, please." The old lady accepted: she still thought the young doctor excessively nice; moreover, a new feeling, half languor, half excitement, bade her turn down any fresh path. Miss Quested accepted out of adventure. She also liked Aziz, and believed that when she knew him better he would unlock his country for her. His invitation gratified her, and she asked him for his address. Aziz thought of his bungalow with horror. It was a detestable shanty near a low bazaar. There was practically only one room in it, and that infested with small black flies. "Oh, but we will talk of something else now," he exclaimed. "I wish I lived here. See this beautiful room! Let
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not consider this when he urged natives of India to retain their picturesque costumes. Hooray! Stud's gone in. Sometimes I shut my eyes and dream I have splendid clothes again and am riding into battle behind Alamgir. Mr. Fielding, must not India have been beautiful then, with the Mogul Empire at its height and Alamgir reigning at Delhi upon the Peacock Throne?" "Two ladies are coming to tea to meet you I think you know them." "Meet me? I know no ladies." "Not Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested?" "Oh yes I remember." The romance at the mosque had sunk out of his consciousness as soon as it was over. "An excessively aged lady; but will you please repeat the name of her companion?" "Miss Quested." "Just as you wish." He was disappointed that other guests were coming, for he preferred to be alone with his new friend. "You can talk to Miss Quested about the Peacock Throne if you like she's artistic, they say." "Is she a Post Impressionist?" "Post Impressionism, indeed! Come along to tea. This world is getting too much for me altogether." Aziz was offended. The remark suggested that he, an obscure Indian, had no right to have heard of Post Impressionism a privilege reserved for the Ruling Race, that. He said stiffly, "I do not consider Mrs. Moore my friend, I only met her accidentally in my mosque," and was adding "a single meeting is too short to make a friend," but before he could finish the sentence the stiffness vanished from it, because he felt Fielding's fundamental good will. His own went out to it, and grappled beneath the shifting tides of emotion which can alone bear the voyager to an anchorage but may also carry him across it on to the rocks. He was safe really as safe as the shore-dweller who can only understand stability and supposes that every ship must be wrecked, and he had sensations the shore-dweller cannot know. Indeed, he was sensitive rather than responsive. In every remark he found a meaning, but not always the true meaning, and his life though vivid was largely a dream. Fielding, for instance, had not meant that Indians are obscure, but that Post Impressionism is; a gulf divided his remark from Mrs. Turton's "Why, they speak English," but to Aziz the two sounded alike. Fielding saw that something had gone wrong, and equally that it had come right, but he didn't fidget, being an optimist where personal relations were concerned, and their talk rattled on as before. "Besides the ladies I am expecting one of my assistants Narayan Godbole." "Oho, the Deccani Brahman!" "He wants the past back too, but not precisely Alamgir." "I should think not. Do you know what Deccani Brahmans say? That England conquered India from them from them, mind, and not from the Moguls. Is not that like their cheek? They have even bribed it to appear in text-books, for they are so subtle and immensely rich. Professor Godbole must be quite unlike all other Deccani Brahmans from all I can hear say. A most sincere chap." "Why don't you fellows run a club in Chandrapore, Aziz?" "Perhaps some day . . . just now I see Mrs. Moore and what's her name coming." How fortunate that it was an "unconventional" party, where formalities are ruled out! On this basis Aziz found the English ladies easy to talk to, he treated them like men. Beauty would have troubled him, for it entails rules of its own, but Mrs. Moore was so old and Miss Quested so plain that he was spared this anxiety. Adela's angular body and the freckles on her face were terrible defects in his eyes, and he wondered how God could have been so unkind to any female form. His attitude towards her remained entirely straightforward in consequence. "I want to ask you something, Dr. Aziz," she began. "I heard from Mrs. Moore how helpful you were to her in the mosque, and how interesting. She learnt more about India in those few minutes' talk with you than in the three weeks since we landed." "Oh, please do not mention a little thing like that. Is there anything else I may tell you about my country?" "I want you to explain a disappointment we had this morning; it must be some point of Indian etiquette." "There honestly is none," he replied. "We are by nature a most informal people." "I am afraid we must have made some blunder and given offence," said Mrs. Moore. "That is even more impossible. But may I know the facts?" "An Indian lady and gentleman were to send their carriage for us this morning at nine. It has never come. We waited and waited and waited; we can't think what happened."<|quote|>"Some misunderstanding,"</|quote|>said Fielding, seeing at once that it was the type of incident that had better not be cleared up. "Oh no, it wasn't that," Miss Quested persisted. "They even gave up going to Calcutta to entertain us. We must have made some stupid blunder, we both feel sure." "I wouldn't worry about that." "Exactly what Mr. Heaslop tells me," she retorted, reddening a little. "If one doesn't worry, how's one to understand?" The host was inclined to change the subject, but Aziz took it up warmly, and on learning fragments of the delinquents' name pronounced that they were Hindus. "Slack Hindus they have no idea of society; I know them very well because of a doctor at the hospital. Such a slack, unpunctual fellow! It is as well you did not go to their house, for it would give you a wrong idea of India. Nothing sanitary. I think for my own part they grew ashamed of their house and that is why they did not send." "That's a notion," said the other man. "I do so hate mysteries," Adela announced. "We English do." "I dislike them not because I'm English, but from my own personal point of view," she corrected. "I like mysteries but I rather dislike muddles," said Mrs. Moore. "A mystery is a muddle." "Oh, do you think so, Mr. Fielding?" "A mystery is only a high-sounding term for a muddle. No advantage in stirring it up, in either case. Aziz and I know well that India's a muddle." "India's Oh, what an alarming idea!" "There'll be no muddle when you come to see me," said Aziz, rather out of his depth. "Mrs. Moore and everyone I invite you all oh, please." The old lady accepted: she still thought the young doctor excessively nice; moreover, a new feeling, half languor, half excitement, bade her turn down any fresh path. Miss Quested accepted out of adventure. She also liked Aziz, and believed that when she knew him better he would unlock his country for her. His invitation gratified her, and she asked him for his address. Aziz thought of his bungalow with horror. It was a detestable shanty near a low bazaar. There was practically only one room in it, and that infested with small black flies. "Oh, but we will talk of something else now," he exclaimed. "I wish I lived here. See this beautiful room! Let us admire it together for a little. See those curves at the bottom of the arches. What delicacy! It is the architecture of Question and Answer. Mrs. Moore, you are in India; I am not joking." The room inspired him. It was an audience hall built in the eighteenth century for some high official, and though of wood had reminded Fielding of the Loggia de' Lanzi at Florence. Little rooms, now Europeanized, clung to it on either side, but the central hall was unpapered and unglassed, and the air of the garden poured in freely. One sat in public on exhibition, as it were in full view of the gardeners who were screaming at the birds and of the man who rented the tank for the cultivation of water chestnut. Fielding let the mango trees too there was no knowing who might not come in and his servants sat on his steps night and day to discourage thieves. Beautiful certainly, and the Englishman had not spoilt it, whereas Aziz in an occidental moment would have hung Maude Goodmans on the walls. Yet there was no doubt to whom the room really belonged. . . . "I am doing justice here. A poor widow who has been robbed comes along and I give her fifty rupees, to another a hundred, and so on and so on. I should like that." Mrs. Moore smiled, thinking of the modern method as exemplified in her son. "Rupees don't last for ever, I'm afraid," she said. "Mine would. God would give me more when he saw I gave. Always be giving, like the Nawab Bahadur. My father was the same, that is why he died poor." And pointing about the room he peopled it with clerks and officials, all benevolent because they lived long ago. "So we would sit giving for ever on a carpet instead of chairs, that is the chief change between now and then, but I think we would never punish anyone." The ladies agreed. "Poor criminal, give him another chance. It only makes a man worse to go to prison and be corrupted." His face grew very tender the tenderness of one incapable of administration, and unable to grasp that if the poor criminal is let off he will again rob the poor widow. He was tender to everyone except a few family enemies whom he did not consider human: on
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so old and Miss Quested so plain that he was spared this anxiety. Adela's angular body and the freckles on her face were terrible defects in his eyes, and he wondered how God could have been so unkind to any female form. His attitude towards her remained entirely straightforward in consequence. "I want to ask you something, Dr. Aziz," she began. "I heard from Mrs. Moore how helpful you were to her in the mosque, and how interesting. She learnt more about India in those few minutes' talk with you than in the three weeks since we landed." "Oh, please do not mention a little thing like that. Is there anything else I may tell you about my country?" "I want you to explain a disappointment we had this morning; it must be some point of Indian etiquette." "There honestly is none," he replied. "We are by nature a most informal people." "I am afraid we must have made some blunder and given offence," said Mrs. Moore. "That is even more impossible. But may I know the facts?" "An Indian lady and gentleman were to send their carriage for us this morning at nine. It has never come. We waited and waited and waited; we can't think what happened."<|quote|>"Some misunderstanding,"</|quote|>said Fielding, seeing at once that it was the type of incident that had better not be cleared up. "Oh no, it wasn't that," Miss Quested persisted. "They even gave up going to Calcutta to entertain us. We must have made some stupid blunder, we both feel sure." "I wouldn't worry about that." "Exactly what Mr. Heaslop tells me," she retorted, reddening a little. "If one doesn't worry, how's one to understand?" The host was inclined to change the subject, but Aziz took it up warmly, and on learning fragments of the delinquents' name pronounced that they were Hindus. "Slack Hindus they have no idea of society; I know them very well because of a doctor at the hospital. Such a slack, unpunctual fellow! It is as well you did not go to their house, for it would give you a wrong idea of India. Nothing sanitary. I think for my own part they grew ashamed of their house and that is why they did not send." "That's a notion," said the other man. "I do so hate mysteries," Adela announced. "We English do." "I dislike them not because I'm English, but from my own personal point of view," she corrected. "I like mysteries but I rather dislike muddles," said Mrs. Moore. "A mystery is a muddle." "Oh, do you think so, Mr. Fielding?" "A mystery is only a high-sounding term for a muddle. No advantage in stirring it up, in either case. Aziz and
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A Passage To India
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“Without the reason?”
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Lady Sandgate
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fact of her being here.”<|quote|>“Without the reason?”</|quote|>“‘The reason’?” he echoed. She
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to tell me anything--beyond the fact of her being here.”<|quote|>“Without the reason?”</|quote|>“‘The reason’?” he echoed. She gave it up, going straighter.
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ventured and the appearance I present.” “I don’t ask you too much to ‘account,’” Lady Sandgate kindly said; “but I can’t not wonder if she hasn’t told you what things have happened.” He cast about. “She has had no chance to tell me anything--beyond the fact of her being here.”<|quote|>“Without the reason?”</|quote|>“‘The reason’?” he echoed. She gave it up, going straighter. “She’s with me then as an old firm friend. Under my care and protection.” “I see” --he took it, with more penetration than enthusiasm, as a hint in respect to himself. “She puts you on your guard.” Lady Sandgate expressed
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once,” his hostess pursued, “in the lobby of the opera?” “After ‘Tristan’--yes; but with some awful grand people I didn’t know.” She recognised; she estimated the grandeur. “Oh, the Pennimans are nobody! But now,” she asked, “you’ve come, you say, on ‘business’?” “Very important, please--which accounts for the hour I’ve ventured and the appearance I present.” “I don’t ask you too much to ‘account,’” Lady Sandgate kindly said; “but I can’t not wonder if she hasn’t told you what things have happened.” He cast about. “She has had no chance to tell me anything--beyond the fact of her being here.”<|quote|>“Without the reason?”</|quote|>“‘The reason’?” he echoed. She gave it up, going straighter. “She’s with me then as an old firm friend. Under my care and protection.” “I see” --he took it, with more penetration than enthusiasm, as a hint in respect to himself. “She puts you on your guard.” Lady Sandgate expressed it more graciously. “She puts me on my honour--or at least her father does.” “As to her seeing _me_” “As to _my_ seeing at least--what may happen to her.” “Because--you say--things _have_ happened?” His companion fairly sounded him. “You’ve only talked--when you’ve met--of ‘art’?” “Well,” he smiled, “‘art is long’!”
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view’ at the opera, in the lobby, and that sort of thing. But she hasn’t told you?” Lady Sandgate neither affirmed nor denied; she only turned on him her thick lustre. “I wanted to see how much _you’d_ tell.” She waited even as for more, but this not coming she helped herself. “Once again at dinner?” “Yes, but alas not near her!” “Once then at a private view?--when, with the squash they usually are, you might have been very near her indeed!” The young man, his hilarity quickened, took but a moment for the truth. “Yes--it _was_ a squash!” “And once,” his hostess pursued, “in the lobby of the opera?” “After ‘Tristan’--yes; but with some awful grand people I didn’t know.” She recognised; she estimated the grandeur. “Oh, the Pennimans are nobody! But now,” she asked, “you’ve come, you say, on ‘business’?” “Very important, please--which accounts for the hour I’ve ventured and the appearance I present.” “I don’t ask you too much to ‘account,’” Lady Sandgate kindly said; “but I can’t not wonder if she hasn’t told you what things have happened.” He cast about. “She has had no chance to tell me anything--beyond the fact of her being here.”<|quote|>“Without the reason?”</|quote|>“‘The reason’?” he echoed. She gave it up, going straighter. “She’s with me then as an old firm friend. Under my care and protection.” “I see” --he took it, with more penetration than enthusiasm, as a hint in respect to himself. “She puts you on your guard.” Lady Sandgate expressed it more graciously. “She puts me on my honour--or at least her father does.” “As to her seeing _me_” “As to _my_ seeing at least--what may happen to her.” “Because--you say--things _have_ happened?” His companion fairly sounded him. “You’ve only talked--when you’ve met--of ‘art’?” “Well,” he smiled, “‘art is long’!” “Then I hope it may see you through! But you should know first that Lord Theign is presently due--” “_Here_, back already from abroad?” --he was all alert. “He has not yet gone--he comes up this morning to start.” “And stops here on his way?” “To take the _train de luxe_ this afternoon to his annual Salsomaggiore. But with so little time to spare,” she went on reassuringly, “that, to simplify--as he wired me an hour ago from Dedborough--he has given rendezvous here to Mr. Bender, who is particularly to wait for him.” “And who may therefore arrive at any
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not without confidence, the amusement of replying; “and I must make sure of another look at her when I’ve a good deal more time.” His hostess heard him as with a lapse of hope. “You hadn’t then come _for_ the poor dear?” And then as he obviously hadn’t, but for something quite else: “I thought, from so prompt an interest, that she might be coveted--!” It dropped with a yearning sigh. “You imagined me sent by some prowling collector?” Hugh asked. “Ah, I shall never do their work--unless to betray them: _that_ I shouldn’t in the least mind!--and I’m here, frankly, at this early hour, to ask your consent to my seeing Lady Grace a moment on a particular business, if she can kindly give me time.” “You’ve known then of her being with me?” “I’ve known of her coming to you straight on leaving Dedborough,” he explained; “of her wishing not to go to her sister’s, and of Lord Theign’s having proceeded, as they say, or being on the point of proceeding, to some foreign part.” “And you’ve learnt it from having seen her--these three or four weeks?” “I’ve met her--but just barely--two or three times: at a ‘private view’ at the opera, in the lobby, and that sort of thing. But she hasn’t told you?” Lady Sandgate neither affirmed nor denied; she only turned on him her thick lustre. “I wanted to see how much _you’d_ tell.” She waited even as for more, but this not coming she helped herself. “Once again at dinner?” “Yes, but alas not near her!” “Once then at a private view?--when, with the squash they usually are, you might have been very near her indeed!” The young man, his hilarity quickened, took but a moment for the truth. “Yes--it _was_ a squash!” “And once,” his hostess pursued, “in the lobby of the opera?” “After ‘Tristan’--yes; but with some awful grand people I didn’t know.” She recognised; she estimated the grandeur. “Oh, the Pennimans are nobody! But now,” she asked, “you’ve come, you say, on ‘business’?” “Very important, please--which accounts for the hour I’ve ventured and the appearance I present.” “I don’t ask you too much to ‘account,’” Lady Sandgate kindly said; “but I can’t not wonder if she hasn’t told you what things have happened.” He cast about. “She has had no chance to tell me anything--beyond the fact of her being here.”<|quote|>“Without the reason?”</|quote|>“‘The reason’?” he echoed. She gave it up, going straighter. “She’s with me then as an old firm friend. Under my care and protection.” “I see” --he took it, with more penetration than enthusiasm, as a hint in respect to himself. “She puts you on your guard.” Lady Sandgate expressed it more graciously. “She puts me on my honour--or at least her father does.” “As to her seeing _me_” “As to _my_ seeing at least--what may happen to her.” “Because--you say--things _have_ happened?” His companion fairly sounded him. “You’ve only talked--when you’ve met--of ‘art’?” “Well,” he smiled, “‘art is long’!” “Then I hope it may see you through! But you should know first that Lord Theign is presently due--” “_Here_, back already from abroad?” --he was all alert. “He has not yet gone--he comes up this morning to start.” “And stops here on his way?” “To take the _train de luxe_ this afternoon to his annual Salsomaggiore. But with so little time to spare,” she went on reassuringly, “that, to simplify--as he wired me an hour ago from Dedborough--he has given rendezvous here to Mr. Bender, who is particularly to wait for him.” “And who may therefore arrive at any moment?” She looked at her bracelet watch. “Scarcely before noon. So you’ll just have your chance--” “Thank the powers then!” --Hugh grasped at it. “I shall have it best if you’ll be so good as to tell me first--well,” he faltered, “what it is that, to my great disquiet, you’ve further alluded to; what it is that has occurred.” Lady Sandgate took her time, but her good-nature and other sentiments pronounced. “Haven’t you at least guessed that she has fallen under her father’s extreme reprobation?” “Yes, so much as that--that she must have greatly annoyed him--I have been supposing. But isn’t it by her having asked me to act for her? I mean about the Mantovano--which I _have_ done.” Lady Sandgate wondered. “You’ve ‘acted’?” “It’s what I’ve come to tell her at last--and I’m all impatience.” “I see, I see” --she had caught a clue. “He hated that--yes; but you haven’t really made out,” she put to him, “the _other_ effect of your hour at Dedborough?” She recognised, however, while she spoke, that his divination had failed, and she didn’t trouble him to confess it. “Directly you had gone she ‘turned down’ Lord John. Declined, I mean, the offer of
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already hastened around another way, however, as to meet her in her quick circuit of the hall. “That’s all you’ve got to say to me after what has passed between us?” He had stopped her thus, but she had also stopped him, and her passionate denial set him a limit. “I’ve got to say--sorry as I am--that if you _must_ have an answer it’s this: that never, Lord John, never, can there be anything more between us.” And her gesture cleared her path, permitting her to achieve her flight. “Never, no, never,” she repeated as she went-- “never, never, never!” She got off by the door at which she had been aiming to some retreat of her own, while aghast and defeated, left to make the best of it, he sank after a moment into a chair and remained quite pitiably staring before him, appealing to the great blank splendour. BOOK SECOND I LADY SANDGATE, on a morning late in May, entered her drawing-room by the door that opened at the right of that charming retreat as a person coming in faced Bruton Street; and she met there at this moment Mr. Gotch, her butler, who had just appeared in the much wider doorway forming opposite the Bruton Street windows an apartment not less ample, lighted from the back of the house and having its independent connection with the upper floors and the lower. She showed surprise at not immediately finding the visitor to whom she had been called. “But Mr. Crimble------?” “Here he is, my lady.” And he made way for that gentleman, who emerged from the back room; Gotch observing the propriety of a prompt withdrawal. “I went in for a minute, with your servant’s permission,” Hugh explained, “to see your famous Lawrence--which is splendid; he was so good as to arrange the light.” The young man’s dress was of a form less relaxed than on the occasion of his visit to Dedborough; yet the soft felt hat that he rather restlessly crumpled as he talked marked the limit of his sacrifice to vain appearances. Lady Sandgate was at once interested in the punctuality of his reported act. “Gotch thinks as much of my grandmother as I do--and even seems to have ended by taking her for his very own.” “One sees, unmistakably, from her beauty, that you at any rate are of her line,” Hugh allowed himself, not without confidence, the amusement of replying; “and I must make sure of another look at her when I’ve a good deal more time.” His hostess heard him as with a lapse of hope. “You hadn’t then come _for_ the poor dear?” And then as he obviously hadn’t, but for something quite else: “I thought, from so prompt an interest, that she might be coveted--!” It dropped with a yearning sigh. “You imagined me sent by some prowling collector?” Hugh asked. “Ah, I shall never do their work--unless to betray them: _that_ I shouldn’t in the least mind!--and I’m here, frankly, at this early hour, to ask your consent to my seeing Lady Grace a moment on a particular business, if she can kindly give me time.” “You’ve known then of her being with me?” “I’ve known of her coming to you straight on leaving Dedborough,” he explained; “of her wishing not to go to her sister’s, and of Lord Theign’s having proceeded, as they say, or being on the point of proceeding, to some foreign part.” “And you’ve learnt it from having seen her--these three or four weeks?” “I’ve met her--but just barely--two or three times: at a ‘private view’ at the opera, in the lobby, and that sort of thing. But she hasn’t told you?” Lady Sandgate neither affirmed nor denied; she only turned on him her thick lustre. “I wanted to see how much _you’d_ tell.” She waited even as for more, but this not coming she helped herself. “Once again at dinner?” “Yes, but alas not near her!” “Once then at a private view?--when, with the squash they usually are, you might have been very near her indeed!” The young man, his hilarity quickened, took but a moment for the truth. “Yes--it _was_ a squash!” “And once,” his hostess pursued, “in the lobby of the opera?” “After ‘Tristan’--yes; but with some awful grand people I didn’t know.” She recognised; she estimated the grandeur. “Oh, the Pennimans are nobody! But now,” she asked, “you’ve come, you say, on ‘business’?” “Very important, please--which accounts for the hour I’ve ventured and the appearance I present.” “I don’t ask you too much to ‘account,’” Lady Sandgate kindly said; “but I can’t not wonder if she hasn’t told you what things have happened.” He cast about. “She has had no chance to tell me anything--beyond the fact of her being here.”<|quote|>“Without the reason?”</|quote|>“‘The reason’?” he echoed. She gave it up, going straighter. “She’s with me then as an old firm friend. Under my care and protection.” “I see” --he took it, with more penetration than enthusiasm, as a hint in respect to himself. “She puts you on your guard.” Lady Sandgate expressed it more graciously. “She puts me on my honour--or at least her father does.” “As to her seeing _me_” “As to _my_ seeing at least--what may happen to her.” “Because--you say--things _have_ happened?” His companion fairly sounded him. “You’ve only talked--when you’ve met--of ‘art’?” “Well,” he smiled, “‘art is long’!” “Then I hope it may see you through! But you should know first that Lord Theign is presently due--” “_Here_, back already from abroad?” --he was all alert. “He has not yet gone--he comes up this morning to start.” “And stops here on his way?” “To take the _train de luxe_ this afternoon to his annual Salsomaggiore. But with so little time to spare,” she went on reassuringly, “that, to simplify--as he wired me an hour ago from Dedborough--he has given rendezvous here to Mr. Bender, who is particularly to wait for him.” “And who may therefore arrive at any moment?” She looked at her bracelet watch. “Scarcely before noon. So you’ll just have your chance--” “Thank the powers then!” --Hugh grasped at it. “I shall have it best if you’ll be so good as to tell me first--well,” he faltered, “what it is that, to my great disquiet, you’ve further alluded to; what it is that has occurred.” Lady Sandgate took her time, but her good-nature and other sentiments pronounced. “Haven’t you at least guessed that she has fallen under her father’s extreme reprobation?” “Yes, so much as that--that she must have greatly annoyed him--I have been supposing. But isn’t it by her having asked me to act for her? I mean about the Mantovano--which I _have_ done.” Lady Sandgate wondered. “You’ve ‘acted’?” “It’s what I’ve come to tell her at last--and I’m all impatience.” “I see, I see” --she had caught a clue. “He hated that--yes; but you haven’t really made out,” she put to him, “the _other_ effect of your hour at Dedborough?” She recognised, however, while she spoke, that his divination had failed, and she didn’t trouble him to confess it. “Directly you had gone she ‘turned down’ Lord John. Declined, I mean, the offer of his hand in marriage.” Hugh was clearly as much mystified as anything else. “He proposed there--?” “He had spoken, that day, _before_--before your talk with Lord Theign, who had every confidence in her accepting him. But you came, Mr. Crimble, you went; and when her suitor reappeared, just after you _had_ gone, for his answer--” “She wouldn’t have him?” Hugh asked with a precipitation of interest. But Lady Sandgate could humour almost any curiosity. “She wouldn’t look at him.” He bethought himself. “But had she said she would?” “So her father indignantly considers.” “That’s the _ground_ of his indignation?” “He had his reasons for counting on her, and it has determined a painful crisis.” Hugh Crimble turned this over--feeling apparently for something he didn’t find. “I’m sorry to hear such things, but where’s the connection with me?” “Ah, you know best yourself, and if you don’t see any---!” In that case, Lady Sandgate’s motion implied, she washed her hands of it. Hugh had for a moment the air of a young man treated to the sweet chance to guess a conundrum--which he gave up. “I really don’t see any, Lady Sandgate. But,” he a little inconsistently said, “I’m greatly obliged to you for telling me.” “Don’t mention it!--though I think it _is_ good of me,” she smiled, “on so short an acquaintance.” To which she added more gravely: “I leave you the situation--but I’m willing to let you know that I’m all on Grace’s side.” “So am I, _rather!_--please let me frankly say.” He clearly refreshed, he even almost charmed her. “It’s the very least you can say!--though I’m not sure whether you say it as the simplest or as the very subtlest of men. But in case you don’t know as I do how little the particular candidate I’ve named----” “Had a right or a claim to succeed with her?” he broke in--all quick intelligence here at least. “No, I don’t perhaps know as well as you do--but I think I know as well as I just yet require.” “There you are then! And if you did prevent,” his hostess maturely pursued, “what wouldn’t have been--well, good or nice, I’m quite on your side too.” Our young man seemed to feel the shade of ambiguity, but he reached at a meaning. “You’re with me in my plea for our defending at any cost of effort or ingenuity--” “The precious
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the propriety of a prompt withdrawal. “I went in for a minute, with your servant’s permission,” Hugh explained, “to see your famous Lawrence--which is splendid; he was so good as to arrange the light.” The young man’s dress was of a form less relaxed than on the occasion of his visit to Dedborough; yet the soft felt hat that he rather restlessly crumpled as he talked marked the limit of his sacrifice to vain appearances. Lady Sandgate was at once interested in the punctuality of his reported act. “Gotch thinks as much of my grandmother as I do--and even seems to have ended by taking her for his very own.” “One sees, unmistakably, from her beauty, that you at any rate are of her line,” Hugh allowed himself, not without confidence, the amusement of replying; “and I must make sure of another look at her when I’ve a good deal more time.” His hostess heard him as with a lapse of hope. “You hadn’t then come _for_ the poor dear?” And then as he obviously hadn’t, but for something quite else: “I thought, from so prompt an interest, that she might be coveted--!” It dropped with a yearning sigh. “You imagined me sent by some prowling collector?” Hugh asked. “Ah, I shall never do their work--unless to betray them: _that_ I shouldn’t in the least mind!--and I’m here, frankly, at this early hour, to ask your consent to my seeing Lady Grace a moment on a particular business, if she can kindly give me time.” “You’ve known then of her being with me?” “I’ve known of her coming to you straight on leaving Dedborough,” he explained; “of her wishing not to go to her sister’s, and of Lord Theign’s having proceeded, as they say, or being on the point of proceeding, to some foreign part.” “And you’ve learnt it from having seen her--these three or four weeks?” “I’ve met her--but just barely--two or three times: at a ‘private view’ at the opera, in the lobby, and that sort of thing. But she hasn’t told you?” Lady Sandgate neither affirmed nor denied; she only turned on him her thick lustre. “I wanted to see how much _you’d_ tell.” She waited even as for more, but this not coming she helped herself. “Once again at dinner?” “Yes, but alas not near her!” “Once then at a private view?--when, with the squash they usually are, you might have been very near her indeed!” The young man, his hilarity quickened, took but a moment for the truth. “Yes--it _was_ a squash!” “And once,” his hostess pursued, “in the lobby of the opera?” “After ‘Tristan’--yes; but with some awful grand people I didn’t know.” She recognised; she estimated the grandeur. “Oh, the Pennimans are nobody! But now,” she asked, “you’ve come, you say, on ‘business’?” “Very important, please--which accounts for the hour I’ve ventured and the appearance I present.” “I don’t ask you too much to ‘account,’” Lady Sandgate kindly said; “but I can’t not wonder if she hasn’t told you what things have happened.” He cast about. “She has had no chance to tell me anything--beyond the fact of her being here.”<|quote|>“Without the reason?”</|quote|>“‘The reason’?” he echoed. She gave it up, going straighter. “She’s with me then as an old firm friend. Under my care and protection.” “I see” --he took it, with more penetration than enthusiasm, as a hint in respect to himself. “She puts you on your guard.” Lady Sandgate expressed it more graciously. “She puts me on my honour--or at least her father does.” “As to her seeing _me_” “As to _my_ seeing at least--what may happen to her.” “Because--you say--things _have_ happened?” His companion fairly sounded him. “You’ve only talked--when you’ve met--of ‘art’?” “Well,” he smiled, “‘art is long’!” “Then I hope it may see you through! But you should know first that Lord Theign is presently due--” “_Here_, back already from abroad?” --he was all alert. “He has not yet gone--he comes up this morning to start.” “And stops here on his way?” “To take the _train de luxe_ this afternoon to his annual Salsomaggiore. But with so little time to spare,” she went on reassuringly, “that, to simplify--as he wired me an hour ago from Dedborough--he has given rendezvous here to Mr. Bender, who is particularly to wait for him.” “And who may therefore arrive at any moment?” She looked at her bracelet watch. “Scarcely before noon. So you’ll just have your chance--” “Thank the powers then!” --Hugh grasped at it. “I shall have it best if you’ll be so good as to tell me first--well,” he faltered, “what it is that, to my great disquiet, you’ve further alluded to; what it is that has occurred.” Lady Sandgate took her time, but her good-nature and other sentiments pronounced. “Haven’t you at least guessed that she has fallen under her father’s extreme reprobation?” “Yes, so much as that--that she must have greatly annoyed him--I have been supposing. But isn’t it by her having asked me to act for her? I mean about the Mantovano--which I _have_ done.” Lady Sandgate wondered. “You’ve ‘acted’?” “It’s what I’ve come to tell her at last--and I’m all impatience.” “I see, I see” --she had caught a clue. “He hated that--yes; but you haven’t really made out,” she put to him, “the _other_ effect of your hour at Dedborough?” She recognised, however, while she spoke, that his divination had failed, and she didn’t trouble him to confess it. “Directly you had gone she ‘turned down’ Lord John. Declined, I mean, the offer of his hand in marriage.” Hugh was clearly as much mystified as anything else. “He proposed there--?” “He had spoken, that day, _before_--before your talk with Lord Theign, who had every confidence in her accepting him. But you came, Mr. Crimble, you went; and when her suitor reappeared, just after you _had_ gone, for his answer--” “She wouldn’t have him?” Hugh asked with a precipitation of interest. But Lady Sandgate could humour almost any curiosity. “She wouldn’t look at him.” He bethought himself. “But had she said she would?” “So her father indignantly considers.” “That’s the _ground_ of his indignation?” “He had his reasons for counting on her, and it has determined a painful crisis.” Hugh Crimble turned this over--feeling apparently for something he didn’t find. “I’m sorry to hear such things, but where’s the connection with me?” “Ah, you know best yourself, and if you don’t see any---!” In that case, Lady Sandgate’s motion implied, she
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The Outcry
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"He has not told his father--to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone."
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Lucy
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Her brain expanded the melody:<|quote|>"He has not told his father--to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone."</|quote|>She raised her hand to
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told, he has not told." Her brain expanded the melody:<|quote|>"He has not told his father--to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone."</|quote|>She raised her hand to her cheek. "He does not
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Lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses' hoofs sang a tune to her: "He has not told, he has not told." Her brain expanded the melody:<|quote|>"He has not told his father--to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone."</|quote|>She raised her hand to her cheek. "He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! But he has not told. He will not tell." She longed to shout the words: "It is all right. It's a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear." She
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said, raising her voice, "I do hope he will." Then she went to the carriage and murmured, "The old man hasn't been told; I knew it was all right." Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away. Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses' hoofs sang a tune to her: "He has not told, he has not told." Her brain expanded the melody:<|quote|>"He has not told his father--to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone."</|quote|>She raised her hand to her cheek. "He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! But he has not told. He will not tell." She longed to shout the words: "It is all right. It's a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear." She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded. Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil
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girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno. "George, don't go," cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. "George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon." Lucy caught her cousin's eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. "Yes," she said, raising her voice, "I do hope he will." Then she went to the carriage and murmured, "The old man hasn't been told; I knew it was all right." Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away. Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses' hoofs sang a tune to her: "He has not told, he has not told." Her brain expanded the melody:<|quote|>"He has not told his father--to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone."</|quote|>She raised her hand to her cheek. "He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! But he has not told. He will not tell." She longed to shout the words: "It is all right. It's a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear." She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded. Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said: "The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously." "How are my proteges?" asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them, and had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for educational purposes. "Proteges!" she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl's soul yearned. "You shall see for yourself how your proteges are.
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and put his arm round his father's neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape--a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection. Miss Bartlett approached. "You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett," said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly. "You met her with my daughter in Florence." "Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine. It was the old, old battle of the room with the view. George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: "I--I'll come up to tennis if I can manage it," and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno. "George, don't go," cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. "George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon." Lucy caught her cousin's eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. "Yes," she said, raising her voice, "I do hope he will." Then she went to the carriage and murmured, "The old man hasn't been told; I knew it was all right." Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away. Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses' hoofs sang a tune to her: "He has not told, he has not told." Her brain expanded the melody:<|quote|>"He has not told his father--to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone."</|quote|>She raised her hand to her cheek. "He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! But he has not told. He will not tell." She longed to shout the words: "It is all right. It's a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear." She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded. Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said: "The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously." "How are my proteges?" asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them, and had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for educational purposes. "Proteges!" she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl's soul yearned. "You shall see for yourself how your proteges are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only don't--" She nearly said, "Don't protect him." But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte. Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed--either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye--a Being who whispered to her soul: "It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men." But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning, would never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck's Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden--the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such music
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different type of person," said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed." "And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy. "Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned, though his name was never mentioned. "So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind." "There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages. "Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?" "There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light," he continued in measured tones. "We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!" "Eh--?" "I see you're going to be clever. I hope you didn't go behaving like that to poor Freddy." George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well. "No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first." "What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday--?" "George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday--" "Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That's settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased." He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days. She turned to George: "And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans." "I know," said George, and put his arm round his father's neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape--a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection. Miss Bartlett approached. "You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett," said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly. "You met her with my daughter in Florence." "Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine. It was the old, old battle of the room with the view. George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: "I--I'll come up to tennis if I can manage it," and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno. "George, don't go," cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. "George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon." Lucy caught her cousin's eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. "Yes," she said, raising her voice, "I do hope he will." Then she went to the carriage and murmured, "The old man hasn't been told; I knew it was all right." Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away. Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses' hoofs sang a tune to her: "He has not told, he has not told." Her brain expanded the melody:<|quote|>"He has not told his father--to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone."</|quote|>She raised her hand to her cheek. "He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! But he has not told. He will not tell." She longed to shout the words: "It is all right. It's a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear." She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded. Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said: "The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously." "How are my proteges?" asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them, and had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for educational purposes. "Proteges!" she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl's soul yearned. "You shall see for yourself how your proteges are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only don't--" She nearly said, "Don't protect him." But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte. Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed--either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye--a Being who whispered to her soul: "It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men." But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning, would never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck's Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden--the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: "Now play us the other garden--the one in Parsifal." She closed the instrument. "Not very dutiful," said her mother's voice. Fearing that she had offended Cecil, she turned quickly round. There George was. He had crept in without interrupting her. "Oh, I had no idea!" she exclaimed, getting very red; and then, without a word of greeting, she reopened the piano. Cecil should have the Parsifal, and anything else that he liked. "Our performer has changed her mind," said Miss Bartlett, perhaps implying, she will play the music to Mr. Emerson. Lucy did not know what to do nor even what she wanted to do. She played a few bars of the Flower Maidens' song very badly and then she stopped. "I vote tennis," said Freddy, disgusted at the scrappy entertainment. "Yes, so do I." Once more she closed the unfortunate piano. "I vote you have a men's four." "All right." "Not for me, thank you," said Cecil. "I will not spoil the set." He never realized that it may be an act of kindness in a bad player to make up a fourth. "Oh, come along Cecil. I'm bad, Floyd's rotten, and so I dare say's Emerson." George corrected him: "I am not bad." One looked down one's nose at this. "Then certainly I won't play," said Cecil, while Miss Bartlett, under the impression that she was snubbing George, added: "I agree with you, Mr. Vyse. You had much better not play. Much better not." Minnie, rushing in where Cecil feared to tread, announced that she would play. "I shall miss every ball anyway, so what does it matter?" But Sunday intervened and stamped heavily upon the kindly suggestion. "Then it will have to be Lucy," said Mrs. Honeychurch; "you must fall back on Lucy. There is no other way out of it. Lucy, go and change your frock." Lucy's Sabbath was generally of this amphibious nature. She kept it without hypocrisy in the morning, and broke it without reluctance in the afternoon. As she changed her frock, she wondered whether Cecil was sneering at her; really she must overhaul herself and settle everything up before she married him. Mr. Floyd was her partner. She liked music, but how much better tennis seemed. How much better to run about in
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in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape--a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection. Miss Bartlett approached. "You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett," said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly. "You met her with my daughter in Florence." "Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine. It was the old, old battle of the room with the view. George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: "I--I'll come up to tennis if I can manage it," and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno. "George, don't go," cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. "George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon." Lucy caught her cousin's eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. "Yes," she said, raising her voice, "I do hope he will." Then she went to the carriage and murmured, "The old man hasn't been told; I knew it was all right." Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away. Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses' hoofs sang a tune to her: "He has not told, he has not told." Her brain expanded the melody:<|quote|>"He has not told his father--to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone."</|quote|>She raised her hand to her cheek. "He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! But he has not told. He will not tell." She longed to shout the words: "It is all right. It's a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear." She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded. Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said: "The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously." "How are my proteges?" asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them, and had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for educational purposes. "Proteges!" she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl's soul yearned. "You shall see for yourself how your proteges are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only don't--" She nearly said, "Don't protect him." But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte. Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed--either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye--a Being who whispered to her soul: "It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men." But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the
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A Room With A View
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"Oh, if he haggles!"
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Dr. Bull
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unless you drive a bargain."<|quote|>"Oh, if he haggles!"</|quote|>began Bull impatiently. "He haggles
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have any respect for you unless you drive a bargain."<|quote|>"Oh, if he haggles!"</|quote|>began Bull impatiently. "He haggles because he is a free
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in his cart? Those dogs are all on foot, and we could soon leave them behind." "Oh, give him anything!" said Syme eagerly. "I have piles of money on me." "That will never do," said the Colonel; "he will never have any respect for you unless you drive a bargain."<|quote|>"Oh, if he haggles!"</|quote|>began Bull impatiently. "He haggles because he is a free man," said the other. "You do not understand; he would not see the meaning of generosity. He is not being tipped." And even while they seemed to hear the heavy feet of their strange pursuers behind them, they had to
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forgot that in your country you are not used to peasants being wealthy." "He looks poor," said Dr. Bull doubtfully. "Quite so," said the Colonel; "that is why he is rich." "I have an idea," called out Dr. Bull suddenly; "how much would he take to give us a lift in his cart? Those dogs are all on foot, and we could soon leave them behind." "Oh, give him anything!" said Syme eagerly. "I have piles of money on me." "That will never do," said the Colonel; "he will never have any respect for you unless you drive a bargain."<|quote|>"Oh, if he haggles!"</|quote|>began Bull impatiently. "He haggles because he is a free man," said the other. "You do not understand; he would not see the meaning of generosity. He is not being tipped." And even while they seemed to hear the heavy feet of their strange pursuers behind them, they had to stand and stamp while the French Colonel talked to the French wood-cutter with all the leisurely badinage and bickering of market-day. At the end of the four minutes, however, they saw that the Colonel was right, for the wood-cutter entered into their plans, not with the vague servility of a
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but not desperate; like his master, he was even prosperous, but yet was almost sad. The man was a Norman, taller than the average of the French and very angular; and his swarthy figure stood dark against a square of sunlight, almost like some allegoric figure of labour frescoed on a ground of gold. "Mr. Syme is saying," called out Ratcliffe to the French Colonel, "that this man, at least, will never be an anarchist." "Mr. Syme is right enough there," answered Colonel Ducroix, laughing, "if only for the reason that he has plenty of property to defend. But I forgot that in your country you are not used to peasants being wealthy." "He looks poor," said Dr. Bull doubtfully. "Quite so," said the Colonel; "that is why he is rich." "I have an idea," called out Dr. Bull suddenly; "how much would he take to give us a lift in his cart? Those dogs are all on foot, and we could soon leave them behind." "Oh, give him anything!" said Syme eagerly. "I have piles of money on me." "That will never do," said the Colonel; "he will never have any respect for you unless you drive a bargain."<|quote|>"Oh, if he haggles!"</|quote|>began Bull impatiently. "He haggles because he is a free man," said the other. "You do not understand; he would not see the meaning of generosity. He is not being tipped." And even while they seemed to hear the heavy feet of their strange pursuers behind them, they had to stand and stamp while the French Colonel talked to the French wood-cutter with all the leisurely badinage and bickering of market-day. At the end of the four minutes, however, they saw that the Colonel was right, for the wood-cutter entered into their plans, not with the vague servility of a tout too-well paid, but with the seriousness of a solicitor who had been paid the proper fee. He told them that the best thing they could do was to make their way down to the little inn on the hills above Lancy, where the innkeeper, an old soldier who had become _d vot_ in his latter years, would be certain to sympathise with them, and even to take risks in their support. The whole company, therefore, piled themselves on top of the stacks of wood, and went rocking in the rude cart down the other and steeper side of the
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force are running through a wood like rabbits." "Millionaires I can understand," said Syme thoughtfully, "they are nearly all mad. But getting hold of a few wicked old gentlemen with hobbies is one thing; getting hold of great Christian nations is another. I would bet the nose off my face (forgive the allusion) that Sunday would stand perfectly helpless before the task of converting any ordinary healthy person anywhere." "Well," said the other, "it rather depends what sort of person you mean." "Well, for instance," said Syme, "he could never convert that person," and he pointed straight in front of him. They had come to an open space of sunlight, which seemed to express to Syme the final return of his own good sense; and in the middle of this forest clearing was a figure that might well stand for that common sense in an almost awful actuality. Burnt by the sun and stained with perspiration, and grave with the bottomless gravity of small necessary toils, a heavy French peasant was cutting wood with a hatchet. His cart stood a few yards off, already half full of timber; and the horse that cropped the grass was, like his master, valorous but not desperate; like his master, he was even prosperous, but yet was almost sad. The man was a Norman, taller than the average of the French and very angular; and his swarthy figure stood dark against a square of sunlight, almost like some allegoric figure of labour frescoed on a ground of gold. "Mr. Syme is saying," called out Ratcliffe to the French Colonel, "that this man, at least, will never be an anarchist." "Mr. Syme is right enough there," answered Colonel Ducroix, laughing, "if only for the reason that he has plenty of property to defend. But I forgot that in your country you are not used to peasants being wealthy." "He looks poor," said Dr. Bull doubtfully. "Quite so," said the Colonel; "that is why he is rich." "I have an idea," called out Dr. Bull suddenly; "how much would he take to give us a lift in his cart? Those dogs are all on foot, and we could soon leave them behind." "Oh, give him anything!" said Syme eagerly. "I have piles of money on me." "That will never do," said the Colonel; "he will never have any respect for you unless you drive a bargain."<|quote|>"Oh, if he haggles!"</|quote|>began Bull impatiently. "He haggles because he is a free man," said the other. "You do not understand; he would not see the meaning of generosity. He is not being tipped." And even while they seemed to hear the heavy feet of their strange pursuers behind them, they had to stand and stamp while the French Colonel talked to the French wood-cutter with all the leisurely badinage and bickering of market-day. At the end of the four minutes, however, they saw that the Colonel was right, for the wood-cutter entered into their plans, not with the vague servility of a tout too-well paid, but with the seriousness of a solicitor who had been paid the proper fee. He told them that the best thing they could do was to make their way down to the little inn on the hills above Lancy, where the innkeeper, an old soldier who had become _d vot_ in his latter years, would be certain to sympathise with them, and even to take risks in their support. The whole company, therefore, piled themselves on top of the stacks of wood, and went rocking in the rude cart down the other and steeper side of the woodland. Heavy and ramshackle as was the vehicle, it was driven quickly enough, and they soon had the exhilarating impression of distancing altogether those, whoever they were, who were hunting them. For, after all, the riddle as to where the anarchists had got all these followers was still unsolved. One man's presence had sufficed for them; they had fled at the first sight of the deformed smile of the Secretary. Syme every now and then looked back over his shoulder at the army on their track. As the wood grew first thinner and then smaller with distance, he could see the sunlit slopes beyond it and above it; and across these was still moving the square black mob like one monstrous beetle. In the very strong sunlight and with his own very strong eyes, which were almost telescopic, Syme could see this mass of men quite plainly. He could see them as separate human figures; but he was increasingly surprised by the way in which they moved as one man. They seemed to be dressed in dark clothes and plain hats, like any common crowd out of the streets; but they did not spread and sprawl and trail by various
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that sun-splashed wood what many modern painters had found there. He had found the thing which the modern people call Impressionism, which is another name for that final scepticism which can find no floor to the universe. As a man in an evil dream strains himself to scream and wake, Syme strove with a sudden effort to fling off this last and worst of his fancies. With two impatient strides he overtook the man in the Marquis's straw hat, the man whom he had come to address as Ratcliffe. In a voice exaggeratively loud and cheerful, he broke the bottomless silence and made conversation. "May I ask," he said, "where on earth we are all going to?" So genuine had been the doubts of his soul, that he was quite glad to hear his companion speak in an easy, human voice. "We must get down through the town of Lancy to the sea," he said. "I think that part of the country is least likely to be with them." "What can you mean by all this?" cried Syme. "They can't be running the real world in that way. Surely not many working men are anarchists, and surely if they were, mere mobs could not beat modern armies and police." "Mere mobs!" repeated his new friend with a snort of scorn. "So you talk about mobs and the working classes as if they were the question. You've got that eternal idiotic idea that if anarchy came it would come from the poor. Why should it? The poor have been rebels, but they have never been anarchists; they have more interest than anyone else in there being some decent government. The poor man really has a stake in the country. The rich man hasn't; he can go away to New Guinea in a yacht. The poor have sometimes objected to being governed badly; the rich have always objected to being governed at all. Aristocrats were always anarchists, as you can see from the barons' wars." "As a lecture on English history for the little ones," said Syme, "this is all very nice; but I have not yet grasped its application." "Its application is," said his informant, "that most of old Sunday's right-hand men are South African and American millionaires. That is why he has got hold of all the communications; and that is why the last four champions of the anti-anarchist police force are running through a wood like rabbits." "Millionaires I can understand," said Syme thoughtfully, "they are nearly all mad. But getting hold of a few wicked old gentlemen with hobbies is one thing; getting hold of great Christian nations is another. I would bet the nose off my face (forgive the allusion) that Sunday would stand perfectly helpless before the task of converting any ordinary healthy person anywhere." "Well," said the other, "it rather depends what sort of person you mean." "Well, for instance," said Syme, "he could never convert that person," and he pointed straight in front of him. They had come to an open space of sunlight, which seemed to express to Syme the final return of his own good sense; and in the middle of this forest clearing was a figure that might well stand for that common sense in an almost awful actuality. Burnt by the sun and stained with perspiration, and grave with the bottomless gravity of small necessary toils, a heavy French peasant was cutting wood with a hatchet. His cart stood a few yards off, already half full of timber; and the horse that cropped the grass was, like his master, valorous but not desperate; like his master, he was even prosperous, but yet was almost sad. The man was a Norman, taller than the average of the French and very angular; and his swarthy figure stood dark against a square of sunlight, almost like some allegoric figure of labour frescoed on a ground of gold. "Mr. Syme is saying," called out Ratcliffe to the French Colonel, "that this man, at least, will never be an anarchist." "Mr. Syme is right enough there," answered Colonel Ducroix, laughing, "if only for the reason that he has plenty of property to defend. But I forgot that in your country you are not used to peasants being wealthy." "He looks poor," said Dr. Bull doubtfully. "Quite so," said the Colonel; "that is why he is rich." "I have an idea," called out Dr. Bull suddenly; "how much would he take to give us a lift in his cart? Those dogs are all on foot, and we could soon leave them behind." "Oh, give him anything!" said Syme eagerly. "I have piles of money on me." "That will never do," said the Colonel; "he will never have any respect for you unless you drive a bargain."<|quote|>"Oh, if he haggles!"</|quote|>began Bull impatiently. "He haggles because he is a free man," said the other. "You do not understand; he would not see the meaning of generosity. He is not being tipped." And even while they seemed to hear the heavy feet of their strange pursuers behind them, they had to stand and stamp while the French Colonel talked to the French wood-cutter with all the leisurely badinage and bickering of market-day. At the end of the four minutes, however, they saw that the Colonel was right, for the wood-cutter entered into their plans, not with the vague servility of a tout too-well paid, but with the seriousness of a solicitor who had been paid the proper fee. He told them that the best thing they could do was to make their way down to the little inn on the hills above Lancy, where the innkeeper, an old soldier who had become _d vot_ in his latter years, would be certain to sympathise with them, and even to take risks in their support. The whole company, therefore, piled themselves on top of the stacks of wood, and went rocking in the rude cart down the other and steeper side of the woodland. Heavy and ramshackle as was the vehicle, it was driven quickly enough, and they soon had the exhilarating impression of distancing altogether those, whoever they were, who were hunting them. For, after all, the riddle as to where the anarchists had got all these followers was still unsolved. One man's presence had sufficed for them; they had fled at the first sight of the deformed smile of the Secretary. Syme every now and then looked back over his shoulder at the army on their track. As the wood grew first thinner and then smaller with distance, he could see the sunlit slopes beyond it and above it; and across these was still moving the square black mob like one monstrous beetle. In the very strong sunlight and with his own very strong eyes, which were almost telescopic, Syme could see this mass of men quite plainly. He could see them as separate human figures; but he was increasingly surprised by the way in which they moved as one man. They seemed to be dressed in dark clothes and plain hats, like any common crowd out of the streets; but they did not spread and sprawl and trail by various lines to the attack, as would be natural in an ordinary mob. They moved with a sort of dreadful and wicked woodenness, like a staring army of automatons. Syme pointed this out to Ratcliffe. "Yes," replied the policeman, "that's discipline. That's Sunday. He is perhaps five hundred miles off, but the fear of him is on all of them, like the finger of God. Yes, they are walking regularly; and you bet your boots that they are talking regularly, yes, and thinking regularly. But the one important thing for us is that they are disappearing regularly." Syme nodded. It was true that the black patch of the pursuing men was growing smaller and smaller as the peasant belaboured his horse. The level of the sunlit landscape, though flat as a whole, fell away on the farther side of the wood in billows of heavy slope towards the sea, in a way not unlike the lower slopes of the Sussex downs. The only difference was that in Sussex the road would have been broken and angular like a little brook, but here the white French road fell sheer in front of them like a waterfall. Down this direct descent the cart clattered at a considerable angle, and in a few minutes, the road growing yet steeper, they saw below them the little harbour of Lancy and a great blue arc of the sea. The travelling cloud of their enemies had wholly disappeared from the horizon. The horse and cart took a sharp turn round a clump of elms, and the horse's nose nearly struck the face of an old gentleman who was sitting on the benches outside the little caf of "Le Soleil d'Or." The peasant grunted an apology, and got down from his seat. The others also descended one by one, and spoke to the old gentleman with fragmentary phrases of courtesy, for it was quite evident from his expansive manner that he was the owner of the little tavern. He was a white-haired, apple-faced old boy, with sleepy eyes and a grey moustache; stout, sedentary, and very innocent, of a type that may often be found in France, but is still commoner in Catholic Germany. Everything about him, his pipe, his pot of beer, his flowers, and his beehive, suggested an ancestral peace; only when his visitors looked up as they entered the inn-parlour, they saw the sword upon
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face (forgive the allusion) that Sunday would stand perfectly helpless before the task of converting any ordinary healthy person anywhere." "Well," said the other, "it rather depends what sort of person you mean." "Well, for instance," said Syme, "he could never convert that person," and he pointed straight in front of him. They had come to an open space of sunlight, which seemed to express to Syme the final return of his own good sense; and in the middle of this forest clearing was a figure that might well stand for that common sense in an almost awful actuality. Burnt by the sun and stained with perspiration, and grave with the bottomless gravity of small necessary toils, a heavy French peasant was cutting wood with a hatchet. His cart stood a few yards off, already half full of timber; and the horse that cropped the grass was, like his master, valorous but not desperate; like his master, he was even prosperous, but yet was almost sad. The man was a Norman, taller than the average of the French and very angular; and his swarthy figure stood dark against a square of sunlight, almost like some allegoric figure of labour frescoed on a ground of gold. "Mr. Syme is saying," called out Ratcliffe to the French Colonel, "that this man, at least, will never be an anarchist." "Mr. Syme is right enough there," answered Colonel Ducroix, laughing, "if only for the reason that he has plenty of property to defend. But I forgot that in your country you are not used to peasants being wealthy." "He looks poor," said Dr. Bull doubtfully. "Quite so," said the Colonel; "that is why he is rich." "I have an idea," called out Dr. Bull suddenly; "how much would he take to give us a lift in his cart? Those dogs are all on foot, and we could soon leave them behind." "Oh, give him anything!" said Syme eagerly. "I have piles of money on me." "That will never do," said the Colonel; "he will never have any respect for you unless you drive a bargain."<|quote|>"Oh, if he haggles!"</|quote|>began Bull impatiently. "He haggles because he is a free man," said the other. "You do not understand; he would not see the meaning of generosity. He is not being tipped." And even while they seemed to hear the heavy feet of their strange pursuers behind them, they had to stand and stamp while the French Colonel talked to the French wood-cutter with all the leisurely badinage and bickering of market-day. At the end of the four minutes, however, they saw that the Colonel was right, for the wood-cutter entered into their plans, not with the vague servility of a tout too-well paid, but with the seriousness of a solicitor who had been paid the proper fee. He told them that the best thing they could do was to make their way down to the little inn on the hills above Lancy, where the innkeeper, an old soldier who had become _d vot_ in his latter years, would be certain to sympathise with them, and even to take risks in their support. The whole company, therefore, piled themselves on top of the stacks of wood, and went rocking in the rude cart down the other and steeper side of the woodland. Heavy and ramshackle as was the vehicle, it was driven quickly enough, and they soon had the exhilarating impression of distancing altogether those, whoever they were, who were hunting them. For, after all, the riddle as to where the anarchists had got all these followers was still unsolved. One man's presence had sufficed for them; they had fled at the first sight of the deformed smile of the Secretary. Syme every now and then looked back over his shoulder at the army on their track. As the wood grew first thinner and then smaller with distance, he could see the sunlit slopes beyond it and above it; and across these was still moving the square black mob like one monstrous beetle. In the very strong sunlight and with his own very strong eyes, which were almost telescopic, Syme could see this mass of men quite plainly. He could see them as separate human figures; but he was increasingly surprised by the way in which they moved as one man. They seemed to be dressed in dark clothes and plain hats, like any common crowd out of the streets; but they did not spread and sprawl and trail by various lines to the attack, as would be natural in an ordinary mob. They moved with a sort of dreadful and wicked woodenness, like a staring army of automatons. Syme pointed this out to Ratcliffe. "Yes," replied the policeman, "that's discipline. That's Sunday. He is perhaps five hundred miles off, but the fear of him is on all of them, like the finger of God. Yes, they are walking regularly; and you bet your boots that they are talking regularly, yes, and thinking regularly. But the one important thing for us is that they are disappearing regularly." Syme nodded. It was true that the black patch of the pursuing men was growing smaller and smaller as the peasant belaboured his horse. The level of the sunlit landscape, though flat as a whole, fell away on the farther side of the wood in billows of heavy slope towards the sea, in a way not unlike the lower slopes of the Sussex downs. The only difference was that in Sussex the road would have been broken and angular like a little brook, but here the white French road
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The Man Who Was Thursday
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"here is something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did."
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Harriet Smith
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turning to her box again,<|quote|>"here is something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did."</|quote|>Emma was quite eager to
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to this." "Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again,<|quote|>"here is something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did."</|quote|>Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It
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divided between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, "Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal to this." "Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again,<|quote|>"here is something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did."</|quote|>Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old pencil,--the part without any lead. "This was really his," said Harriet.--" "Do not you remember one morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly the day--but perhaps it was the
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life.--Well--" (sitting down again) "--go on--what else?" "And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected it, you did it so naturally." "And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!" said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, "Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal to this." "Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again,<|quote|>"here is something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did."</|quote|>Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old pencil,--the part without any lead. "This was really his," said Harriet.--" "Do not you remember one morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_ _evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he
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looked at it now and then as a great treat." "My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this relic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my pocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my life.--Well--" (sitting down again) "--go on--what else?" "And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected it, you did it so naturally." "And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!" said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, "Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal to this." "Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again,<|quote|>"here is something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did."</|quote|>Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old pencil,--the part without any lead. "This was really his," said Harriet.--" "Do not you remember one morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_ _evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment." "I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.--Talking about spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an idea
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and she looked on with impatience. Within abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister. "Now," said Harriet, "you _must_ recollect." "No, indeed I do not." "Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last times we ever met in it!--It was but a very few days before I had my sore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came--I think the very evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?--But, as you had none about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before he gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure of it--so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now and then as a great treat." "My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this relic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my pocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my life.--Well--" (sitting down again) "--go on--what else?" "And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected it, you did it so naturally." "And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!" said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, "Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal to this." "Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again,<|quote|>"here is something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did."</|quote|>Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old pencil,--the part without any lead. "This was really his," said Harriet.--" "Do not you remember one morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_ _evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment." "I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.--Talking about spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here." "Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot recollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am now." "-- "Well, go on." "Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it." "My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?" "Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was--but had not resolution enough to part with them." "But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be useful." "I shall be happier to burn it," replied Harriet. "It has a disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton." "And
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began: "Miss Woodhouse--if you are at leisure--I have something that I should like to tell you--a sort of confession to make--and then, you know, it will be over." Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a seriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as much as her words, for something more than ordinary. "It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish," she continued, "to have no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered creature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is necessary--I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and I dare say you understand me." "Yes," said Emma, "I hope I do." "How I could so long a time be fancying myself!..." cried Harriet, warmly. "It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary in him now.--I do not care whether I meet him or not--except that of the two I had rather not see him--and indeed I would go any distance round to avoid him--but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire her nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and all that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable--I shall never forget her look the other night!--However, I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.--No, let them be ever so happy together, it will not give me another moment's pang: and to convince you that I have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy--what I ought to have destroyed long ago--what I ought never to have kept--I know that very well" (blushing as she spoke) ".--However, now I will destroy it all--and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?" said she, with a conscious look. "Not the least in the world.--Did he ever give you any thing?" "No--I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued very much." She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_ _precious_ _treasures_ on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited. Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister. "Now," said Harriet, "you _must_ recollect." "No, indeed I do not." "Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last times we ever met in it!--It was but a very few days before I had my sore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came--I think the very evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?--But, as you had none about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before he gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure of it--so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now and then as a great treat." "My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this relic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my pocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my life.--Well--" (sitting down again) "--go on--what else?" "And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected it, you did it so naturally." "And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!" said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, "Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal to this." "Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again,<|quote|>"here is something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did."</|quote|>Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old pencil,--the part without any lead. "This was really his," said Harriet.--" "Do not you remember one morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_ _evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment." "I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.--Talking about spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here." "Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot recollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am now." "-- "Well, go on." "Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it." "My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?" "Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was--but had not resolution enough to part with them." "But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be useful." "I shall be happier to burn it," replied Harriet. "It has a disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton." "And when," thought Emma, "will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?" She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had _told_ no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, "I shall never marry." Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied, "Never marry!--This is a new resolution." "It is one that I shall never change, however." After another short hesitation, "I hope it does not proceed from--I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?" "Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--" "Oh! no" "--and Emma could just catch the words, "so superior to Mr. Elton!" She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly resolved.--She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--She was decided, and thus spoke-- "Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?" "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have
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the very last times we ever met in it!--It was but a very few days before I had my sore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came--I think the very evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?--But, as you had none about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before he gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure of it--so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now and then as a great treat." "My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this relic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my pocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my life.--Well--" (sitting down again) "--go on--what else?" "And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected it, you did it so naturally." "And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!" said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, "Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal to this." "Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again,<|quote|>"here is something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did."</|quote|>Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old pencil,--the part without any lead. "This was really his," said Harriet.--" "Do not you remember one morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_ _evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment." "I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.--Talking about spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here." "Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot recollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am now." "-- "Well, go on." "Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it." "My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?" "Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew
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Emma
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"We're going,"
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Brett Ashley
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about the next?" asked Cohn.<|quote|>"We're going,"</|quote|>Brett said. "We've a date
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a biblical name, Jake." "How about the next?" asked Cohn.<|quote|>"We're going,"</|quote|>Brett said. "We've a date up at Montmartre." Dancing, I
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with, one can drink in such safety, too." The music started and Robert Cohn said: "Will you dance this with me, Lady Brett?" Brett smiled at him. "I've promised to dance this with Jacob," she laughed. "You've a hell of a biblical name, Jake." "How about the next?" asked Cohn.<|quote|>"We're going,"</|quote|>Brett said. "We've a date up at Montmartre." Dancing, I looked over Brett's shoulder and saw Cohn, standing at the bar, still watching her. "You've made a new one there," I said to her. "Don't talk about it. Poor chap. I never knew it till just now." "Oh, well," I
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said. Brett laughed. "It's wrong of you, Jake. It's an insult to all of us. Look at Frances there, and Jo." This for Cohn's benefit. "It's in restraint of trade," Brett said. She laughed again. "You're wonderfully sober," I said. "Yes. Aren't I? And when one's with the crowd I'm with, one can drink in such safety, too." The music started and Robert Cohn said: "Will you dance this with me, Lady Brett?" Brett smiled at him. "I've promised to dance this with Jacob," she laughed. "You've a hell of a biblical name, Jake." "How about the next?" asked Cohn.<|quote|>"We're going,"</|quote|>Brett said. "We've a date up at Montmartre." Dancing, I looked over Brett's shoulder and saw Cohn, standing at the bar, still watching her. "You've made a new one there," I said to her. "Don't talk about it. Poor chap. I never knew it till just now." "Oh, well," I said. "I suppose you like to add them up." "Don't talk like a fool." "You do." "Oh, well. What if I do?" "Nothing," I said. We were dancing to the accordion and some one was playing the banjo. It was hot and I felt happy. We passed close to Georgette
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promised land. Cohn, of course, was much younger. But he had that look of eager, deserving expectation. Brett was damned good-looking. She wore a slipover jersey sweater and a tweed skirt, and her hair was brushed back like a boy's. She started all that. She was built with curves like the hull of a racing yacht, and you missed none of it with that wool jersey. "It's a fine crowd you're with, Brett," I said. "Aren't they lovely? And you, my dear. Where did you get it?" "At the Napolitain." "And have you had a lovely evening?" "Oh, priceless," I said. Brett laughed. "It's wrong of you, Jake. It's an insult to all of us. Look at Frances there, and Jo." This for Cohn's benefit. "It's in restraint of trade," Brett said. She laughed again. "You're wonderfully sober," I said. "Yes. Aren't I? And when one's with the crowd I'm with, one can drink in such safety, too." The music started and Robert Cohn said: "Will you dance this with me, Lady Brett?" Brett smiled at him. "I've promised to dance this with Jacob," she laughed. "You've a hell of a biblical name, Jake." "How about the next?" asked Cohn.<|quote|>"We're going,"</|quote|>Brett said. "We've a date up at Montmartre." Dancing, I looked over Brett's shoulder and saw Cohn, standing at the bar, still watching her. "You've made a new one there," I said to her. "Don't talk about it. Poor chap. I never knew it till just now." "Oh, well," I said. "I suppose you like to add them up." "Don't talk like a fool." "You do." "Oh, well. What if I do?" "Nothing," I said. We were dancing to the accordion and some one was playing the banjo. It was hot and I felt happy. We passed close to Georgette dancing with another one of them. "What possessed you to bring her?" "I don't know, I just brought her." "You're getting damned romantic." "No, bored." "Now?" "No, not now." "Let's get out of here. She's well taken care of." "Do you want to?" "Would I ask you if I didn't want to?" We left the floor and I took my coat off a hanger on the wall and put it on. Brett stood by the bar. Cohn was talking to her. I stopped at the bar and asked them for an envelope. The patronne found one. I took a fifty-franc
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"For God's sake," I said, "yes. Don't you?" "Oh, how charmingly you get angry," he said. "I wish I had that faculty." I got up and walked over toward the dancing-floor. Mrs. Braddocks followed me. "Don't be cross with Robert," she said. "He's still only a child, you know." "I wasn't cross," I said. "I just thought perhaps I was going to throw up." "Your fianc e is having a great success," Mrs. Braddocks looked out on the floor where Georgette was dancing in the arms of the tall, dark one, called Lett. "Isn't she?" I said. "Rather," said Mrs. Braddocks. Cohn came up. "Come on, Jake," he said, "have a drink." We walked over to the bar. "What's the matter with you? You seem all worked up over something?" "Nothing. This whole show makes me sick is all." Brett came up to the bar. "Hello, you chaps." "Hello, Brett," I said. "Why aren't you tight?" "Never going to get tight any more. I say, give a chap a brandy and soda." She stood holding the glass and I saw Robert Cohn looking at her. He looked a great deal as his compatriot must have looked when he saw the promised land. Cohn, of course, was much younger. But he had that look of eager, deserving expectation. Brett was damned good-looking. She wore a slipover jersey sweater and a tweed skirt, and her hair was brushed back like a boy's. She started all that. She was built with curves like the hull of a racing yacht, and you missed none of it with that wool jersey. "It's a fine crowd you're with, Brett," I said. "Aren't they lovely? And you, my dear. Where did you get it?" "At the Napolitain." "And have you had a lovely evening?" "Oh, priceless," I said. Brett laughed. "It's wrong of you, Jake. It's an insult to all of us. Look at Frances there, and Jo." This for Cohn's benefit. "It's in restraint of trade," Brett said. She laughed again. "You're wonderfully sober," I said. "Yes. Aren't I? And when one's with the crowd I'm with, one can drink in such safety, too." The music started and Robert Cohn said: "Will you dance this with me, Lady Brett?" Brett smiled at him. "I've promised to dance this with Jacob," she laughed. "You've a hell of a biblical name, Jake." "How about the next?" asked Cohn.<|quote|>"We're going,"</|quote|>Brett said. "We've a date up at Montmartre." Dancing, I looked over Brett's shoulder and saw Cohn, standing at the bar, still watching her. "You've made a new one there," I said to her. "Don't talk about it. Poor chap. I never knew it till just now." "Oh, well," I said. "I suppose you like to add them up." "Don't talk like a fool." "You do." "Oh, well. What if I do?" "Nothing," I said. We were dancing to the accordion and some one was playing the banjo. It was hot and I felt happy. We passed close to Georgette dancing with another one of them. "What possessed you to bring her?" "I don't know, I just brought her." "You're getting damned romantic." "No, bored." "Now?" "No, not now." "Let's get out of here. She's well taken care of." "Do you want to?" "Would I ask you if I didn't want to?" We left the floor and I took my coat off a hanger on the wall and put it on. Brett stood by the bar. Cohn was talking to her. I stopped at the bar and asked them for an envelope. The patronne found one. I took a fifty-franc note from my pocket, put it in the envelope, sealed it, and handed it to the patronne. "If the girl I came with asks for me, will you give her this?" I said. "If she goes out with one of those gentlemen, will you save this for me?" "C'est entendu, Monsieur," the patronne said. "You go now? So early?" "Yes," I said. We started out the door. Cohn was still talking to Brett. She said good night and took my arm. "Good night, Cohn," I said. Outside in the street we looked for a taxi. "You're going to lose your fifty francs," Brett said. "Oh, yes." "No taxis." "We could walk up to the Pantheon and get one." "Come on and we'll get a drink in the pub next door and send for one." "You wouldn't walk across the street." "Not if I could help it." We went into the next bar and I sent a waiter for a taxi. "Well," I said, "we're out away from them." We stood against the tall zinc bar and did not talk and looked at each other. The waiter came and said the taxi was outside. Brett pressed my hand hard. I gave
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both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could see their hands and newly washed, wavy hair in the light from the door. The policeman standing by the door looked at me and smiled. They came in. As they went in, under the light I saw white hands, wavy hair, white faces, grimacing, gesturing, talking. With them was Brett. She looked very lovely and she was very much with them. One of them saw Georgette and said: "I do declare. There is an actual harlot. I'm going to dance with her, Lett. You watch me." The tall dark one, called Lett, said: "Don't you be rash." The wavy blond one answered: "Don't you worry, dear." And with them was Brett. I was very angry. Somehow they always made me angry. I know they are supposed to be amusing, and you should be tolerant, but I wanted to swing on one, any one, anything to shatter that superior, simpering composure. Instead, I walked down the street and had a beer at the bar at the next Bal. The beer was not good and I had a worse cognac to take the taste out of my mouth. When I came back to the Bal there was a crowd on the floor and Georgette was dancing with the tall blond youth, who danced big-hippily, carrying his head on one side, his eyes lifted as he danced. As soon as the music stopped another one of them asked her to dance. She had been taken up by them. I knew then that they would all dance with her. They are like that. I sat down at a table. Cohn was sitting there. Frances was dancing. Mrs. Braddocks brought up somebody and introduced him as Robert Prentiss. He was from New York by way of Chicago, and was a rising new novelist. He had some sort of an English accent. I asked him to have a drink. "Thanks so much," he said, "I've just had one." "Have another." "Thanks, I will then." We got the daughter of the house over and each had a _fine l'eau_. "You're from Kansas City, they tell me," he said. "Yes." "Do you find Paris amusing?" "Yes." "Really?" I was a little drunk. Not drunk in any positive sense but just enough to be careless. "For God's sake," I said, "yes. Don't you?" "Oh, how charmingly you get angry," he said. "I wish I had that faculty." I got up and walked over toward the dancing-floor. Mrs. Braddocks followed me. "Don't be cross with Robert," she said. "He's still only a child, you know." "I wasn't cross," I said. "I just thought perhaps I was going to throw up." "Your fianc e is having a great success," Mrs. Braddocks looked out on the floor where Georgette was dancing in the arms of the tall, dark one, called Lett. "Isn't she?" I said. "Rather," said Mrs. Braddocks. Cohn came up. "Come on, Jake," he said, "have a drink." We walked over to the bar. "What's the matter with you? You seem all worked up over something?" "Nothing. This whole show makes me sick is all." Brett came up to the bar. "Hello, you chaps." "Hello, Brett," I said. "Why aren't you tight?" "Never going to get tight any more. I say, give a chap a brandy and soda." She stood holding the glass and I saw Robert Cohn looking at her. He looked a great deal as his compatriot must have looked when he saw the promised land. Cohn, of course, was much younger. But he had that look of eager, deserving expectation. Brett was damned good-looking. She wore a slipover jersey sweater and a tweed skirt, and her hair was brushed back like a boy's. She started all that. She was built with curves like the hull of a racing yacht, and you missed none of it with that wool jersey. "It's a fine crowd you're with, Brett," I said. "Aren't they lovely? And you, my dear. Where did you get it?" "At the Napolitain." "And have you had a lovely evening?" "Oh, priceless," I said. Brett laughed. "It's wrong of you, Jake. It's an insult to all of us. Look at Frances there, and Jo." This for Cohn's benefit. "It's in restraint of trade," Brett said. She laughed again. "You're wonderfully sober," I said. "Yes. Aren't I? And when one's with the crowd I'm with, one can drink in such safety, too." The music started and Robert Cohn said: "Will you dance this with me, Lady Brett?" Brett smiled at him. "I've promised to dance this with Jacob," she laughed. "You've a hell of a biblical name, Jake." "How about the next?" asked Cohn.<|quote|>"We're going,"</|quote|>Brett said. "We've a date up at Montmartre." Dancing, I looked over Brett's shoulder and saw Cohn, standing at the bar, still watching her. "You've made a new one there," I said to her. "Don't talk about it. Poor chap. I never knew it till just now." "Oh, well," I said. "I suppose you like to add them up." "Don't talk like a fool." "You do." "Oh, well. What if I do?" "Nothing," I said. We were dancing to the accordion and some one was playing the banjo. It was hot and I felt happy. We passed close to Georgette dancing with another one of them. "What possessed you to bring her?" "I don't know, I just brought her." "You're getting damned romantic." "No, bored." "Now?" "No, not now." "Let's get out of here. She's well taken care of." "Do you want to?" "Would I ask you if I didn't want to?" We left the floor and I took my coat off a hanger on the wall and put it on. Brett stood by the bar. Cohn was talking to her. I stopped at the bar and asked them for an envelope. The patronne found one. I took a fifty-franc note from my pocket, put it in the envelope, sealed it, and handed it to the patronne. "If the girl I came with asks for me, will you give her this?" I said. "If she goes out with one of those gentlemen, will you save this for me?" "C'est entendu, Monsieur," the patronne said. "You go now? So early?" "Yes," I said. We started out the door. Cohn was still talking to Brett. She said good night and took my arm. "Good night, Cohn," I said. Outside in the street we looked for a taxi. "You're going to lose your fifty francs," Brett said. "Oh, yes." "No taxis." "We could walk up to the Pantheon and get one." "Come on and we'll get a drink in the pub next door and send for one." "You wouldn't walk across the street." "Not if I could help it." We went into the next bar and I sent a waiter for a taxi. "Well," I said, "we're out away from them." We stood against the tall zinc bar and did not talk and looked at each other. The waiter came and said the taxi was outside. Brett pressed my hand hard. I gave the waiter a franc and we went out. "Where should I tell him?" I asked. "Oh, tell him to drive around." I told the driver to go to the Parc Montsouris, and got in, and slammed the door. Brett was leaning back in the corner, her eyes closed. I got in and sat beside her. The cab started with a jerk. "Oh, darling, I've been so miserable," Brett said. CHAPTER 4 The taxi went up the hill, passed the lighted square, then on into the dark, still climbing, then levelled out onto a dark street behind St. Etienne du Mont, went smoothly down the asphalt, passed the trees and the standing bus at the Place de la Contrescarpe, then turned onto the cobbles of the Rue Mouffetard. There were lighted bars and late open shops on each side of the street. We were sitting apart and we jolted close together going down the old street. Brett's hat was off. Her head was back. I saw her face in the lights from the open shops, then it was dark, then I saw her face clearly as we came out on the Avenue des Gobelins. The street was torn up and men were working on the car-tracks by the light of acetylene flares. Brett's face was white and the long line of her neck showed in the bright light of the flares. The street was dark again and I kissed her. Our lips were tight together and then she turned away and pressed against the corner of the seat, as far away as she could get. Her head was down. "Don't touch me," she said. "Please don't touch me." "What's the matter?" "I can't stand it." "Oh, Brett." "You mustn't. You must know. I can't stand it, that's all. Oh, darling, please understand!" "Don't you love me?" "Love you? I simply turn all to jelly when you touch me." "Isn't there anything we can do about it?" She was sitting up now. My arm was around her and she was leaning back against me, and we were quite calm. She was looking into my eyes with that way she had of looking that made you wonder whether she really saw out of her own eyes. They would look on and on after every one else's eyes in the world would have stopped looking. She looked as though there were nothing on earth
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City, they tell me," he said. "Yes." "Do you find Paris amusing?" "Yes." "Really?" I was a little drunk. Not drunk in any positive sense but just enough to be careless. "For God's sake," I said, "yes. Don't you?" "Oh, how charmingly you get angry," he said. "I wish I had that faculty." I got up and walked over toward the dancing-floor. Mrs. Braddocks followed me. "Don't be cross with Robert," she said. "He's still only a child, you know." "I wasn't cross," I said. "I just thought perhaps I was going to throw up." "Your fianc e is having a great success," Mrs. Braddocks looked out on the floor where Georgette was dancing in the arms of the tall, dark one, called Lett. "Isn't she?" I said. "Rather," said Mrs. Braddocks. Cohn came up. "Come on, Jake," he said, "have a drink." We walked over to the bar. "What's the matter with you? You seem all worked up over something?" "Nothing. This whole show makes me sick is all." Brett came up to the bar. "Hello, you chaps." "Hello, Brett," I said. "Why aren't you tight?" "Never going to get tight any more. I say, give a chap a brandy and soda." She stood holding the glass and I saw Robert Cohn looking at her. He looked a great deal as his compatriot must have looked when he saw the promised land. Cohn, of course, was much younger. But he had that look of eager, deserving expectation. Brett was damned good-looking. She wore a slipover jersey sweater and a tweed skirt, and her hair was brushed back like a boy's. She started all that. She was built with curves like the hull of a racing yacht, and you missed none of it with that wool jersey. "It's a fine crowd you're with, Brett," I said. "Aren't they lovely? And you, my dear. Where did you get it?" "At the Napolitain." "And have you had a lovely evening?" "Oh, priceless," I said. Brett laughed. "It's wrong of you, Jake. It's an insult to all of us. Look at Frances there, and Jo." This for Cohn's benefit. "It's in restraint of trade," Brett said. She laughed again. "You're wonderfully sober," I said. "Yes. Aren't I? And when one's with the crowd I'm with, one can drink in such safety, too." The music started and Robert Cohn said: "Will you dance this with me, Lady Brett?" Brett smiled at him. "I've promised to dance this with Jacob," she laughed. "You've a hell of a biblical name, Jake." "How about the next?" asked Cohn.<|quote|>"We're going,"</|quote|>Brett said. "We've a date up at Montmartre." Dancing, I looked over Brett's shoulder and saw Cohn, standing at the bar, still watching her. "You've made a new one there," I said to her. "Don't talk about it. Poor chap. I never knew it till just now." "Oh, well," I said. "I suppose you like to add them up." "Don't talk like a fool." "You do." "Oh, well. What if I do?" "Nothing," I said. We were dancing to the accordion and some one was playing the banjo. It was hot and I felt happy. We passed close to Georgette dancing with another one of them. "What possessed you to bring her?" "I don't know, I just brought her." "You're getting damned romantic." "No, bored." "Now?" "No, not now." "Let's get out of here. She's well taken care of." "Do you want to?" "Would I ask you if I didn't want to?" We left the floor and I took my coat off a hanger on the wall and put it on. Brett stood by the bar. Cohn was talking to her. I stopped at the bar and asked them for an envelope. The patronne found one. I took a fifty-franc note from my pocket, put it in the envelope, sealed it, and handed it to the patronne. "If the girl I came with asks for me, will you give her this?" I said. "If she goes out with one of those gentlemen, will you save this for me?" "C'est entendu, Monsieur," the patronne said. "You go now? So early?" "Yes," I said. We started out the door. Cohn was still talking to Brett. She said good night and took
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The Sun Also Rises
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--the young man saw it all--
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No speaker
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the rub! I dare say”<|quote|>--the young man saw it all--</|quote|>“he has brought his poisonous
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a horrid engine in itself--there’s the rub! I dare say”<|quote|>--the young man saw it all--</|quote|>“he has brought his poisonous cheque.” She gave it her
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beauty, a livelier sense of its danger.” Lady Grace, however, was so far from fear that she could even afford pity. “Poor baffled Mr. Bender!” “Oh, rich and confident Mr. Bender!” Crimble cried. “Once given his money, his confidence is a horrid engine in itself--there’s the rub! I dare say”<|quote|>--the young man saw it all--</|quote|>“he has brought his poisonous cheque.” She gave it her less exasperated wonder. “One has heard of that, but only in the case of some particularly pushing dealer.” “And Mr. Bender, to do him justice, isn’t a particularly pushing dealer?” “No,” Lady Grace judiciously returned; “I think he’s not a
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anything.” “Of anything, no doubt, but of making my father capable--! And you haven’t at any rate,” she said, “so much as seen the picture.” “I beg your pardon--I saw it at the Guildhall three years ago; and am almost afraid of getting again, with a fresh sense of its beauty, a livelier sense of its danger.” Lady Grace, however, was so far from fear that she could even afford pity. “Poor baffled Mr. Bender!” “Oh, rich and confident Mr. Bender!” Crimble cried. “Once given his money, his confidence is a horrid engine in itself--there’s the rub! I dare say”<|quote|>--the young man saw it all--</|quote|>“he has brought his poisonous cheque.” She gave it her less exasperated wonder. “One has heard of that, but only in the case of some particularly pushing dealer.” “And Mr. Bender, to do him justice, isn’t a particularly pushing dealer?” “No,” Lady Grace judiciously returned; “I think he’s not a dealer at all, but just what you a moment ago spoke of yourself as being.” He gave a glance at his possibly wild recent past. “A fond true lover?” “As we _all_ were in our lucky time--when we rum-aged Italy and Spain.” He appeared to recognise this complication--of Bender’s voracious
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flowers--and on the whole to-day the most exposed.” He had been pulled up but for an instant. “Great Gainsboroughs and Sir Joshuas and Romneys and Sargents, great Turners and Constables and old Cromes and Brabazons, form, you’ll recognise, a vast garden in themselves. What have we ever for instance more successfully grown than your splendid ‘Duchess of Waterbridge’?” The girl showed herself ready at once to recognise under his eloquence anything he would. “Yes--it’s our Sir Joshua, I believe, that Mr. Bender has proclaimed himself particularly ‘after.’” It brought a cloud to her friend’s face. “Then he’ll be capable of anything.” “Of anything, no doubt, but of making my father capable--! And you haven’t at any rate,” she said, “so much as seen the picture.” “I beg your pardon--I saw it at the Guildhall three years ago; and am almost afraid of getting again, with a fresh sense of its beauty, a livelier sense of its danger.” Lady Grace, however, was so far from fear that she could even afford pity. “Poor baffled Mr. Bender!” “Oh, rich and confident Mr. Bender!” Crimble cried. “Once given his money, his confidence is a horrid engine in itself--there’s the rub! I dare say”<|quote|>--the young man saw it all--</|quote|>“he has brought his poisonous cheque.” She gave it her less exasperated wonder. “One has heard of that, but only in the case of some particularly pushing dealer.” “And Mr. Bender, to do him justice, isn’t a particularly pushing dealer?” “No,” Lady Grace judiciously returned; “I think he’s not a dealer at all, but just what you a moment ago spoke of yourself as being.” He gave a glance at his possibly wild recent past. “A fond true lover?” “As we _all_ were in our lucky time--when we rum-aged Italy and Spain.” He appeared to recognise this complication--of Bender’s voracious integrity; but only to push it away. “Well, I don’t know whether the best lovers are, or ever were, the best buyers--but I feel to-day that they’re the best keepers.” The breath of his emphasis blew, as her eyes showed, on the girl’s dimmer fire. “It’s as if it were suddenly in the air that you’ve brought us some light or some help--that you may do something really good for us.” “Do you mean ‘mark down,’ as they say at the shops, all your greatest claims?” His chord of sensibility had trembled all gratefully into derision, and not to seem
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exquisite lips and contradicting an imputation no one would have indecently made. “Gracious goodness, I hope not! The man surely doesn’t _suppose_ you’d traffic.” She might, while she still smiled at him, have been fairly enjoying the friendly horror she produced. “I don’t quite know what he supposes. But people _have_ trafficked; people do; people are trafficking all round.” “Ah,” Hugh Crimble cried, “that’s what deprives me of my rest and, as a lover of our vast and beneficent art-wealth, poisons my waking hours. That art-wealth is at the mercy of a leak there appears no means of stopping.” She had tapped a spring in him, clearly, and the consequent flood might almost at any moment become copious. “Precious things are going out of our distracted country at a quicker rate than the very quickest--a century and more ago--of their ever coming in.” She was sharply struck, but was also unmistakably a person in whom stirred thought soon found connections and relations. “Well, I suppose our art-wealth came in--save for those awkward Elgin Marbles!--mainly by purchase too, didn’t it? We ourselves largely took it away from somewhere, didn’t we? We didn’t _grow_ it all.” “We grew some of the loveliest flowers--and on the whole to-day the most exposed.” He had been pulled up but for an instant. “Great Gainsboroughs and Sir Joshuas and Romneys and Sargents, great Turners and Constables and old Cromes and Brabazons, form, you’ll recognise, a vast garden in themselves. What have we ever for instance more successfully grown than your splendid ‘Duchess of Waterbridge’?” The girl showed herself ready at once to recognise under his eloquence anything he would. “Yes--it’s our Sir Joshua, I believe, that Mr. Bender has proclaimed himself particularly ‘after.’” It brought a cloud to her friend’s face. “Then he’ll be capable of anything.” “Of anything, no doubt, but of making my father capable--! And you haven’t at any rate,” she said, “so much as seen the picture.” “I beg your pardon--I saw it at the Guildhall three years ago; and am almost afraid of getting again, with a fresh sense of its beauty, a livelier sense of its danger.” Lady Grace, however, was so far from fear that she could even afford pity. “Poor baffled Mr. Bender!” “Oh, rich and confident Mr. Bender!” Crimble cried. “Once given his money, his confidence is a horrid engine in itself--there’s the rub! I dare say”<|quote|>--the young man saw it all--</|quote|>“he has brought his poisonous cheque.” She gave it her less exasperated wonder. “One has heard of that, but only in the case of some particularly pushing dealer.” “And Mr. Bender, to do him justice, isn’t a particularly pushing dealer?” “No,” Lady Grace judiciously returned; “I think he’s not a dealer at all, but just what you a moment ago spoke of yourself as being.” He gave a glance at his possibly wild recent past. “A fond true lover?” “As we _all_ were in our lucky time--when we rum-aged Italy and Spain.” He appeared to recognise this complication--of Bender’s voracious integrity; but only to push it away. “Well, I don’t know whether the best lovers are, or ever were, the best buyers--but I feel to-day that they’re the best keepers.” The breath of his emphasis blew, as her eyes showed, on the girl’s dimmer fire. “It’s as if it were suddenly in the air that you’ve brought us some light or some help--that you may do something really good for us.” “Do you mean ‘mark down,’ as they say at the shops, all your greatest claims?” His chord of sensibility had trembled all gratefully into derision, and not to seem to swagger he had put his possible virtue at its lowest. This she beautifully showed that she beautifully saw. “I dare say that if you did even that we should have to take it from you.” “Then it may very well be,” he laughed back, “the reason why I feel, under my delightful, wonderful impression, a bit anxious and nervous and afraid.” “That shows,” she returned, “that you suspect us of horrors hiding from justice, and that your natural kindness yet shrinks from handing us over!” Well, clearly, she might put it as she liked--it all came back to his being more charmed. “Heaven knows I’ve wanted a chance at you, but what should you say if, having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?” “I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.” “Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do
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left any.” “Some tea, with pleasure” --he looked all his longing; “though when you talk of a fellow-feaster I should have supposed that, on such a day as this especially, you’d find yourselves running a continuous _table d’hôte_.” “Ah, we can’t work sports in our gallery and saloon--the banging or whacking and shoving amusements that are all most people care for; unless, perhaps,” Lady Grace went on, “your own peculiar one, as I understand you, of playing football with the old benighted traditions and attributions you everywhere meet: in fact I think you said the old idiotic superstitions.” Hugh Crimble went more than half-way to meet this description of his fondest activity; he indeed even beckoned it on. “The names and stories and styles--the so often vain legend, not to be too invidious--of author or subject or school?” But he had a drop, no less, as from the sense of a cause sometimes lost. “Ah, that’s a game at which we _all_ can play!” “Though scarcely,” Lady Grace suggested, “at which we all can score.” The words appeared indeed to take meaning from his growing impression of the place and its charm--of the number of objects, treasures of art, that pressed for appreciation of their importance. “Certainly,” he said, “no one can ever have scored much on sacred spots of _this_ order--which express so the grand impunity of their pride, their claims, their assurance!” “We’ve had great luck,” she granted-- “as I’ve just been reminded; but ever since those terrible things you told me in town--about the tremendous tricks of the whirligig of time and the aesthetic fools’ paradise in which so many of us live--I’ve gone about with my heart in my mouth. Who knows that while I talk Mr. Bender mayn’t be pulling us to pieces?” Hugh Crimble had a shudder of remembrance. “Mr. Bender?” “The rich American who’s going round.” It gave him a sharper shock. “The wretch who bagged Lady Lappington’s Longhi?” Lady Grace showed surprise. “Is he a wretch?” Her visitor but asked to be extravagant. “Rather--the scoundrel. He offered his infernal eight thousand down.” “Oh, I thought you meant he had played some trick!” “I wish he had--he could then have been collared.” “Well,” Lady Grace peacefully smiled, “it’s no use his offering _us_ eight thousand--or eighteen or even eighty!” Hugh Crimble stared as at the odd superfluity of this reassurance, almost crude on exquisite lips and contradicting an imputation no one would have indecently made. “Gracious goodness, I hope not! The man surely doesn’t _suppose_ you’d traffic.” She might, while she still smiled at him, have been fairly enjoying the friendly horror she produced. “I don’t quite know what he supposes. But people _have_ trafficked; people do; people are trafficking all round.” “Ah,” Hugh Crimble cried, “that’s what deprives me of my rest and, as a lover of our vast and beneficent art-wealth, poisons my waking hours. That art-wealth is at the mercy of a leak there appears no means of stopping.” She had tapped a spring in him, clearly, and the consequent flood might almost at any moment become copious. “Precious things are going out of our distracted country at a quicker rate than the very quickest--a century and more ago--of their ever coming in.” She was sharply struck, but was also unmistakably a person in whom stirred thought soon found connections and relations. “Well, I suppose our art-wealth came in--save for those awkward Elgin Marbles!--mainly by purchase too, didn’t it? We ourselves largely took it away from somewhere, didn’t we? We didn’t _grow_ it all.” “We grew some of the loveliest flowers--and on the whole to-day the most exposed.” He had been pulled up but for an instant. “Great Gainsboroughs and Sir Joshuas and Romneys and Sargents, great Turners and Constables and old Cromes and Brabazons, form, you’ll recognise, a vast garden in themselves. What have we ever for instance more successfully grown than your splendid ‘Duchess of Waterbridge’?” The girl showed herself ready at once to recognise under his eloquence anything he would. “Yes--it’s our Sir Joshua, I believe, that Mr. Bender has proclaimed himself particularly ‘after.’” It brought a cloud to her friend’s face. “Then he’ll be capable of anything.” “Of anything, no doubt, but of making my father capable--! And you haven’t at any rate,” she said, “so much as seen the picture.” “I beg your pardon--I saw it at the Guildhall three years ago; and am almost afraid of getting again, with a fresh sense of its beauty, a livelier sense of its danger.” Lady Grace, however, was so far from fear that she could even afford pity. “Poor baffled Mr. Bender!” “Oh, rich and confident Mr. Bender!” Crimble cried. “Once given his money, his confidence is a horrid engine in itself--there’s the rub! I dare say”<|quote|>--the young man saw it all--</|quote|>“he has brought his poisonous cheque.” She gave it her less exasperated wonder. “One has heard of that, but only in the case of some particularly pushing dealer.” “And Mr. Bender, to do him justice, isn’t a particularly pushing dealer?” “No,” Lady Grace judiciously returned; “I think he’s not a dealer at all, but just what you a moment ago spoke of yourself as being.” He gave a glance at his possibly wild recent past. “A fond true lover?” “As we _all_ were in our lucky time--when we rum-aged Italy and Spain.” He appeared to recognise this complication--of Bender’s voracious integrity; but only to push it away. “Well, I don’t know whether the best lovers are, or ever were, the best buyers--but I feel to-day that they’re the best keepers.” The breath of his emphasis blew, as her eyes showed, on the girl’s dimmer fire. “It’s as if it were suddenly in the air that you’ve brought us some light or some help--that you may do something really good for us.” “Do you mean ‘mark down,’ as they say at the shops, all your greatest claims?” His chord of sensibility had trembled all gratefully into derision, and not to seem to swagger he had put his possible virtue at its lowest. This she beautifully showed that she beautifully saw. “I dare say that if you did even that we should have to take it from you.” “Then it may very well be,” he laughed back, “the reason why I feel, under my delightful, wonderful impression, a bit anxious and nervous and afraid.” “That shows,” she returned, “that you suspect us of horrors hiding from justice, and that your natural kindness yet shrinks from handing us over!” Well, clearly, she might put it as she liked--it all came back to his being more charmed. “Heaven knows I’ve wanted a chance at you, but what should you say if, having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?” “I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.” “Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do to him--and yet it’s not of my temptation to violence, after all, that I’m most afraid. It’s of the brutal mistake of one’s breaking--with one’s priggish, precious modernity and one’s possibly futile discriminations--into a _general_ situation or composition, as we say, so serene and sound and right. What should one do here, out of respect for that felicity, but hold one’s breath and walk on tip-toe? The very celebrations and consecrations, as you tell me, instinctively stay outside. I saw that all,” the young man went on with more weight in his ardour, “I saw it, while we talked in London, as your natural setting and your native air--and now ten minutes on the spot have made it sink into my spirit. You’re a case, all together, of enchanted harmony, of perfect equilibrium--there’s nothing to be done or said.” His friend listened to this eloquence with her eyes lowered, then raising them to meet, with a vague insistence, his own; after which something she had seen there appeared to determine in her another motion. She indicated the small landscape that Mr. Bender had, by Lady Sandgate’s report, rapidly studied and denounced. “For what do you take that little picture?” Hugh Crimble went over and looked. “Why, don’t you know? It’s a jolly little Vandermeer of Delft.” “It’s not a base imitation?” He looked again, but appeared at a loss. “An imitation of Vandermeer?” “Mr. Bender thinks of Cuyp.” It made the young man ring out: “Then Mr. Bender’s doubly dangerous!” “Singly is enough!” Lady Grace laughed. “But you see you _have_ to speak.” “Oh, to _him_, rather, after that--if you’ll just take me to him.” “Yes then,” she said; but even while she spoke Lord John, who had returned, by the terrace, from his quarter of an hour passed with Lady Imber, was there practically between them; a fact that she had to notice for her other visitor, to whom she was hastily reduced to naming him. His lordship eagerly made the most of this tribute of her attention, which had reached his ear; he treated it--her “Oh Lord John!” --as a direct greeting. “Ah Lady Grace! I came back particularly to find you.” She could but explain her predicament. “I was taking Mr. Crimble to see the pictures.” And then more pointedly, as her manner had been virtually an introduction of that gentleman, an introduction which Lord John’s mere
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are going out of our distracted country at a quicker rate than the very quickest--a century and more ago--of their ever coming in.” She was sharply struck, but was also unmistakably a person in whom stirred thought soon found connections and relations. “Well, I suppose our art-wealth came in--save for those awkward Elgin Marbles!--mainly by purchase too, didn’t it? We ourselves largely took it away from somewhere, didn’t we? We didn’t _grow_ it all.” “We grew some of the loveliest flowers--and on the whole to-day the most exposed.” He had been pulled up but for an instant. “Great Gainsboroughs and Sir Joshuas and Romneys and Sargents, great Turners and Constables and old Cromes and Brabazons, form, you’ll recognise, a vast garden in themselves. What have we ever for instance more successfully grown than your splendid ‘Duchess of Waterbridge’?” The girl showed herself ready at once to recognise under his eloquence anything he would. “Yes--it’s our Sir Joshua, I believe, that Mr. Bender has proclaimed himself particularly ‘after.’” It brought a cloud to her friend’s face. “Then he’ll be capable of anything.” “Of anything, no doubt, but of making my father capable--! And you haven’t at any rate,” she said, “so much as seen the picture.” “I beg your pardon--I saw it at the Guildhall three years ago; and am almost afraid of getting again, with a fresh sense of its beauty, a livelier sense of its danger.” Lady Grace, however, was so far from fear that she could even afford pity. “Poor baffled Mr. Bender!” “Oh, rich and confident Mr. Bender!” Crimble cried. “Once given his money, his confidence is a horrid engine in itself--there’s the rub! I dare say”<|quote|>--the young man saw it all--</|quote|>“he has brought his poisonous cheque.” She gave it her less exasperated wonder. “One has heard of that, but only in the case of some particularly pushing dealer.” “And Mr. Bender, to do him justice, isn’t a particularly pushing dealer?” “No,” Lady Grace judiciously returned; “I think he’s not a dealer at all, but just what you a moment ago spoke of yourself as being.” He gave a glance at his possibly wild recent past. “A fond true lover?” “As we _all_ were in our lucky time--when we rum-aged Italy and Spain.” He appeared to recognise this complication--of Bender’s voracious integrity; but only to push it away. “Well, I don’t know whether the best lovers are, or ever were, the best buyers--but I feel to-day that they’re the best keepers.” The breath of his emphasis blew, as her eyes showed, on the girl’s dimmer fire. “It’s as if it were suddenly in the air that you’ve brought us some light or some help--that you may do something really good for us.” “Do you mean ‘mark down,’ as they say at the shops, all your greatest claims?” His chord of sensibility had trembled all gratefully into derision, and not to seem to swagger he had put his possible virtue at its lowest. This she beautifully showed that she beautifully saw. “I dare say that if you did even that we should have to take it from you.” “Then it may very well be,” he laughed back, “the reason why I feel, under my delightful, wonderful impression, a bit anxious and nervous and afraid.” “That shows,” she returned, “that you suspect us of horrors hiding from justice, and that your natural kindness yet shrinks from handing us over!” Well, clearly, she might put it as she liked--it all came back to his being more charmed. “Heaven knows I’ve wanted a chance at you, but what should you say if, having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?” “I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.” “Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do to him--and yet it’s not of my temptation to violence, after all, that I’m most afraid. It’s of the brutal mistake of one’s breaking--with one’s priggish, precious modernity and one’s possibly futile discriminations--into a _general_ situation or composition, as we say, so serene and sound and right. What should one do here, out of respect for that felicity, but hold one’s breath and walk on tip-toe? The very celebrations and consecrations, as you tell me, instinctively stay outside. I saw that all,” the young man went on with more weight in his ardour, “I saw it, while we talked in London, as your natural setting and your native air--and now ten minutes on the spot have made it sink into my spirit. You’re a case, all together, of enchanted harmony, of perfect equilibrium--there’s nothing to be done or said.” His friend listened to this eloquence with her eyes lowered, then raising them to meet, with a vague insistence, his own; after which something she had seen there appeared to determine in her another motion. She indicated the small landscape that Mr. Bender had, by Lady Sandgate’s report, rapidly studied and denounced. “For what do you take that little picture?” Hugh
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The Outcry
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Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme.
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No speaker
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word we may frequently require."<|quote|>Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme.</|quote|>"We must have several word-signs,"
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"B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require."<|quote|>Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme.</|quote|>"We must have several word-signs," said Syme seriously "words that
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we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require."<|quote|>Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme.</|quote|>"We must have several word-signs," said Syme seriously "words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favourite word is coeval'. What's yours?" "Do stop playing the goat," said the Professor plaintively. "You don't know how serious this is." "Lush' too," said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously,
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said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require."<|quote|>Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme.</|quote|>"We must have several word-signs," said Syme seriously "words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favourite word is coeval'. What's yours?" "Do stop playing the goat," said the Professor plaintively. "You don't know how serious this is." "Lush' too," said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously, "we must have lush' word applied to grass, don't you know?" "Do you imagine," asked the Professor furiously, "that we are going to talk to Dr. Bull about grass?" "There are several ways in which the subject could be approached," said Syme reflectively, "and the word introduced without appearing forced.
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He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary's disease. Don't you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull." "And you think," said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require."<|quote|>Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme.</|quote|>"We must have several word-signs," said Syme seriously "words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favourite word is coeval'. What's yours?" "Do stop playing the goat," said the Professor plaintively. "You don't know how serious this is." "Lush' too," said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously, "we must have lush' word applied to grass, don't you know?" "Do you imagine," asked the Professor furiously, "that we are going to talk to Dr. Bull about grass?" "There are several ways in which the subject could be approached," said Syme reflectively, "and the word introduced without appearing forced. We might say, Dr. Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer...'" "Do you understand," said the other, "that this is a tragedy?" "Perfectly," replied Syme; "always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed" "Syme," said
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are a very clever fellow," he said, "it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face," and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary's disease. Don't you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull." "And you think," said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require."<|quote|>Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme.</|quote|>"We must have several word-signs," said Syme seriously "words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favourite word is coeval'. What's yours?" "Do stop playing the goat," said the Professor plaintively. "You don't know how serious this is." "Lush' too," said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously, "we must have lush' word applied to grass, don't you know?" "Do you imagine," asked the Professor furiously, "that we are going to talk to Dr. Bull about grass?" "There are several ways in which the subject could be approached," said Syme reflectively, "and the word introduced without appearing forced. We might say, Dr. Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer...'" "Do you understand," said the other, "that this is a tragedy?" "Perfectly," replied Syme; "always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed" "Syme," said his friend with a stern simplicity, "go to bed!" Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code. He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed. Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly collected his thoughts, threw off the bed-clothes, and stood up. It seemed to him in some curious way that all the safety and sociability of the night before fell with the bedclothes off him, and he stood up in an air of cold danger. He still felt an entire trust and loyalty towards his companion; but it was the trust between two men going to the scaffold. "Well," said Syme with a forced cheerfulness as he pulled on his trousers, "I dreamt of that alphabet of yours. Did it take you long to make it up?" The Professor made no answer, but gazed in front of him with eyes the colour of a wintry sea; so Syme repeated his question. "I say, did it take you long to invent all this? I'm considered good at these things, and it was a good hour's grind.
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sort of paralytic attitude, and cried in a high German accent," Yes, I am wanted by the oppressed of the world. You are arresting me on the charge of being the great anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "The policeman impassively consulted a paper in his hand," No, sir,' "he said civilly," at least, not exactly, sir. I am arresting you on the charge of not being the celebrated anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "This charge, if it was criminal at all, was certainly the lighter of the two, and I went along with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed. I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety. He offered me a good salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because" Syme laid down his knife and fork. "I know," he said, "because you talked to him in a dark room." Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass. CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES "Burgundy is a jolly thing," said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down. "You don't look as if it were," said Syme; "you drink it as if it were medicine." "You must excuse my manner," said the Professor dismally, "my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said, "it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face," and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary's disease. Don't you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull." "And you think," said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require."<|quote|>Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme.</|quote|>"We must have several word-signs," said Syme seriously "words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favourite word is coeval'. What's yours?" "Do stop playing the goat," said the Professor plaintively. "You don't know how serious this is." "Lush' too," said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously, "we must have lush' word applied to grass, don't you know?" "Do you imagine," asked the Professor furiously, "that we are going to talk to Dr. Bull about grass?" "There are several ways in which the subject could be approached," said Syme reflectively, "and the word introduced without appearing forced. We might say, Dr. Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer...'" "Do you understand," said the other, "that this is a tragedy?" "Perfectly," replied Syme; "always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed" "Syme," said his friend with a stern simplicity, "go to bed!" Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code. He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed. Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly collected his thoughts, threw off the bed-clothes, and stood up. It seemed to him in some curious way that all the safety and sociability of the night before fell with the bedclothes off him, and he stood up in an air of cold danger. He still felt an entire trust and loyalty towards his companion; but it was the trust between two men going to the scaffold. "Well," said Syme with a forced cheerfulness as he pulled on his trousers, "I dreamt of that alphabet of yours. Did it take you long to make it up?" The Professor made no answer, but gazed in front of him with eyes the colour of a wintry sea; so Syme repeated his question. "I say, did it take you long to invent all this? I'm considered good at these things, and it was a good hour's grind. Did you learn it all on the spot?" The Professor was silent; his eyes were wide open, and he wore a fixed but very small smile. "How long did it take you?" The Professor did not move. "Confound you, can't you answer?" called out Syme, in a sudden anger that had something like fear underneath. Whether or no the Professor could answer, he did not. Syme stood staring back at the stiff face like parchment and the blank, blue eyes. His first thought was that the Professor had gone mad, but his second thought was more frightful. After all, what did he know about this queer creature whom he had heedlessly accepted as a friend? What did he know, except that the man had been at the anarchist breakfast and had told him a ridiculous tale? How improbable it was that there should be another friend there beside Gogol! Was this man's silence a sensational way of declaring war? Was this adamantine stare after all only the awful sneer of some threefold traitor, who had turned for the last time? He stood and strained his ears in this heartless silence. He almost fancied he could hear dynamiters come to capture him shifting softly in the corridor outside. Then his eye strayed downwards, and he burst out laughing. Though the Professor himself stood there as voiceless as a statue, his five dumb fingers were dancing alive upon the dead table. Syme watched the twinkling movements of the talking hand, and read clearly the message "I will only talk like this. We must get used to it." He rapped out the answer with the impatience of relief "All right. Let's get out to breakfast." They took their hats and sticks in silence; but as Syme took his sword-stick, he held it hard. They paused for a few minutes only to stuff down coffee and coarse thick sandwiches at a coffee stall, and then made their way across the river, which under the grey and growing light looked as desolate as Acheron. They reached the bottom of the huge block of buildings which they had seen from across the river, and began in silence to mount the naked and numberless stone steps, only pausing now and then to make short remarks on the rail of the banisters. At about every other flight they passed a window; each window showed them a pale and
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piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary's disease. Don't you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull." "And you think," said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require."<|quote|>Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme.</|quote|>"We must have several word-signs," said Syme seriously "words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favourite word is coeval'. What's yours?" "Do stop playing the goat," said the Professor plaintively. "You don't know how serious this is." "Lush' too," said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously, "we must have lush' word applied to grass, don't you know?" "Do you imagine," asked the Professor furiously, "that we are going to talk to Dr. Bull about grass?" "There are several ways in which the subject could be approached," said Syme reflectively, "and the word introduced without appearing forced. We might say, Dr. Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer...'" "Do you understand," said the other, "that this is a tragedy?" "Perfectly," replied Syme; "always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed" "Syme," said his friend with a stern simplicity, "go to bed!" Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code. He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed. Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly collected his thoughts, threw off the bed-clothes, and stood up. It seemed to him in some curious way that all the safety and sociability of the night before fell with the bedclothes off him, and he stood up in an air of cold danger. He still felt an entire trust and loyalty towards his companion; but it was the trust between two men going to the scaffold. "Well," said Syme with a forced cheerfulness as he pulled on his trousers, "I dreamt of that alphabet of yours. Did it take you long to make it up?" The Professor made no answer, but gazed in front of him with eyes the colour of a wintry sea; so Syme repeated his question. "I say, did it take you long to invent all this? I'm considered good at these things, and it was a good hour's grind. Did you learn it all on the spot?" The Professor was silent; his eyes were wide open, and he wore a
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The Man Who Was Thursday
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"Thank you."
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Lucy
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enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse."<|quote|>"Thank you."</|quote|>At that moment Mr. Beebe
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"I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse."<|quote|>"Thank you."</|quote|>At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from church. His
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it wasn't," said Lucy, clasping her hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it came to the point? "I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope--it isn't because George spoke that you are both going?" "No." "I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse."<|quote|>"Thank you."</|quote|>At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from church. His cassock was covered with rain. "That's all right," he said kindly. "I counted on you two keeping each other company. It's pouring again. The entire congregation, which consists of your cousin, your mother, and my mother, stands waiting in the
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with trembling lips. "But you are, and there's a look of George about you. And what were you saying about going abroad?" She was silent. "Greece" "--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--" "Greece; but you were to be married this year, I thought." "Not till January, it wasn't," said Lucy, clasping her hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it came to the point? "I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope--it isn't because George spoke that you are both going?" "No." "I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse."<|quote|>"Thank you."</|quote|>At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from church. His cassock was covered with rain. "That's all right," he said kindly. "I counted on you two keeping each other company. It's pouring again. The entire congregation, which consists of your cousin, your mother, and my mother, stands waiting in the church, till the carriage fetches it. Did Powell go round?" "I think so; I'll see." "No--of course, I'll see. How are the Miss Alans?" "Very well, thank you." "Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Greece?" "I--I did." "Don't you think it very plucky of her, Mr. Emerson, to undertake the
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visitors on every side; they were piled on the tables, they pressed against the very ceiling. To Lucy who could not see that Mr. Emerson was profoundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebe chiefly by his acknowledgment of passion--it seemed dreadful that the old man should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be dependent on the bounty of a clergyman. More certain than ever that she was tired, he offered her his chair. "No, please sit still. I think I will sit in the carriage." "Miss Honeychurch, you do sound tired." "Not a bit," said Lucy, with trembling lips. "But you are, and there's a look of George about you. And what were you saying about going abroad?" She was silent. "Greece" "--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--" "Greece; but you were to be married this year, I thought." "Not till January, it wasn't," said Lucy, clasping her hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it came to the point? "I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope--it isn't because George spoke that you are both going?" "No." "I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse."<|quote|>"Thank you."</|quote|>At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from church. His cassock was covered with rain. "That's all right," he said kindly. "I counted on you two keeping each other company. It's pouring again. The entire congregation, which consists of your cousin, your mother, and my mother, stands waiting in the church, till the carriage fetches it. Did Powell go round?" "I think so; I'll see." "No--of course, I'll see. How are the Miss Alans?" "Very well, thank you." "Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Greece?" "I--I did." "Don't you think it very plucky of her, Mr. Emerson, to undertake the two Miss Alans? Now, Miss Honeychurch, go back--keep warm. I think three is such a courageous number to go travelling." And he hurried off to the stables. "He is not going," she said hoarsely. "I made a slip. Mr. Vyse does stop behind in England." Somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. To George, to Cecil, she would have lied again; but he seemed so near the end of things, so dignified in his approach to the gulf, of which he gave one account, and the books that surrounded him another, so mild to the rough paths that
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comfortable with a fire." "Yes, but you won't go back to London. It's absurd." "I must be with George; I must make him care to live, and down here he can't. He says the thought of seeing you and of hearing about you--I am not justifying him: I am only saying what has happened." "Oh, Mr. Emerson" "--she took hold of his hand--" "you mustn't. I've been bother enough to the world by now. I can't have you moving out of your house when you like it, and perhaps losing money through it--all on my account. You must stop! I am just going to Greece." "All the way to Greece?" Her manner altered. "To Greece?" "So you must stop. You won't talk about this business, I know. I can trust you both." "Certainly you can. We either have you in our lives, or leave you to the life that you have chosen." "I shouldn't want--" "I suppose Mr. Vyse is very angry with George? No, it was wrong of George to try. We have pushed our beliefs too far. I fancy that we deserve sorrow." She looked at the books again--black, brown, and that acrid theological blue. They surrounded the visitors on every side; they were piled on the tables, they pressed against the very ceiling. To Lucy who could not see that Mr. Emerson was profoundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebe chiefly by his acknowledgment of passion--it seemed dreadful that the old man should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be dependent on the bounty of a clergyman. More certain than ever that she was tired, he offered her his chair. "No, please sit still. I think I will sit in the carriage." "Miss Honeychurch, you do sound tired." "Not a bit," said Lucy, with trembling lips. "But you are, and there's a look of George about you. And what were you saying about going abroad?" She was silent. "Greece" "--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--" "Greece; but you were to be married this year, I thought." "Not till January, it wasn't," said Lucy, clasping her hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it came to the point? "I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope--it isn't because George spoke that you are both going?" "No." "I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse."<|quote|>"Thank you."</|quote|>At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from church. His cassock was covered with rain. "That's all right," he said kindly. "I counted on you two keeping each other company. It's pouring again. The entire congregation, which consists of your cousin, your mother, and my mother, stands waiting in the church, till the carriage fetches it. Did Powell go round?" "I think so; I'll see." "No--of course, I'll see. How are the Miss Alans?" "Very well, thank you." "Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Greece?" "I--I did." "Don't you think it very plucky of her, Mr. Emerson, to undertake the two Miss Alans? Now, Miss Honeychurch, go back--keep warm. I think three is such a courageous number to go travelling." And he hurried off to the stables. "He is not going," she said hoarsely. "I made a slip. Mr. Vyse does stop behind in England." Somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. To George, to Cecil, she would have lied again; but he seemed so near the end of things, so dignified in his approach to the gulf, of which he gave one account, and the books that surrounded him another, so mild to the rough paths that he had traversed, that the true chivalry--not the worn-out chivalry of sex, but the true chivalry that all the young may show to all the old--awoke in her, and, at whatever risk, she told him that Cecil was not her companion to Greece. And she spoke so seriously that the risk became a certainty, and he, lifting his eyes, said: "You are leaving him? You are leaving the man you love?" "I--I had to." "Why, Miss Honeychurch, why?" Terror came over her, and she lied again. She made the long, convincing speech that she had made to Mr. Beebe, and intended to make to the world when she announced that her engagement was no more. He heard her in silence, and then said: "My dear, I am worried about you. It seems to me" "--dreamily; she was not alarmed--" "that you are in a muddle." She shook her head. "Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror--on the things that I might have avoided. We can help
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the darkness for ever?" "I don't know," gasped Lucy. "I don't understand this sort of thing. I was not meant to understand it." "But Mr. Eager--he came when I was out, and acted according to his principles. I don't blame him or any one... but by the time George was well she was ill. He made her think about sin, and she went under thinking about it." It was thus that Mr. Emerson had murdered his wife in the sight of God. "Oh, how terrible!" said Lucy, forgetting her own affairs at last. "He was not baptized," said the old man. "I did hold firm." And he looked with unwavering eyes at the rows of books, as if--at what cost!--he had won a victory over them. "My boy shall go back to the earth untouched." She asked whether young Mr. Emerson was ill. "Oh--last Sunday." He started into the present. "George last Sunday--no, not ill: just gone under. He is never ill. But he is his mother's son. Her eyes were his, and she had that forehead that I think so beautiful, and he will not think it worth while to live. It was always touch and go. He will live; but he will not think it worth while to live. He will never think anything worth while. You remember that church at Florence?" Lucy did remember, and how she had suggested that George should collect postage stamps. "After you left Florence--horrible. Then we took the house here, and he goes bathing with your brother, and became better. You saw him bathing?" "I am so sorry, but it is no good discussing this affair. I am deeply sorry about it." "Then there came something about a novel. I didn't follow it at all; I had to hear so much, and he minded telling me; he finds me too old. Ah, well, one must have failures. George comes down to-morrow, and takes me up to his London rooms. He can't bear to be about here, and I must be where he is." "Mr. Emerson," cried the girl, "don't leave at least, not on my account. I am going to Greece. Don't leave your comfortable house." It was the first time her voice had been kind and he smiled. "How good everyone is! And look at Mr. Beebe housing me--came over this morning and heard I was going! Here I am so comfortable with a fire." "Yes, but you won't go back to London. It's absurd." "I must be with George; I must make him care to live, and down here he can't. He says the thought of seeing you and of hearing about you--I am not justifying him: I am only saying what has happened." "Oh, Mr. Emerson" "--she took hold of his hand--" "you mustn't. I've been bother enough to the world by now. I can't have you moving out of your house when you like it, and perhaps losing money through it--all on my account. You must stop! I am just going to Greece." "All the way to Greece?" Her manner altered. "To Greece?" "So you must stop. You won't talk about this business, I know. I can trust you both." "Certainly you can. We either have you in our lives, or leave you to the life that you have chosen." "I shouldn't want--" "I suppose Mr. Vyse is very angry with George? No, it was wrong of George to try. We have pushed our beliefs too far. I fancy that we deserve sorrow." She looked at the books again--black, brown, and that acrid theological blue. They surrounded the visitors on every side; they were piled on the tables, they pressed against the very ceiling. To Lucy who could not see that Mr. Emerson was profoundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebe chiefly by his acknowledgment of passion--it seemed dreadful that the old man should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be dependent on the bounty of a clergyman. More certain than ever that she was tired, he offered her his chair. "No, please sit still. I think I will sit in the carriage." "Miss Honeychurch, you do sound tired." "Not a bit," said Lucy, with trembling lips. "But you are, and there's a look of George about you. And what were you saying about going abroad?" She was silent. "Greece" "--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--" "Greece; but you were to be married this year, I thought." "Not till January, it wasn't," said Lucy, clasping her hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it came to the point? "I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope--it isn't because George spoke that you are both going?" "No." "I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse."<|quote|>"Thank you."</|quote|>At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from church. His cassock was covered with rain. "That's all right," he said kindly. "I counted on you two keeping each other company. It's pouring again. The entire congregation, which consists of your cousin, your mother, and my mother, stands waiting in the church, till the carriage fetches it. Did Powell go round?" "I think so; I'll see." "No--of course, I'll see. How are the Miss Alans?" "Very well, thank you." "Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Greece?" "I--I did." "Don't you think it very plucky of her, Mr. Emerson, to undertake the two Miss Alans? Now, Miss Honeychurch, go back--keep warm. I think three is such a courageous number to go travelling." And he hurried off to the stables. "He is not going," she said hoarsely. "I made a slip. Mr. Vyse does stop behind in England." Somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. To George, to Cecil, she would have lied again; but he seemed so near the end of things, so dignified in his approach to the gulf, of which he gave one account, and the books that surrounded him another, so mild to the rough paths that he had traversed, that the true chivalry--not the worn-out chivalry of sex, but the true chivalry that all the young may show to all the old--awoke in her, and, at whatever risk, she told him that Cecil was not her companion to Greece. And she spoke so seriously that the risk became a certainty, and he, lifting his eyes, said: "You are leaving him? You are leaving the man you love?" "I--I had to." "Why, Miss Honeychurch, why?" Terror came over her, and she lied again. She made the long, convincing speech that she had made to Mr. Beebe, and intended to make to the world when she announced that her engagement was no more. He heard her in silence, and then said: "My dear, I am worried about you. It seems to me" "--dreamily; she was not alarmed--" "that you are in a muddle." She shook her head. "Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror--on the things that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. I used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine," 'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.' "I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along--especially the function of Love." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!" And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like waves from the open sea. "But you do," he went on, not waiting for contradiction. "You love the boy body and soul, plainly, directly, as he loves you, and no other word expresses it. You won't marry the other man for his sake." "How dare you!" gasped Lucy, with the roaring of waters in her ears. "Oh, how like a man!--I mean, to suppose that a woman is always thinking about a man." "But you are." She summoned physical disgust. "You're shocked, but I mean to shock you. It's the only hope at times. I can reach you no other way. You must marry, or your life will be wasted. You have gone too far to retreat. I have no time for the tenderness, and the comradeship, and the poetry, and the things that really matter, and for which you marry. I know that, with George, you will find them, and that you love him. Then be his wife. He is already part of you. Though you fly to Greece, and never see him again, or forget his very name, George will work in your thoughts till you die. It isn't possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are
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again--black, brown, and that acrid theological blue. They surrounded the visitors on every side; they were piled on the tables, they pressed against the very ceiling. To Lucy who could not see that Mr. Emerson was profoundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebe chiefly by his acknowledgment of passion--it seemed dreadful that the old man should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be dependent on the bounty of a clergyman. More certain than ever that she was tired, he offered her his chair. "No, please sit still. I think I will sit in the carriage." "Miss Honeychurch, you do sound tired." "Not a bit," said Lucy, with trembling lips. "But you are, and there's a look of George about you. And what were you saying about going abroad?" She was silent. "Greece" "--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--" "Greece; but you were to be married this year, I thought." "Not till January, it wasn't," said Lucy, clasping her hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it came to the point? "I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope--it isn't because George spoke that you are both going?" "No." "I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse."<|quote|>"Thank you."</|quote|>At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from church. His cassock was covered with rain. "That's all right," he said kindly. "I counted on you two keeping each other company. It's pouring again. The entire congregation, which consists of your cousin, your mother, and my mother, stands waiting in the church, till the carriage fetches it. Did Powell go round?" "I think so; I'll see." "No--of course, I'll see. How are the Miss Alans?" "Very well, thank you." "Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Greece?" "I--I did." "Don't you think it very plucky of her, Mr. Emerson, to undertake the two Miss Alans? Now, Miss Honeychurch, go back--keep warm. I think three is such a courageous number to go travelling." And he hurried off to the stables. "He is not going," she said hoarsely. "I made a slip. Mr. Vyse does stop behind in England." Somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. To George, to Cecil, she would have lied again; but he seemed so near the end of things, so dignified in his approach to the gulf, of which he gave one account, and the books that surrounded him another, so mild to the rough paths that he had traversed, that the true chivalry--not the worn-out chivalry of sex, but the true chivalry that all the young may show to all the old--awoke in her, and, at whatever risk, she told him that Cecil was not her companion to Greece. And she spoke so seriously that the risk became a certainty, and he, lifting his eyes, said: "You are leaving him? You are leaving the man you love?" "I--I had to." "Why, Miss Honeychurch, why?" Terror came over her, and she lied again. She made the long, convincing speech that she had made to Mr. Beebe, and intended to make to the world when she announced that her engagement was no more. He heard her in silence, and then said: "My dear, I am worried about you. It seems to me" "--dreamily; she was not alarmed--" "that you are in a muddle." She shook her head. "Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror--on the things that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. I used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine," 'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.' "I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along--especially the function of Love." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!" And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like waves from
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A Room With A View
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Next morning Beaver tipped both butler and footman ten shillings each. Tony, still feeling rather guilty in spite of Brenda's heroic coping, came down to breakfast to see his guest off. Afterwards he went back to Guinevere.
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No speaker
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may be up this week."<|quote|>Next morning Beaver tipped both butler and footman ten shillings each. Tony, still feeling rather guilty in spite of Brenda's heroic coping, came down to breakfast to see his guest off. Afterwards he went back to Guinevere.</|quote|>"Well, that's the last of
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you come to London." "I may be up this week."<|quote|>Next morning Beaver tipped both butler and footman ten shillings each. Tony, still feeling rather guilty in spite of Brenda's heroic coping, came down to breakfast to see his guest off. Afterwards he went back to Guinevere.</|quote|>"Well, that's the last of _him_. You were superb, darling.
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had told him the story at tea. Brenda guessed it quite soon. Then they played "Analogies" about their friends and finally about each other. They said good-bye that night because Beaver was catching the 9.10. "Do let me know when you come to London." "I may be up this week."<|quote|>Next morning Beaver tipped both butler and footman ten shillings each. Tony, still feeling rather guilty in spite of Brenda's heroic coping, came down to breakfast to see his guest off. Afterwards he went back to Guinevere.</|quote|>"Well, that's the last of _him_. You were superb, darling. I'm sure he's gone back thinking that you're mad about him." "Oh, he wasn't too awful." "No. I must say he took a very intelligent interest when we went round the house." * * * * * Mrs Beaver was
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to-morrow." "Oh." After dinner Tony sat and read the papers. Brenda and Beaver were on the sofa playing games together. They did a cross-word. Beaver said, "I've thought of something" ", and Brenda asked him questions to find what it was. He was thinking of the rum Peppermint drank. John had told him the story at tea. Brenda guessed it quite soon. Then they played "Analogies" about their friends and finally about each other. They said good-bye that night because Beaver was catching the 9.10. "Do let me know when you come to London." "I may be up this week."<|quote|>Next morning Beaver tipped both butler and footman ten shillings each. Tony, still feeling rather guilty in spite of Brenda's heroic coping, came down to breakfast to see his guest off. Afterwards he went back to Guinevere.</|quote|>"Well, that's the last of _him_. You were superb, darling. I'm sure he's gone back thinking that you're mad about him." "Oh, he wasn't too awful." "No. I must say he took a very intelligent interest when we went round the house." * * * * * Mrs Beaver was eating her yoghourt when Beaver reached home. "Who was there?" "No one." "No one? My poor boy." "They weren't expecting me. It was awful at first but got better. They were just as you said. She's very charming. He scarcely spoke." "I wish I saw her sometimes." "She talked of
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feel so badly about it if it were a really lovely house--like my home for instance... but of course Tony's been brought up here and sees it all differently..." Tony joined them for tea. "I don't want to seem inhospitable, but if you're going to catch that train, you ought really to be getting ready." "That's all right. I've persuaded him to stay on till to-morrow." "If you're sure you don't..." "Splendid. I _am_ glad. It's beastly going up at this time, particularly by that train." When John came in he said, "I thought Mr Beaver was going." "Not till to-morrow." "Oh." After dinner Tony sat and read the papers. Brenda and Beaver were on the sofa playing games together. They did a cross-word. Beaver said, "I've thought of something" ", and Brenda asked him questions to find what it was. He was thinking of the rum Peppermint drank. John had told him the story at tea. Brenda guessed it quite soon. Then they played "Analogies" about their friends and finally about each other. They said good-bye that night because Beaver was catching the 9.10. "Do let me know when you come to London." "I may be up this week."<|quote|>Next morning Beaver tipped both butler and footman ten shillings each. Tony, still feeling rather guilty in spite of Brenda's heroic coping, came down to breakfast to see his guest off. Afterwards he went back to Guinevere.</|quote|>"Well, that's the last of _him_. You were superb, darling. I'm sure he's gone back thinking that you're mad about him." "Oh, he wasn't too awful." "No. I must say he took a very intelligent interest when we went round the house." * * * * * Mrs Beaver was eating her yoghourt when Beaver reached home. "Who was there?" "No one." "No one? My poor boy." "They weren't expecting me. It was awful at first but got better. They were just as you said. She's very charming. He scarcely spoke." "I wish I saw her sometimes." "She talked of taking a flat in London." "_Did_ she?" The conversion of stables and garages was an important part of Mrs Beaver's business. "What does she want?" "Something quite simple. Two rooms and a bath. But it's all quite vague. She hasn't said anything to Tony yet." "I am sure I shall be able to find her something." [II] If Brenda had to go to London for a day's shopping, hair-cutting, or bone-setting (a recreation she particularly enjoyed), she went on Wednesday, because the tickets on that day were half the usual price. She left at eight in the morning and got
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know." "Well, a lot of the things are very fine." "Yes, the _things_ are all right, I suppose." "But don't you like the house?" "Me? I _detest_ it... at least I don't mean that really, but I do wish sometimes that it wasn't _all_, every bit of it, so appallingly ugly. Only I'd die rather than say that to Tony. We could never live anywhere else, of course. He's crazy about the place... It's funny. None of us minded very much when my brother Reggie sold _our_ house--and that was built by Vanbrugh, you know... I suppose we're lucky to be able to afford to keep it up at all. Do you know how much it costs just to live here? We should be quite rich if it wasn't for that. As it is we support fifteen servants indoors, besides gardeners and carpenters and a night-watchman and all the people at the farm and odd little men constantly popping in to wind the clocks and cook the accounts and clean the moat, while Tony and I have to fuss about whether it's cheaper to take a car up to London for the night or buy an excursion ticket... I shouldn't feel so badly about it if it were a really lovely house--like my home for instance... but of course Tony's been brought up here and sees it all differently..." Tony joined them for tea. "I don't want to seem inhospitable, but if you're going to catch that train, you ought really to be getting ready." "That's all right. I've persuaded him to stay on till to-morrow." "If you're sure you don't..." "Splendid. I _am_ glad. It's beastly going up at this time, particularly by that train." When John came in he said, "I thought Mr Beaver was going." "Not till to-morrow." "Oh." After dinner Tony sat and read the papers. Brenda and Beaver were on the sofa playing games together. They did a cross-word. Beaver said, "I've thought of something" ", and Brenda asked him questions to find what it was. He was thinking of the rum Peppermint drank. John had told him the story at tea. Brenda guessed it quite soon. Then they played "Analogies" about their friends and finally about each other. They said good-bye that night because Beaver was catching the 9.10. "Do let me know when you come to London." "I may be up this week."<|quote|>Next morning Beaver tipped both butler and footman ten shillings each. Tony, still feeling rather guilty in spite of Brenda's heroic coping, came down to breakfast to see his guest off. Afterwards he went back to Guinevere.</|quote|>"Well, that's the last of _him_. You were superb, darling. I'm sure he's gone back thinking that you're mad about him." "Oh, he wasn't too awful." "No. I must say he took a very intelligent interest when we went round the house." * * * * * Mrs Beaver was eating her yoghourt when Beaver reached home. "Who was there?" "No one." "No one? My poor boy." "They weren't expecting me. It was awful at first but got better. They were just as you said. She's very charming. He scarcely spoke." "I wish I saw her sometimes." "She talked of taking a flat in London." "_Did_ she?" The conversion of stables and garages was an important part of Mrs Beaver's business. "What does she want?" "Something quite simple. Two rooms and a bath. But it's all quite vague. She hasn't said anything to Tony yet." "I am sure I shall be able to find her something." [II] If Brenda had to go to London for a day's shopping, hair-cutting, or bone-setting (a recreation she particularly enjoyed), she went on Wednesday, because the tickets on that day were half the usual price. She left at eight in the morning and got home soon after ten at night. She travelled third-class and the carriages were often full, because other wives on the line took advantage of the cheap fare. She usually spent the day with her younger sister, Marjorie, who was married to the prospective Conservative candidate for a South London constituency of strong Labour sympathies. She was more solid than Brenda. The newspapers used always to refer to them as "the lovely Rex sisters". Marjorie and Allan were hard up and popular; they could not afford a baby; they lived in a little house in the neighbourhood of Portman Square, very convenient for Paddington Station. They had a Pekingese dog named Djinn. Brenda had come on impulse, leaving the butler to ring up and tell Marjorie of her arrival. She emerged from the train, after two hours and a quarter in a carriage crowded five a side, looking as fresh and fragile as if she had that moment left a circle of masseuses, chiropodists, manicurists and coiffeuses in an hotel suite. It was an aptitude she had, never to look half-finished; when she was really exhausted, as she often was on her return to Hetton after these days in London, she
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I quite enjoy coping--in fact I'm bitching him rather." "So I saw. Well, I'll look after him this afternoon and he's going this evening." "Is he? I'll be quite sorry. You know that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it--making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides, Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me," said Tony. After luncheon Tony said, "Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now--my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff--but I think it's good of its kind." It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in the art of being shown over houses; he had been brought up to it in fact, ever since he had begun to accompany his mother, whose hobby it had always been, and later, with changing circumstances, profession. He made apt and appreciative comments and greatly enhanced the pleasure Tony always took in exposing his treasures. They saw it all: the shuttered drawing-room, like a school speech hall, the cloistral passages, the dark inner courtyard, the chapel where, until Tony's succession, family prayers had been daily read to the assembled household, the plate-room and estate office, the bedrooms and attics, the water-tank concealed among the battlements. They climbed the spiral staircase into the works of the clock and waited to see it strike half-past three. Thence they descended with ringing ears to the collections--enamel, ivories, seals, snuff-boxes, china, ormulu, cloisonn?; they paused before each picture in the oak gallery and discussed its associations; they took out the more remarkable folios in the library and examined prints of the original buildings, manuscript account-books of the old Abbey, travel journals of Tony's ancestors. At intervals Beaver would say, "The So-and-so's have got one rather like that at Such-and-such a place" ", and Tony would say, "Yes, I've seen it but I think mine is the earlier." Eventually they came back to the smoking-room and Tony left Beaver to Brenda. She was stitching away at the petit-point, hunched in an armchair. "Well," she asked, without looking up from her needlework, "what did you think of it?" "Magnificent." "You don't have to say that to me, you know." "Well, a lot of the things are very fine." "Yes, the _things_ are all right, I suppose." "But don't you like the house?" "Me? I _detest_ it... at least I don't mean that really, but I do wish sometimes that it wasn't _all_, every bit of it, so appallingly ugly. Only I'd die rather than say that to Tony. We could never live anywhere else, of course. He's crazy about the place... It's funny. None of us minded very much when my brother Reggie sold _our_ house--and that was built by Vanbrugh, you know... I suppose we're lucky to be able to afford to keep it up at all. Do you know how much it costs just to live here? We should be quite rich if it wasn't for that. As it is we support fifteen servants indoors, besides gardeners and carpenters and a night-watchman and all the people at the farm and odd little men constantly popping in to wind the clocks and cook the accounts and clean the moat, while Tony and I have to fuss about whether it's cheaper to take a car up to London for the night or buy an excursion ticket... I shouldn't feel so badly about it if it were a really lovely house--like my home for instance... but of course Tony's been brought up here and sees it all differently..." Tony joined them for tea. "I don't want to seem inhospitable, but if you're going to catch that train, you ought really to be getting ready." "That's all right. I've persuaded him to stay on till to-morrow." "If you're sure you don't..." "Splendid. I _am_ glad. It's beastly going up at this time, particularly by that train." When John came in he said, "I thought Mr Beaver was going." "Not till to-morrow." "Oh." After dinner Tony sat and read the papers. Brenda and Beaver were on the sofa playing games together. They did a cross-word. Beaver said, "I've thought of something" ", and Brenda asked him questions to find what it was. He was thinking of the rum Peppermint drank. John had told him the story at tea. Brenda guessed it quite soon. Then they played "Analogies" about their friends and finally about each other. They said good-bye that night because Beaver was catching the 9.10. "Do let me know when you come to London." "I may be up this week."<|quote|>Next morning Beaver tipped both butler and footman ten shillings each. Tony, still feeling rather guilty in spite of Brenda's heroic coping, came down to breakfast to see his guest off. Afterwards he went back to Guinevere.</|quote|>"Well, that's the last of _him_. You were superb, darling. I'm sure he's gone back thinking that you're mad about him." "Oh, he wasn't too awful." "No. I must say he took a very intelligent interest when we went round the house." * * * * * Mrs Beaver was eating her yoghourt when Beaver reached home. "Who was there?" "No one." "No one? My poor boy." "They weren't expecting me. It was awful at first but got better. They were just as you said. She's very charming. He scarcely spoke." "I wish I saw her sometimes." "She talked of taking a flat in London." "_Did_ she?" The conversion of stables and garages was an important part of Mrs Beaver's business. "What does she want?" "Something quite simple. Two rooms and a bath. But it's all quite vague. She hasn't said anything to Tony yet." "I am sure I shall be able to find her something." [II] If Brenda had to go to London for a day's shopping, hair-cutting, or bone-setting (a recreation she particularly enjoyed), she went on Wednesday, because the tickets on that day were half the usual price. She left at eight in the morning and got home soon after ten at night. She travelled third-class and the carriages were often full, because other wives on the line took advantage of the cheap fare. She usually spent the day with her younger sister, Marjorie, who was married to the prospective Conservative candidate for a South London constituency of strong Labour sympathies. She was more solid than Brenda. The newspapers used always to refer to them as "the lovely Rex sisters". Marjorie and Allan were hard up and popular; they could not afford a baby; they lived in a little house in the neighbourhood of Portman Square, very convenient for Paddington Station. They had a Pekingese dog named Djinn. Brenda had come on impulse, leaving the butler to ring up and tell Marjorie of her arrival. She emerged from the train, after two hours and a quarter in a carriage crowded five a side, looking as fresh and fragile as if she had that moment left a circle of masseuses, chiropodists, manicurists and coiffeuses in an hotel suite. It was an aptitude she had, never to look half-finished; when she was really exhausted, as she often was on her return to Hetton after these days in London, she went completely to pieces quite suddenly and became a waif; then she would sit over the fire with a cup of bread and milk, hardly alive, until Tony took her up to bed. Marjorie had her hat on and was sitting at her writing-table puzzling over her cheque-book and a sheaf of bills. "Darling, what _does_ the country do to you? You look like a thousand pounds. Where _did_ you get that suit?" "I don't know. Some shop." "What's the news at Hetton?" "All the same. Tony madly feudal. John Andrew cursing like a stable boy." "And you?" "Me? Oh, I'm all right." "Who's been to stay?" "No one. We had a friend of Tony's called Mr Beaver last week-end." "John Beaver?... How very odd. I shouldn't have thought he was at all Tony's ticket." "He wasn't... What's he like?" "I hardly know him. I see him at Margot's sometimes. He's a great one for going everywhere." "I thought he was rather pathetic." "Oh, he's _pathetic_ all right. D'you fancy him?" "Heavens, no." They took Djinn for a walk in the park. He was a very unrepaying dog who never looked about him and had to be dragged along by his harness; they took him to Watts's _Physical Energy_; when loosed he stood perfectly still, gazing moodily at the asphalt until they turned towards home; only once did he show any sign of emotion, when he snapped at a small child who attempted to stroke him; later he got lost and was found a few yards away, sitting under a chair and staring at a shred of waste paper. He was quite colourless, with pink nose and lips and pink circles of bald flesh round his eyes. "I don't believe he has a spark of human feeling," said Marjorie. They talked about Mr Cruttwell, their bone-setter, and Marjorie's new treatment. "He's never done that to me," said Brenda enviously; presently, "What do you suppose is Mr Beaver's sex-life?" "I shouldn't know. Pretty dim, I imagine... You _do_ fancy him?" "Oh well," said Brenda, "I don't see such a lot of young men..." They left the dog at home and did some shopping--towels for the nursery, pickled peaches, a clock for one of the lodgekeepers who was celebrating his sixtieth year of service at Hetton, a pot of Morecambe Bay shrimps as a surprise for Tony; they made an appointment with
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petit-point, hunched in an armchair. "Well," she asked, without looking up from her needlework, "what did you think of it?" "Magnificent." "You don't have to say that to me, you know." "Well, a lot of the things are very fine." "Yes, the _things_ are all right, I suppose." "But don't you like the house?" "Me? I _detest_ it... at least I don't mean that really, but I do wish sometimes that it wasn't _all_, every bit of it, so appallingly ugly. Only I'd die rather than say that to Tony. We could never live anywhere else, of course. He's crazy about the place... It's funny. None of us minded very much when my brother Reggie sold _our_ house--and that was built by Vanbrugh, you know... I suppose we're lucky to be able to afford to keep it up at all. Do you know how much it costs just to live here? We should be quite rich if it wasn't for that. As it is we support fifteen servants indoors, besides gardeners and carpenters and a night-watchman and all the people at the farm and odd little men constantly popping in to wind the clocks and cook the accounts and clean the moat, while Tony and I have to fuss about whether it's cheaper to take a car up to London for the night or buy an excursion ticket... I shouldn't feel so badly about it if it were a really lovely house--like my home for instance... but of course Tony's been brought up here and sees it all differently..." Tony joined them for tea. "I don't want to seem inhospitable, but if you're going to catch that train, you ought really to be getting ready." "That's all right. I've persuaded him to stay on till to-morrow." "If you're sure you don't..." "Splendid. I _am_ glad. It's beastly going up at this time, particularly by that train." When John came in he said, "I thought Mr Beaver was going." "Not till to-morrow." "Oh." After dinner Tony sat and read the papers. Brenda and Beaver were on the sofa playing games together. They did a cross-word. Beaver said, "I've thought of something" ", and Brenda asked him questions to find what it was. He was thinking of the rum Peppermint drank. John had told him the story at tea. Brenda guessed it quite soon. Then they played "Analogies" about their friends and finally about each other. They said good-bye that night because Beaver was catching the 9.10. "Do let me know when you come to London." "I may be up this week."<|quote|>Next morning Beaver tipped both butler and footman ten shillings each. Tony, still feeling rather guilty in spite of Brenda's heroic coping, came down to breakfast to see his guest off. Afterwards he went back to Guinevere.</|quote|>"Well, that's the last of _him_. You were superb, darling. I'm sure he's gone back thinking that you're mad about him." "Oh, he wasn't too awful." "No. I must say he took a very intelligent interest when we went round the house." * * * * * Mrs Beaver was eating her yoghourt when Beaver reached home. "Who was there?" "No one." "No one? My poor boy." "They weren't expecting me. It was awful at first but got better. They were just as you said. She's very charming. He scarcely spoke." "I wish I saw her sometimes." "She talked of taking a flat in London." "_Did_ she?" The conversion of stables and garages was an important part of Mrs Beaver's business. "What does she want?" "Something quite simple. Two rooms and a bath. But it's all quite vague. She hasn't said anything to Tony yet." "I am sure I shall be able to find her something." [II] If Brenda had to go to London for a day's shopping, hair-cutting, or bone-setting (a recreation she particularly enjoyed), she went on Wednesday, because the tickets on that day were half the usual price. She left at eight in the morning and got home soon after ten at night. She travelled third-class and the carriages were often full, because other wives on the line took advantage of the cheap
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A Handful Of Dust
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said Alice, timidly;
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No speaker
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"Not _quite_ right, I'm afraid,"<|quote|>said Alice, timidly;</|quote|>"some of the words have
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said right," said the Caterpillar. "Not _quite_ right, I'm afraid,"<|quote|>said Alice, timidly;</|quote|>"some of the words have got altered." "It is wrong
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awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!" "That is not said right," said the Caterpillar. "Not _quite_ right, I'm afraid,"<|quote|>said Alice, timidly;</|quote|>"some of the words have got altered." "It is wrong from beginning to end," said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. "What size do you want to be?" it asked. "Oh, I'm not particular as to size," Alice hastily
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And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life." "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!" "That is not said right," said the Caterpillar. "Not _quite_ right, I'm afraid,"<|quote|>said Alice, timidly;</|quote|>"some of the words have got altered." "It is wrong from beginning to end," said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. "What size do you want to be?" it asked. "Oh, I'm not particular as to size," Alice hastily replied; "only one doesn't like changing so often, you know." "I _don't_ know," said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper. "Are you content now?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I should like
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in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that?" "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box-- Allow me to sell you a couple?" "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray, how did you manage to do it?" "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life." "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!" "That is not said right," said the Caterpillar. "Not _quite_ right, I'm afraid,"<|quote|>said Alice, timidly;</|quote|>"some of the words have got altered." "It is wrong from beginning to end," said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. "What size do you want to be?" it asked. "Oh, I'm not particular as to size," Alice hastily replied; "only one doesn't like changing so often, you know." "I _don't_ know," said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper. "Are you content now?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I should like to be a _little_ larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind," said Alice: "three inches is such a wretched height to be." "It is a very good height indeed!" said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). "But I'm not used to it!" pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, "I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended!" "You'll get used to it in time," said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again. This time Alice waited patiently until it
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do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, "So you think you're changed, do you?" "I'm afraid I am, sir," said Alice; "I can't remember things as I used--and I don't keep the same size for ten minutes together!" "Can't remember _what_ things?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I've tried to say" "How doth the little busy bee," "but it all came different!" Alice replied in a very melancholy voice. "Repeat" , '_You are old, Father William_,'" said the Caterpillar. Alice folded her hands, and began:-- "You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?" "In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again." "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that?" "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box-- Allow me to sell you a couple?" "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray, how did you manage to do it?" "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life." "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!" "That is not said right," said the Caterpillar. "Not _quite_ right, I'm afraid,"<|quote|>said Alice, timidly;</|quote|>"some of the words have got altered." "It is wrong from beginning to end," said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. "What size do you want to be?" it asked. "Oh, I'm not particular as to size," Alice hastily replied; "only one doesn't like changing so often, you know." "I _don't_ know," said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper. "Are you content now?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I should like to be a _little_ larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind," said Alice: "three inches is such a wretched height to be." "It is a very good height indeed!" said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). "But I'm not used to it!" pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, "I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended!" "You'll get used to it in time," said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again. This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went, "One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter." "One side of _what?_ The other side of _what?_" thought Alice to herself. "Of the mushroom," said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight. Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit of the edge with each hand. "And now which is which?" she said to herself, and nibbled a little of the right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment she felt a violent blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot! She was a good deal frightened by
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that was sitting on the top with its arms folded, quietly smoking a long hookah, and taking not the smallest notice of her or of anything else. CHAPTER V. Advice from a Caterpillar The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice. "Who are _you?_" said the Caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, "I--I hardly know, sir, just at present--at least I know who I _was_ when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then." "What do you mean by that?" said the Caterpillar sternly. "Explain yourself!" "I can't explain _myself_, I'm afraid, sir," said Alice, "because I'm not myself, you see." "I don't see," said the Caterpillar. "I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly," Alice replied very politely, "for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing." "It isn't," said the Caterpillar. "Well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet," said Alice; "but when you have to turn into a chrysalis--you will some day, you know--and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you'll feel it a little queer, won't you?" "Not a bit," said the Caterpillar. "Well, perhaps your feelings may be different," said Alice; "all I know is, it would feel very queer to _me_." "You!" said the Caterpillar contemptuously. "Who are _you?_" Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation. Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar's making such _very_ short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, "I think, you ought to tell me who _you_ are, first." "Why?" said the Caterpillar. Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a _very_ unpleasant state of mind, she turned away. "Come back!" the Caterpillar called after her. "I've something important to say!" This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again. "Keep your temper," said the Caterpillar. "Is that all?" said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could. "No," said the Caterpillar. Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, "So you think you're changed, do you?" "I'm afraid I am, sir," said Alice; "I can't remember things as I used--and I don't keep the same size for ten minutes together!" "Can't remember _what_ things?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I've tried to say" "How doth the little busy bee," "but it all came different!" Alice replied in a very melancholy voice. "Repeat" , '_You are old, Father William_,'" said the Caterpillar. Alice folded her hands, and began:-- "You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?" "In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again." "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that?" "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box-- Allow me to sell you a couple?" "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray, how did you manage to do it?" "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life." "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!" "That is not said right," said the Caterpillar. "Not _quite_ right, I'm afraid,"<|quote|>said Alice, timidly;</|quote|>"some of the words have got altered." "It is wrong from beginning to end," said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. "What size do you want to be?" it asked. "Oh, I'm not particular as to size," Alice hastily replied; "only one doesn't like changing so often, you know." "I _don't_ know," said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper. "Are you content now?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I should like to be a _little_ larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind," said Alice: "three inches is such a wretched height to be." "It is a very good height indeed!" said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). "But I'm not used to it!" pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, "I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended!" "You'll get used to it in time," said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again. This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went, "One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter." "One side of _what?_ The other side of _what?_" thought Alice to herself. "Of the mushroom," said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight. Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit of the edge with each hand. "And now which is which?" she said to herself, and nibbled a little of the right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment she felt a violent blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot! She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly; so she set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the lefthand bit. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Come, my head's free at last!" said Alice in a tone of delight, which changed into alarm in another moment, when she found that her shoulders were nowhere to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a sea of green leaves that lay far below her. "What _can_ all that green stuff be?" said Alice. "And where _have_ my shoulders got to? And oh, my poor hands, how is it I can't see you?" She was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow, except a little shaking among the distant green leaves. As there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head, she tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that her neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent. She had just succeeded in curving it down into a graceful zigzag, and was going to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but the tops of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and was beating her violently with its wings. "Serpent!" screamed the Pigeon. "I'm _not_ a serpent!" said Alice indignantly. "Let me alone!" "Serpent, I say again!" repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone, and added with a kind of sob, "I've tried every way, and nothing seems to suit them!" "I haven't the least idea what you're talking about," said Alice. "I've tried the roots of trees, and I've tried banks, and I've tried hedges," the Pigeon went on, without attending to her; "but those serpents! There's no pleasing them!" Alice was more and more
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the Caterpillar. Alice folded her hands, and began:-- "You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?" "In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again." "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that?" "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box-- Allow me to sell you a couple?" "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray, how did you manage to do it?" "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life." "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!" "That is not said right," said the Caterpillar. "Not _quite_ right, I'm afraid,"<|quote|>said Alice, timidly;</|quote|>"some of the words have got altered." "It is wrong from beginning to end," said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. "What size do you want to be?" it asked. "Oh, I'm not particular as to size," Alice hastily replied; "only one doesn't like changing so often, you know." "I _don't_ know," said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper. "Are you content now?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I should like to be a _little_ larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind," said Alice: "three inches is such a wretched height to be." "It is a very good height indeed!" said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). "But I'm not used to it!" pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, "I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended!" "You'll get used to it in time," said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again. This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went, "One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter." "One side of _what?_ The other side of _what?_" thought Alice to herself. "Of the mushroom," said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight. Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit of the edge with each hand. "And now which is which?" she said to herself, and nibbled a little of the right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment she felt a violent blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot! She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly; so she set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the lefthand bit. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Come, my head's free at last!" said Alice in a tone of delight, which changed into alarm in another moment, when she found that her shoulders were nowhere to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a sea of green leaves that lay far
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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he said,
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No speaker
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by asking about my father,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"but I could not help
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if I have pained you by asking about my father,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"but I could not help it. I must go now.
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came over the woman. Her head drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. "Sibyl has a mother," she murmured; "I had none." The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed her. "I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don t forget that you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a
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connected." An oath broke from his lips. "I don t care for myself," he exclaimed, "but don t let Sibyl.... It is a gentleman, isn t it, who is in love with her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose." For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her head drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. "Sibyl has a mother," she murmured; "I had none." The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed her. "I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don t forget that you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it." The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely, and for the first time for many months she really admired her son.
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disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the question called for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led up to. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal. "No," she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life. "My father was a scoundrel then!" cried the lad, clenching his fists. She shook her head. "I knew he was not free. We loved each other very much. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don t speak against him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. Indeed, he was highly connected." An oath broke from his lips. "I don t care for myself," he exclaimed, "but don t let Sibyl.... It is a gentleman, isn t it, who is in love with her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose." For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her head drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. "Sibyl has a mother," she murmured; "I had none." The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed her. "I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don t forget that you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it." The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely, and for the first time for many months she really admired her son. She would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional scale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down and mufflers looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. There was the bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now that she
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cloth. Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of street-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that was left to him. After some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in his hands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told to him before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother watched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered lace handkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six, he got up and went to the door. Then he turned back and looked at her. Their eyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enraged him. "Mother, I have something to ask you," he said. Her eyes wandered vaguely about the room. She made no answer. "Tell me the truth. I have a right to know. Were you married to my father?" She heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment, the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded, had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed, in some measure it was a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the question called for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led up to. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal. "No," she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life. "My father was a scoundrel then!" cried the lad, clenching his fists. She shook her head. "I knew he was not free. We loved each other very much. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don t speak against him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. Indeed, he was highly connected." An oath broke from his lips. "I don t care for myself," he exclaimed, "but don t let Sibyl.... It is a gentleman, isn t it, who is in love with her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose." For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her head drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. "Sibyl has a mother," she murmured; "I had none." The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed her. "I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don t forget that you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it." The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely, and for the first time for many months she really admired her son. She would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional scale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down and mufflers looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. There was the bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now that she had only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase. It had pleased her. Of the threat she said nothing. It was vividly and dramatically expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it some day. CHAPTER VI. "I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry that evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol where dinner had been laid for three. "No, Harry," answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing waiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don t interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little whitewashing." "Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him as he spoke. Hallward started and then frowned. "Dorian engaged to be married!" he cried. "Impossible!" "It is perfectly true." "To whom?" "To some little actress or other." "I can t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible." "Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear Basil." "Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now
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foolish, Jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered boy, that is all. How can you say such horrible things? You don t know what you are talking about. You are simply jealous and unkind. Ah! I wish you would fall in love. Love makes people good, and what you said was wicked." "I am sixteen," he answered, "and I know what I am about. Mother is no help to you. She doesn t understand how to look after you. I wish now that I was not going to Australia at all. I have a great mind to chuck the whole thing up. I would, if my articles hadn t been signed." "Oh, don t be so serious, Jim. You are like one of the heroes of those silly melodramas Mother used to be so fond of acting in. I am not going to quarrel with you. I have seen him, and oh! to see him is perfect happiness. We won t quarrel. I know you would never harm any one I love, would you?" "Not as long as you love him, I suppose," was the sullen answer. "I shall love him for ever!" she cried. "And he?" "For ever, too!" "He had better." She shrank from him. Then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. He was merely a boy. At the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close to their shabby home in the Euston Road. It was after five o clock, and Sibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. Jim insisted that she should do so. He said that he would sooner part with her when their mother was not present. She would be sure to make a scene, and he detested scenes of every kind. In Sybil s own room they parted. There was jealousy in the lad s heart, and a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed to him, had come between them. Yet, when her arms were flung round his neck, and her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened and kissed her with real affection. There were tears in his eyes as he went downstairs. His mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at his unpunctuality, as he entered. He made no answer, but sat down to his meagre meal. The flies buzzed round the table and crawled over the stained cloth. Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of street-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that was left to him. After some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in his hands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told to him before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother watched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered lace handkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six, he got up and went to the door. Then he turned back and looked at her. Their eyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enraged him. "Mother, I have something to ask you," he said. Her eyes wandered vaguely about the room. She made no answer. "Tell me the truth. I have a right to know. Were you married to my father?" She heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment, the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded, had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed, in some measure it was a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the question called for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led up to. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal. "No," she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life. "My father was a scoundrel then!" cried the lad, clenching his fists. She shook her head. "I knew he was not free. We loved each other very much. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don t speak against him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. Indeed, he was highly connected." An oath broke from his lips. "I don t care for myself," he exclaimed, "but don t let Sibyl.... It is a gentleman, isn t it, who is in love with her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose." For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her head drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. "Sibyl has a mother," she murmured; "I had none." The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed her. "I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don t forget that you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it." The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely, and for the first time for many months she really admired her son. She would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional scale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down and mufflers looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. There was the bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now that she had only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase. It had pleased her. Of the threat she said nothing. It was vividly and dramatically expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it some day. CHAPTER VI. "I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry that evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol where dinner had been laid for three. "No, Harry," answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing waiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don t interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little whitewashing." "Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him as he spoke. Hallward started and then frowned. "Dorian engaged to be married!" he cried. "Impossible!" "It is perfectly true." "To whom?" "To some little actress or other." "I can t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible." "Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear Basil." "Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry." "Except in America," rejoined Lord Henry languidly. "But I didn t say he was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great difference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have no recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that I never was engaged." "But think of Dorian s birth, and position, and wealth. It would be absurd for him to marry so much beneath him." "If you want to make him marry this girl, tell him that, Basil. He is sure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives." "I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don t want to see Dorian tied to some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect." "Oh, she is better than good she is beautiful," murmured Lord Henry, sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. "Dorian says she is beautiful, and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. Your portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst others. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn t forget his appointment." "Are you serious?" "Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I should ever be more serious than I am at the present moment." "But do you approve of it, Harry?" asked the painter, walking up and down the room and biting his lip. "You can t approve of it, possibly. It is some silly infatuation." "I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a personality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality selects is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with a beautiful girl who acts Juliet, and proposes to marry her. Why not? If he wedded Messalina, he would be none the less interesting. You know I am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage is that it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colourless. They lack individuality. Still, there are
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you," he said. Her eyes wandered vaguely about the room. She made no answer. "Tell me the truth. I have a right to know. Were you married to my father?" She heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment, the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded, had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed, in some measure it was a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the question called for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led up to. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal. "No," she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life. "My father was a scoundrel then!" cried the lad, clenching his fists. She shook her head. "I knew he was not free. We loved each other very much. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don t speak against him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. Indeed, he was highly connected." An oath broke from his lips. "I don t care for myself," he exclaimed, "but don t let Sibyl.... It is a gentleman, isn t it, who is in love with her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose." For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her head drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. "Sibyl has a mother," she murmured; "I had none." The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed her. "I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don t forget that you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it." The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely, and for the first time for many months she really admired her son. She would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional scale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down and mufflers looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. There was the bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now that she had only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase. It had pleased her. Of the threat she said nothing. It was vividly and dramatically expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it some day. CHAPTER VI. "I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry that evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol where dinner had been laid for three. "No, Harry," answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing waiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don t interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little whitewashing." "Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him as he spoke. Hallward started and then frowned. "Dorian engaged to be married!" he cried. "Impossible!" "It is perfectly true." "To whom?" "To some little actress or other." "I can t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible." "Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear Basil." "Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry." "Except
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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she added,
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No speaker
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it. But tell me first,”<|quote|>she added,</|quote|>“one thing.” She hung fire
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decided. “Come when you _have_ it. But tell me first,”<|quote|>she added,</|quote|>“one thing.” She hung fire a little while he waited,
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all on that scent again, “May I come back to you from the club with Pappendick’s news?” he asked. “Why, rather, of course, come back!” “Only not,” he debated, “till your father has left.” Lady Grace considered too, but sharply decided. “Come when you _have_ it. But tell me first,”<|quote|>she added,</|quote|>“one thing.” She hung fire a little while he waited, but she brought it out. “Was it you who got the ‘Journal’ to speak?” “Ah, one scarcely ‘gets’ the ‘Journal’!” “Who then gave them their ‘tip’?” “About the Mantovano and its peril?” Well, he took a moment--but only not to
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it more!” “Well,” she anxiously felt it her duty to remind him, “you can take a horse to water----!” “Oh, trust me to make him drink!” There appeared a note in this that convinced her. “It’s you, Mr. Crimble, who are ‘splendid’!” “Well, I shall be--with my jolly wire!” And all on that scent again, “May I come back to you from the club with Pappendick’s news?” he asked. “Why, rather, of course, come back!” “Only not,” he debated, “till your father has left.” Lady Grace considered too, but sharply decided. “Come when you _have_ it. But tell me first,”<|quote|>she added,</|quote|>“one thing.” She hung fire a little while he waited, but she brought it out. “Was it you who got the ‘Journal’ to speak?” “Ah, one scarcely ‘gets’ the ‘Journal’!” “Who then gave them their ‘tip’?” “About the Mantovano and its peril?” Well, he took a moment--but only not to say; in addition to which the butler had reappeared, entering from the lobby. “I’ll tell you,” he laughed, “when I come back!” Gotch had his manner of announcement while the visitor was mounting the stairs. “Mr. Breckenridge Bender!” “Ah then I go,” said Lady Grace at once. “I’ll stay three
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in the breadth of his view. “Our own policy must be to _organise_ to that end the inevitable outcry. Organise Bender himself--organise him to scandal.” Hugh had already even pity to spare for their victim. “He won’t know it from a boom.” Though carried along, however, Lady Grace could still measure. “But that will be only if he wants and decides for the picture.” “We must make him then want and decide for it--decide, that is, for ‘ours.’ To save it we must work him up--he’ll in that case want it so indecently much. Then _we_ shall have to want it more!” “Well,” she anxiously felt it her duty to remind him, “you can take a horse to water----!” “Oh, trust me to make him drink!” There appeared a note in this that convinced her. “It’s you, Mr. Crimble, who are ‘splendid’!” “Well, I shall be--with my jolly wire!” And all on that scent again, “May I come back to you from the club with Pappendick’s news?” he asked. “Why, rather, of course, come back!” “Only not,” he debated, “till your father has left.” Lady Grace considered too, but sharply decided. “Come when you _have_ it. But tell me first,”<|quote|>she added,</|quote|>“one thing.” She hung fire a little while he waited, but she brought it out. “Was it you who got the ‘Journal’ to speak?” “Ah, one scarcely ‘gets’ the ‘Journal’!” “Who then gave them their ‘tip’?” “About the Mantovano and its peril?” Well, he took a moment--but only not to say; in addition to which the butler had reappeared, entering from the lobby. “I’ll tell you,” he laughed, “when I come back!” Gotch had his manner of announcement while the visitor was mounting the stairs. “Mr. Breckenridge Bender!” “Ah then I go,” said Lady Grace at once. “I’ll stay three minutes.” Hugh turned with her, alertly, to the easier issue, signalling hope and cheer from that threshold as he watched her disappear; after which he faced about with as brave a smile and as ready for immediate action as if she had there within kissed her hand to him. Mr. Bender emerged at the same instant, Gotch withdrawing and closing the door behind him; and the former personage, recognising his young friend, threw up his hands for friendly pleasure. III “Ah, Mr. Crimble,” he cordially inquired, “you’ve come with your great news?” Hugh caught the allusion, it would have seemed,
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“is ‘a very nice man’; but he’s a product of the world of advertisment, and advertisement is all he sees and aims at. He lives in it as a saint in glory or a fish in water.” She took it from him as half doubting. “But mayn’t advertisement, in so special a case, turn, on the whole, against him?” Hugh shook a negative forefinger with an expression he might have caught from foreign comrades. “He rides the biggest whirlwind--he has got it saddled and bitted.” She faced the image, but cast about “Then where does our success come in?” “In our making the beast, all the same, bolt with him and throw him.” And Hugh further pointed the moral. “If in such proceedings all he knows is publicity the thing is to give him publicity, and it’s only a question of giving him enough. By the time he has enough for himself, you see, he’ll have too much for every one else--so that we shall ‘up’ in a body and slay him.” The girl’s eyebrows, in her wondering face, rose to a question. “But if he has meanwhile got the picture?” “We’ll slay him before he gets it!” He revelled in the breadth of his view. “Our own policy must be to _organise_ to that end the inevitable outcry. Organise Bender himself--organise him to scandal.” Hugh had already even pity to spare for their victim. “He won’t know it from a boom.” Though carried along, however, Lady Grace could still measure. “But that will be only if he wants and decides for the picture.” “We must make him then want and decide for it--decide, that is, for ‘ours.’ To save it we must work him up--he’ll in that case want it so indecently much. Then _we_ shall have to want it more!” “Well,” she anxiously felt it her duty to remind him, “you can take a horse to water----!” “Oh, trust me to make him drink!” There appeared a note in this that convinced her. “It’s you, Mr. Crimble, who are ‘splendid’!” “Well, I shall be--with my jolly wire!” And all on that scent again, “May I come back to you from the club with Pappendick’s news?” he asked. “Why, rather, of course, come back!” “Only not,” he debated, “till your father has left.” Lady Grace considered too, but sharply decided. “Come when you _have_ it. But tell me first,”<|quote|>she added,</|quote|>“one thing.” She hung fire a little while he waited, but she brought it out. “Was it you who got the ‘Journal’ to speak?” “Ah, one scarcely ‘gets’ the ‘Journal’!” “Who then gave them their ‘tip’?” “About the Mantovano and its peril?” Well, he took a moment--but only not to say; in addition to which the butler had reappeared, entering from the lobby. “I’ll tell you,” he laughed, “when I come back!” Gotch had his manner of announcement while the visitor was mounting the stairs. “Mr. Breckenridge Bender!” “Ah then I go,” said Lady Grace at once. “I’ll stay three minutes.” Hugh turned with her, alertly, to the easier issue, signalling hope and cheer from that threshold as he watched her disappear; after which he faced about with as brave a smile and as ready for immediate action as if she had there within kissed her hand to him. Mr. Bender emerged at the same instant, Gotch withdrawing and closing the door behind him; and the former personage, recognising his young friend, threw up his hands for friendly pleasure. III “Ah, Mr. Crimble,” he cordially inquired, “you’ve come with your great news?” Hugh caught the allusion, it would have seemed, but after a moment. “News of the Moretto? No, Mr. Bender, I haven’t news _yet_.” But he added as with high candour for the visitor’s motion of disappointment: “I think I warned you, you know, that it would take three or four weeks.” “Well, in _my_ country,” Mr. Bender returned with disgust, “it would take three or four minutes! Can’t you make ‘em step more lively?” “I’m expecting, sir,” said Hugh good-humouredly, “a report from hour to hour.” “Then will you let me have it right off?” Hugh indulged in a pause; after which very frankly: “Ah, it’s scarcely for you, Mr. Bender, that I’m acting!” The great collector was but briefly checked. “Well, can’t you just act for Art?” “Oh, you’re doing that yourself so powerfully,” Hugh laughed, “that I think I had best leave it to you!” His friend looked at him as some inspector on circuit might look at a new improvement. “Don’t you want to go round acting _with_ me?” “Go ‘on tour,’ as it were? Oh, frankly, Mr. Bender,” Hugh said, “if I had any weight----!” “You’d add it to your end of the beam? Why, what have I done that _you_ should go back
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of a new and momentous opinion about the picture entertained by several eminent authorities.” “Of whom,” said the girl, intensely attached to this recital, “you’re of course seen as not the least.” “Of whom, of course, Lady Grace, I’m as yet--however I’m ‘seen’--the whole collection. But we’ve time” --he rested on that “The fat, if you’ll allow me the expression, is on the fire--which, as I see the matter, is where this particular fat _should_ be.” “Is the article, then,” his companion appealed, “very severe?” “I prefer to call it very enlightened and very intelligent--and the great thing is that it immensely ‘marks,’ as they say. It will have made a big public difference--from this day; though it’s of course aimed not so much at persons as at conditions; which it calls upon us all somehow to tackle.” “Exactly” --she was full of the saving vision; “but as the conditions are directly embodied in persons----” “Oh, of course it here and there bells the cat; which means that it bells three or four.” “Yes,” she richly brooded-- “Lady Lappington _is_ a cat!” “She will have been ‘belled,’ at any rate, with your father,” Hugh amusedly went on, “to the certainty of a row; and a row can only be good for us--I mean for _us_ in particular.” Yet he had to bethink himself. “The case depends a good deal of course on how your father _takes_ such a resounding rap.” “Oh, I know how he’ll take it!” --her perception went all the way. “In the very highest and properest spirit?” “Well, you’ll see.” She was as brave as she was clear. “Or at least I shall!” Struck with all this in her he renewed his homage. “You _are_, yes, splendid!” “I even,” she laughed, “surprise myself.” But he was already back at his calculations. “How early do the papers get to you?” “At Dedborough? Oh, quite for breakfast--which isn’t, however, very early.” “Then that’s what has caused his wire to Bender.” “But how will such talk strike _him_?” the girl asked. Hugh meanwhile, visibly, had not only followed his train of thought, he had let it lead him to certainty. “It will have moved Mr. Bender to absolute rapture.” “Rather,” Lady Grace wondered, “than have put him off?” “It will have put him prodigiously _on!_ Mr. Bender--as he said to me at Dedborough of his noble host there,” Hugh pursued-- “is ‘a very nice man’; but he’s a product of the world of advertisment, and advertisement is all he sees and aims at. He lives in it as a saint in glory or a fish in water.” She took it from him as half doubting. “But mayn’t advertisement, in so special a case, turn, on the whole, against him?” Hugh shook a negative forefinger with an expression he might have caught from foreign comrades. “He rides the biggest whirlwind--he has got it saddled and bitted.” She faced the image, but cast about “Then where does our success come in?” “In our making the beast, all the same, bolt with him and throw him.” And Hugh further pointed the moral. “If in such proceedings all he knows is publicity the thing is to give him publicity, and it’s only a question of giving him enough. By the time he has enough for himself, you see, he’ll have too much for every one else--so that we shall ‘up’ in a body and slay him.” The girl’s eyebrows, in her wondering face, rose to a question. “But if he has meanwhile got the picture?” “We’ll slay him before he gets it!” He revelled in the breadth of his view. “Our own policy must be to _organise_ to that end the inevitable outcry. Organise Bender himself--organise him to scandal.” Hugh had already even pity to spare for their victim. “He won’t know it from a boom.” Though carried along, however, Lady Grace could still measure. “But that will be only if he wants and decides for the picture.” “We must make him then want and decide for it--decide, that is, for ‘ours.’ To save it we must work him up--he’ll in that case want it so indecently much. Then _we_ shall have to want it more!” “Well,” she anxiously felt it her duty to remind him, “you can take a horse to water----!” “Oh, trust me to make him drink!” There appeared a note in this that convinced her. “It’s you, Mr. Crimble, who are ‘splendid’!” “Well, I shall be--with my jolly wire!” And all on that scent again, “May I come back to you from the club with Pappendick’s news?” he asked. “Why, rather, of course, come back!” “Only not,” he debated, “till your father has left.” Lady Grace considered too, but sharply decided. “Come when you _have_ it. But tell me first,”<|quote|>she added,</|quote|>“one thing.” She hung fire a little while he waited, but she brought it out. “Was it you who got the ‘Journal’ to speak?” “Ah, one scarcely ‘gets’ the ‘Journal’!” “Who then gave them their ‘tip’?” “About the Mantovano and its peril?” Well, he took a moment--but only not to say; in addition to which the butler had reappeared, entering from the lobby. “I’ll tell you,” he laughed, “when I come back!” Gotch had his manner of announcement while the visitor was mounting the stairs. “Mr. Breckenridge Bender!” “Ah then I go,” said Lady Grace at once. “I’ll stay three minutes.” Hugh turned with her, alertly, to the easier issue, signalling hope and cheer from that threshold as he watched her disappear; after which he faced about with as brave a smile and as ready for immediate action as if she had there within kissed her hand to him. Mr. Bender emerged at the same instant, Gotch withdrawing and closing the door behind him; and the former personage, recognising his young friend, threw up his hands for friendly pleasure. III “Ah, Mr. Crimble,” he cordially inquired, “you’ve come with your great news?” Hugh caught the allusion, it would have seemed, but after a moment. “News of the Moretto? No, Mr. Bender, I haven’t news _yet_.” But he added as with high candour for the visitor’s motion of disappointment: “I think I warned you, you know, that it would take three or four weeks.” “Well, in _my_ country,” Mr. Bender returned with disgust, “it would take three or four minutes! Can’t you make ‘em step more lively?” “I’m expecting, sir,” said Hugh good-humouredly, “a report from hour to hour.” “Then will you let me have it right off?” Hugh indulged in a pause; after which very frankly: “Ah, it’s scarcely for you, Mr. Bender, that I’m acting!” The great collector was but briefly checked. “Well, can’t you just act for Art?” “Oh, you’re doing that yourself so powerfully,” Hugh laughed, “that I think I had best leave it to you!” His friend looked at him as some inspector on circuit might look at a new improvement. “Don’t you want to go round acting _with_ me?” “Go ‘on tour,’ as it were? Oh, frankly, Mr. Bender,” Hugh said, “if I had any weight----!” “You’d add it to your end of the beam? Why, what have I done that _you_ should go back on me--after working me up so down there? The worst I’ve done,” Mr. Bender continued, “is to refuse that Moretto.” “Has it deplorably been _offered_ you?” our young man cried, unmistakably and sincerely affected. After which he went on, as his fellow-visitor only eyed him hard, not, on second thoughts, giving the owner of the great work away: “Then why are you--as if you were a banished Romeo--so keen for news from Verona?” To this odd mixture of business and literature Mr. Bender made no reply, contenting himself with but a large vague blandness that wore in him somehow the mark of tested utility; so that Hugh put him another question: “Aren’t you here, sir, on the chance of the Mantovano?” “I’m here,” he then imperturbably said, “because Lord Theign has wired me to meet him. Ain’t you here for that yourself?” Hugh betrayed for a moment his enjoyment of a “big” choice of answers. “Dear, no! I’ve but been in, by Lady Sandgate’s leave, to see that grand Lawrence.” “Ah yes, she’s very kind about it--one does go ‘in.’” After which Mr. Bender had, even in the atmosphere of his danger, a throb of curiosity. “Is any one _after_ that grand Lawrence?” “Oh, I hope not,” Hugh laughed, “unless you again dreadfully are: wonderful thing as it is and so just in its right place there.” “You call it,” Mr. Bender impartially inquired, “a _very_ wonderful thing?” “Well, as a Lawrence, it has quite bowled me over” --Hugh spoke as for the strictly aesthetic awkwardness of that. “But you know I take my pictures hard.” He gave a punch to his hat, pressed for time in this connection as he was glad truly to appear to his friend. “I must make my little _rapport_.” Yet before it he did seek briefly to explain. “We’re a band of young men who care--and we watch the great things. Also--for I must give you the real truth about myself--we watch the great people.” “Well, I guess I’m used to being watched--if that’s the worst you can do.” To which Mr. Bender added in his homely way: “But you know, Mr. Crimble, what I’m _really_ after.” Hugh’s strategy on this would again have peeped out for us. “The man in this morning’s ‘Journal’ appears at least to have discovered.” “Yes, the man in this morning’s ‘Journal’ has discovered three or four weeks--as it
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“How early do the papers get to you?” “At Dedborough? Oh, quite for breakfast--which isn’t, however, very early.” “Then that’s what has caused his wire to Bender.” “But how will such talk strike _him_?” the girl asked. Hugh meanwhile, visibly, had not only followed his train of thought, he had let it lead him to certainty. “It will have moved Mr. Bender to absolute rapture.” “Rather,” Lady Grace wondered, “than have put him off?” “It will have put him prodigiously _on!_ Mr. Bender--as he said to me at Dedborough of his noble host there,” Hugh pursued-- “is ‘a very nice man’; but he’s a product of the world of advertisment, and advertisement is all he sees and aims at. He lives in it as a saint in glory or a fish in water.” She took it from him as half doubting. “But mayn’t advertisement, in so special a case, turn, on the whole, against him?” Hugh shook a negative forefinger with an expression he might have caught from foreign comrades. “He rides the biggest whirlwind--he has got it saddled and bitted.” She faced the image, but cast about “Then where does our success come in?” “In our making the beast, all the same, bolt with him and throw him.” And Hugh further pointed the moral. “If in such proceedings all he knows is publicity the thing is to give him publicity, and it’s only a question of giving him enough. By the time he has enough for himself, you see, he’ll have too much for every one else--so that we shall ‘up’ in a body and slay him.” The girl’s eyebrows, in her wondering face, rose to a question. “But if he has meanwhile got the picture?” “We’ll slay him before he gets it!” He revelled in the breadth of his view. “Our own policy must be to _organise_ to that end the inevitable outcry. Organise Bender himself--organise him to scandal.” Hugh had already even pity to spare for their victim. “He won’t know it from a boom.” Though carried along, however, Lady Grace could still measure. “But that will be only if he wants and decides for the picture.” “We must make him then want and decide for it--decide, that is, for ‘ours.’ To save it we must work him up--he’ll in that case want it so indecently much. Then _we_ shall have to want it more!” “Well,” she anxiously felt it her duty to remind him, “you can take a horse to water----!” “Oh, trust me to make him drink!” There appeared a note in this that convinced her. “It’s you, Mr. Crimble, who are ‘splendid’!” “Well, I shall be--with my jolly wire!” And all on that scent again, “May I come back to you from the club with Pappendick’s news?” he asked. “Why, rather, of course, come back!” “Only not,” he debated, “till your father has left.” Lady Grace considered too, but sharply decided. “Come when you _have_ it. But tell me first,”<|quote|>she added,</|quote|>“one thing.” She hung fire a little while he waited, but she brought it out. “Was it you who got the ‘Journal’ to speak?” “Ah, one scarcely ‘gets’ the ‘Journal’!” “Who then gave them their ‘tip’?” “About the Mantovano and its peril?” Well, he took a moment--but only not to say; in addition to which the butler had reappeared, entering from the lobby. “I’ll tell you,” he laughed, “when I come back!” Gotch had his manner of announcement while the visitor was mounting the stairs. “Mr. Breckenridge Bender!” “Ah then I go,” said Lady Grace at once. “I’ll stay three minutes.” Hugh turned with her, alertly, to the easier issue, signalling hope and cheer from that threshold as he watched her disappear; after which he faced about with as brave a smile and as ready for immediate action as if she had there within kissed her hand to him. Mr. Bender emerged at the same instant, Gotch withdrawing and closing the door behind him; and the former personage, recognising his young friend, threw up his hands for friendly pleasure. III “Ah, Mr. Crimble,” he cordially inquired, “you’ve come with your great news?” Hugh caught the allusion, it would have seemed, but after a moment. “News of the Moretto? No, Mr. Bender, I haven’t news _yet_.” But he added as with high candour for the visitor’s motion of disappointment: “I think I warned you, you know, that it would take three or four weeks.” “Well, in _my_ country,” Mr. Bender returned with disgust, “it would take three or four minutes! Can’t you make ‘em step more lively?” “I’m expecting, sir,” said Hugh good-humouredly, “a report from hour to hour.” “Then will you let me have it right off?” Hugh indulged in a pause; after which very frankly: “Ah, it’s scarcely for you, Mr. Bender, that I’m acting!” The great collector was but briefly checked. “Well, can’t you just act for Art?” “Oh, you’re doing that yourself so powerfully,” Hugh laughed, “that I think I had best leave it to you!” His friend looked at him as some inspector on circuit might look at a new improvement. “Don’t you want to go round acting _with_ me?” “Go ‘on tour,’ as it were? Oh, frankly, Mr. Bender,” Hugh said, “if I had any weight----!” “You’d add it to your end of the beam? Why, what have I done that _you_ should go back on me--after working me up so down there? The worst I’ve done,” Mr. Bender continued, “is to refuse that Moretto.” “Has it deplorably been _offered_ you?” our young man cried, unmistakably and sincerely affected. After which he went on, as his fellow-visitor only eyed him hard, not, on second thoughts, giving the owner of the great work away: “Then why are you--as if you were a banished Romeo--so keen for news from Verona?” To this odd mixture of business and literature Mr. Bender made no reply, contenting himself with
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The Outcry
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said Alice.
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No speaker
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don't know what you mean,"<|quote|>said Alice.</|quote|>"Of course you don't!" the
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wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean,"<|quote|>said Alice.</|quote|>"Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head
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sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers." "If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean,"<|quote|>said Alice.</|quote|>"Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now,
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"Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself." "Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. "No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter. "Nor I," said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers." "If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean,"<|quote|>said Alice.</|quote|>"Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling!
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you what year it is?" "Of course not," Alice replied very readily: "but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together." "Which is just the case with _mine_," said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. "I don't quite understand you," she said, as politely as she could. "The Dormouse is asleep again," said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, "Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself." "Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. "No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter. "Nor I," said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers." "If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean,"<|quote|>said Alice.</|quote|>"Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!" (" "I only wish it was," the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) "That would be grand, certainly," said Alice thoughtfully: "but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know." "Not at first, perhaps," said the Hatter: "but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." "Is that the way _you_ manage?" Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. "Not I!" he replied. "We quarrelled last March--just before _he_ went mad, you know--" (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) "--it was at the great concert
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writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!" he added looking angrily at the March Hare. "It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled: "you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife." The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, "It was the _best_ butter, you know." Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. "What a funny watch!" she remarked. "It tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is!" "Why should it?" muttered the Hatter. "Does _your_ watch tell you what year it is?" "Of course not," Alice replied very readily: "but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together." "Which is just the case with _mine_," said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. "I don't quite understand you," she said, as politely as she could. "The Dormouse is asleep again," said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, "Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself." "Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. "No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter. "Nor I," said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers." "If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean,"<|quote|>said Alice.</|quote|>"Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!" (" "I only wish it was," the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) "That would be grand, certainly," said Alice thoughtfully: "but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know." "Not at first, perhaps," said the Hatter: "but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." "Is that the way _you_ manage?" Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. "Not I!" he replied. "We quarrelled last March--just before _he_ went mad, you know--" (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) "--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing" 'Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice. "And ever since that," the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as
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table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare. "Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it," said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!" he added looking angrily at the March Hare. "It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled: "you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife." The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, "It was the _best_ butter, you know." Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. "What a funny watch!" she remarked. "It tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is!" "Why should it?" muttered the Hatter. "Does _your_ watch tell you what year it is?" "Of course not," Alice replied very readily: "but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together." "Which is just the case with _mine_," said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. "I don't quite understand you," she said, as politely as she could. "The Dormouse is asleep again," said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, "Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself." "Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. "No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter. "Nor I," said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers." "If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean,"<|quote|>said Alice.</|quote|>"Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!" (" "I only wish it was," the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) "That would be grand, certainly," said Alice thoughtfully: "but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know." "Not at first, perhaps," said the Hatter: "but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." "Is that the way _you_ manage?" Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. "Not I!" he replied. "We quarrelled last March--just before _he_ went mad, you know--" (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) "--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing" 'Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice. "And ever since that," the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more." "You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, "If you can't be civil, you'd better
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say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!" he added looking angrily at the March Hare. "It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled: "you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife." The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, "It was the _best_ butter, you know." Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. "What a funny watch!" she remarked. "It tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is!" "Why should it?" muttered the Hatter. "Does _your_ watch tell you what year it is?" "Of course not," Alice replied very readily: "but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together." "Which is just the case with _mine_," said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. "I don't quite understand you," she said, as politely as she could. "The Dormouse is asleep again," said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, "Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself." "Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. "No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter. "Nor I," said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers." "If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean,"<|quote|>said Alice.</|quote|>"Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!" (" "I only wish it was," the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) "That would be grand, certainly," said Alice thoughtfully: "but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know." "Not at first, perhaps," said the Hatter: "but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." "Is that the way _you_ manage?" Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. "Not I!" he replied. "We quarrelled last March--just before _he_ went mad, you know--" (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) "--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing" 'Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice. "And ever since that," the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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A long wicker basket of flowers and branches had arrived from the country, and Katharine, kneeling upon the floor of the drawing-room, was sorting them while Cassandra watched her from an arm-chair, and absent-mindedly made spasmodic offers of help which were not accepted. The maid s message had a curious effect upon Katharine. She rose, walked to the window, and, the maid being gone, said emphatically and even tragically:
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No speaker
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Milvain is in the kitchen."<|quote|>A long wicker basket of flowers and branches had arrived from the country, and Katharine, kneeling upon the floor of the drawing-room, was sorting them while Cassandra watched her from an arm-chair, and absent-mindedly made spasmodic offers of help which were not accepted. The maid s message had a curious effect upon Katharine. She rose, walked to the window, and, the maid being gone, said emphatically and even tragically:</|quote|>"You know what that means."
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on the following morning, "Mrs. Milvain is in the kitchen."<|quote|>A long wicker basket of flowers and branches had arrived from the country, and Katharine, kneeling upon the floor of the drawing-room, was sorting them while Cassandra watched her from an arm-chair, and absent-mindedly made spasmodic offers of help which were not accepted. The maid s message had a curious effect upon Katharine. She rose, walked to the window, and, the maid being gone, said emphatically and even tragically:</|quote|>"You know what that means." Cassandra had understood nothing. "Aunt
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in its nature that to express it was impossible, and Cassandra, bending her head and receiving the tears upon her cheek, accepted them in silence as the consecration of her love. "Please, miss," said the maid, about eleven o clock on the following morning, "Mrs. Milvain is in the kitchen."<|quote|>A long wicker basket of flowers and branches had arrived from the country, and Katharine, kneeling upon the floor of the drawing-room, was sorting them while Cassandra watched her from an arm-chair, and absent-mindedly made spasmodic offers of help which were not accepted. The maid s message had a curious effect upon Katharine. She rose, walked to the window, and, the maid being gone, said emphatically and even tragically:</|quote|>"You know what that means." Cassandra had understood nothing. "Aunt Celia is in the kitchen," Katharine repeated. "Why in the kitchen?" Cassandra asked, not unnaturally. "Probably because she s discovered something," Katharine replied. Cassandra s thoughts flew to the subject of her preoccupation. "About us?" she inquired. "Heaven knows," Katharine
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fall in love," Cassandra exclaimed, as if she read the certainty there. But as she looked she saw a sight that surprised her. The tears rose slowly in Katharine s eyes and stood there, brimming but contained the tears of some profound emotion, happiness, grief, renunciation; an emotion so complex in its nature that to express it was impossible, and Cassandra, bending her head and receiving the tears upon her cheek, accepted them in silence as the consecration of her love. "Please, miss," said the maid, about eleven o clock on the following morning, "Mrs. Milvain is in the kitchen."<|quote|>A long wicker basket of flowers and branches had arrived from the country, and Katharine, kneeling upon the floor of the drawing-room, was sorting them while Cassandra watched her from an arm-chair, and absent-mindedly made spasmodic offers of help which were not accepted. The maid s message had a curious effect upon Katharine. She rose, walked to the window, and, the maid being gone, said emphatically and even tragically:</|quote|>"You know what that means." Cassandra had understood nothing. "Aunt Celia is in the kitchen," Katharine repeated. "Why in the kitchen?" Cassandra asked, not unnaturally. "Probably because she s discovered something," Katharine replied. Cassandra s thoughts flew to the subject of her preoccupation. "About us?" she inquired. "Heaven knows," Katharine replied. "I shan t let her stay in the kitchen, though. I shall bring her up here." The sternness with which this was said suggested that to bring Aunt Celia upstairs was, for some reason, a disciplinary measure. "For goodness sake, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed, jumping from her chair and showing
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know what time it is?" she said at length, and shook her pillow, as if making ready for sleep. Cassandra rose obediently, and once more took up her candle. Perhaps the white dressing-gown, and the loosened hair, and something unseeing in the expression of the eyes gave her a likeness to a woman walking in her sleep. Katharine, at least, thought so. "There s no reason why I should go home, then?" Cassandra said, pausing. "Unless you want me to go, Katharine? What _do_ you want me to do?" For the first time their eyes met. "You wanted us to fall in love," Cassandra exclaimed, as if she read the certainty there. But as she looked she saw a sight that surprised her. The tears rose slowly in Katharine s eyes and stood there, brimming but contained the tears of some profound emotion, happiness, grief, renunciation; an emotion so complex in its nature that to express it was impossible, and Cassandra, bending her head and receiving the tears upon her cheek, accepted them in silence as the consecration of her love. "Please, miss," said the maid, about eleven o clock on the following morning, "Mrs. Milvain is in the kitchen."<|quote|>A long wicker basket of flowers and branches had arrived from the country, and Katharine, kneeling upon the floor of the drawing-room, was sorting them while Cassandra watched her from an arm-chair, and absent-mindedly made spasmodic offers of help which were not accepted. The maid s message had a curious effect upon Katharine. She rose, walked to the window, and, the maid being gone, said emphatically and even tragically:</|quote|>"You know what that means." Cassandra had understood nothing. "Aunt Celia is in the kitchen," Katharine repeated. "Why in the kitchen?" Cassandra asked, not unnaturally. "Probably because she s discovered something," Katharine replied. Cassandra s thoughts flew to the subject of her preoccupation. "About us?" she inquired. "Heaven knows," Katharine replied. "I shan t let her stay in the kitchen, though. I shall bring her up here." The sternness with which this was said suggested that to bring Aunt Celia upstairs was, for some reason, a disciplinary measure. "For goodness sake, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed, jumping from her chair and showing signs of agitation, "don t be rash. Don t let her suspect. Remember, nothing s certain" Katharine assured her by nodding her head several times, but the manner in which she left the room was not calculated to inspire complete confidence in her diplomacy. Mrs. Milvain was sitting, or rather perching, upon the edge of a chair in the servants room. Whether there was any sound reason for her choice of a subterranean chamber, or whether it corresponded with the spirit of her quest, Mrs. Milvain invariably came in by the back door and sat in the servants room when
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mind in the least how William behaves to other women? If I were engaged, I couldn t bear it!" "We re not engaged," said Katharine, after a pause. "Katharine!" Cassandra cried. "No, we re not engaged," Katharine repeated. "But no one knows it but ourselves." "But why I don t understand you re not engaged!" Cassandra said again. "Oh, that explains it! You re not in love with him! You don t want to marry him!" "We aren t in love with each other any longer," said Katharine, as if disposing of something for ever and ever. "How queer, how strange, how unlike other people you are, Katharine," Cassandra said, her whole body and voice seeming to fall and collapse together, and no trace of anger or excitement remaining, but only a dreamy quietude. "You re not in love with him?" "But I love him," said Katharine. Cassandra remained bowed, as if by the weight of the revelation, for some little while longer. Nor did Katharine speak. Her attitude was that of some one who wishes to be concealed as much as possible from observation. She sighed profoundly; she was absolutely silent, and apparently overcome by her thoughts. "D you know what time it is?" she said at length, and shook her pillow, as if making ready for sleep. Cassandra rose obediently, and once more took up her candle. Perhaps the white dressing-gown, and the loosened hair, and something unseeing in the expression of the eyes gave her a likeness to a woman walking in her sleep. Katharine, at least, thought so. "There s no reason why I should go home, then?" Cassandra said, pausing. "Unless you want me to go, Katharine? What _do_ you want me to do?" For the first time their eyes met. "You wanted us to fall in love," Cassandra exclaimed, as if she read the certainty there. But as she looked she saw a sight that surprised her. The tears rose slowly in Katharine s eyes and stood there, brimming but contained the tears of some profound emotion, happiness, grief, renunciation; an emotion so complex in its nature that to express it was impossible, and Cassandra, bending her head and receiving the tears upon her cheek, accepted them in silence as the consecration of her love. "Please, miss," said the maid, about eleven o clock on the following morning, "Mrs. Milvain is in the kitchen."<|quote|>A long wicker basket of flowers and branches had arrived from the country, and Katharine, kneeling upon the floor of the drawing-room, was sorting them while Cassandra watched her from an arm-chair, and absent-mindedly made spasmodic offers of help which were not accepted. The maid s message had a curious effect upon Katharine. She rose, walked to the window, and, the maid being gone, said emphatically and even tragically:</|quote|>"You know what that means." Cassandra had understood nothing. "Aunt Celia is in the kitchen," Katharine repeated. "Why in the kitchen?" Cassandra asked, not unnaturally. "Probably because she s discovered something," Katharine replied. Cassandra s thoughts flew to the subject of her preoccupation. "About us?" she inquired. "Heaven knows," Katharine replied. "I shan t let her stay in the kitchen, though. I shall bring her up here." The sternness with which this was said suggested that to bring Aunt Celia upstairs was, for some reason, a disciplinary measure. "For goodness sake, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed, jumping from her chair and showing signs of agitation, "don t be rash. Don t let her suspect. Remember, nothing s certain" Katharine assured her by nodding her head several times, but the manner in which she left the room was not calculated to inspire complete confidence in her diplomacy. Mrs. Milvain was sitting, or rather perching, upon the edge of a chair in the servants room. Whether there was any sound reason for her choice of a subterranean chamber, or whether it corresponded with the spirit of her quest, Mrs. Milvain invariably came in by the back door and sat in the servants room when she was engaged in confidential family transactions. The ostensible reason she gave was that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hilbery should be disturbed. But, in truth, Mrs. Milvain depended even more than most elderly women of her generation upon the delicious emotions of intimacy, agony, and secrecy, and the additional thrill provided by the basement was one not lightly to be forfeited. She protested almost plaintively when Katharine proposed to go upstairs. "I ve something that I want to say to you in _private_," she said, hesitating reluctantly upon the threshold of her ambush. "The drawing-room is empty" "But we might meet your mother upon the stairs. We might disturb your father," Mrs. Milvain objected, taking the precaution to speak in a whisper already. But as Katharine s presence was absolutely necessary to the success of the interview, and as Katharine obstinately receded up the kitchen stairs, Mrs. Milvain had no course but to follow her. She glanced furtively about her as she proceeded upstairs, drew her skirts together, and stepped with circumspection past all doors, whether they were open or shut. "Nobody will overhear us?" she murmured, when the comparative sanctuary of the drawing-room had been reached. "I see that
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she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else." "But you like him, don t you?" Katharine inquired. "That s got nothing to do with it," Cassandra exclaimed indignantly. "I consider his conduct, under the circumstances, most disgraceful." This was the last of the sentences of her premeditated speech; and having spoken it she was left unprovided with any more to say in that particular style. When Katharine remarked: "I should say it had everything to do with it," Cassandra s self-possession deserted her. "I don t understand you in the least, Katharine. How can you behave as you behave? Ever since I came here I ve been amazed by you!" "You ve enjoyed yourself, haven t you?" Katharine asked. "Yes, I have," Cassandra admitted. "Anyhow, my behavior hasn t spoiled your visit." "No," Cassandra allowed once more. She was completely at a loss. In her forecast of the interview she had taken it for granted that Katharine, after an outburst of incredulity, would agree that Cassandra must return home as soon as possible. But Katharine, on the contrary, accepted her statement at once, seemed neither shocked nor surprised, and merely looked rather more thoughtful than usual. From being a mature woman charged with an important mission, Cassandra shrunk to the stature of an inexperienced child. "Do you think I ve been very foolish about it?" she asked. Katharine made no answer, but still sat deliberating silently, and a certain feeling of alarm took possession of Cassandra. Perhaps her words had struck far deeper than she had thought, into depths beyond her reach, as so much of Katharine was beyond her reach. She thought suddenly that she had been playing with very dangerous tools. Looking at her at length, Katharine asked slowly, as if she found the question very difficult to ask. "But do you care for William?" She marked the agitation and bewilderment of the girl s expression, and how she looked away from her. "Do you mean, am I in love with him?" Cassandra asked, breathing quickly, and nervously moving her hands. "Yes, in love with him," Katharine repeated. "How can I love the man you re engaged to marry?" Cassandra burst out. "He may be in love with you." "I don t think you ve any right to say such things, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed. "Why do you say them? Don t you mind in the least how William behaves to other women? If I were engaged, I couldn t bear it!" "We re not engaged," said Katharine, after a pause. "Katharine!" Cassandra cried. "No, we re not engaged," Katharine repeated. "But no one knows it but ourselves." "But why I don t understand you re not engaged!" Cassandra said again. "Oh, that explains it! You re not in love with him! You don t want to marry him!" "We aren t in love with each other any longer," said Katharine, as if disposing of something for ever and ever. "How queer, how strange, how unlike other people you are, Katharine," Cassandra said, her whole body and voice seeming to fall and collapse together, and no trace of anger or excitement remaining, but only a dreamy quietude. "You re not in love with him?" "But I love him," said Katharine. Cassandra remained bowed, as if by the weight of the revelation, for some little while longer. Nor did Katharine speak. Her attitude was that of some one who wishes to be concealed as much as possible from observation. She sighed profoundly; she was absolutely silent, and apparently overcome by her thoughts. "D you know what time it is?" she said at length, and shook her pillow, as if making ready for sleep. Cassandra rose obediently, and once more took up her candle. Perhaps the white dressing-gown, and the loosened hair, and something unseeing in the expression of the eyes gave her a likeness to a woman walking in her sleep. Katharine, at least, thought so. "There s no reason why I should go home, then?" Cassandra said, pausing. "Unless you want me to go, Katharine? What _do_ you want me to do?" For the first time their eyes met. "You wanted us to fall in love," Cassandra exclaimed, as if she read the certainty there. But as she looked she saw a sight that surprised her. The tears rose slowly in Katharine s eyes and stood there, brimming but contained the tears of some profound emotion, happiness, grief, renunciation; an emotion so complex in its nature that to express it was impossible, and Cassandra, bending her head and receiving the tears upon her cheek, accepted them in silence as the consecration of her love. "Please, miss," said the maid, about eleven o clock on the following morning, "Mrs. Milvain is in the kitchen."<|quote|>A long wicker basket of flowers and branches had arrived from the country, and Katharine, kneeling upon the floor of the drawing-room, was sorting them while Cassandra watched her from an arm-chair, and absent-mindedly made spasmodic offers of help which were not accepted. The maid s message had a curious effect upon Katharine. She rose, walked to the window, and, the maid being gone, said emphatically and even tragically:</|quote|>"You know what that means." Cassandra had understood nothing. "Aunt Celia is in the kitchen," Katharine repeated. "Why in the kitchen?" Cassandra asked, not unnaturally. "Probably because she s discovered something," Katharine replied. Cassandra s thoughts flew to the subject of her preoccupation. "About us?" she inquired. "Heaven knows," Katharine replied. "I shan t let her stay in the kitchen, though. I shall bring her up here." The sternness with which this was said suggested that to bring Aunt Celia upstairs was, for some reason, a disciplinary measure. "For goodness sake, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed, jumping from her chair and showing signs of agitation, "don t be rash. Don t let her suspect. Remember, nothing s certain" Katharine assured her by nodding her head several times, but the manner in which she left the room was not calculated to inspire complete confidence in her diplomacy. Mrs. Milvain was sitting, or rather perching, upon the edge of a chair in the servants room. Whether there was any sound reason for her choice of a subterranean chamber, or whether it corresponded with the spirit of her quest, Mrs. Milvain invariably came in by the back door and sat in the servants room when she was engaged in confidential family transactions. The ostensible reason she gave was that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hilbery should be disturbed. But, in truth, Mrs. Milvain depended even more than most elderly women of her generation upon the delicious emotions of intimacy, agony, and secrecy, and the additional thrill provided by the basement was one not lightly to be forfeited. She protested almost plaintively when Katharine proposed to go upstairs. "I ve something that I want to say to you in _private_," she said, hesitating reluctantly upon the threshold of her ambush. "The drawing-room is empty" "But we might meet your mother upon the stairs. We might disturb your father," Mrs. Milvain objected, taking the precaution to speak in a whisper already. But as Katharine s presence was absolutely necessary to the success of the interview, and as Katharine obstinately receded up the kitchen stairs, Mrs. Milvain had no course but to follow her. She glanced furtively about her as she proceeded upstairs, drew her skirts together, and stepped with circumspection past all doors, whether they were open or shut. "Nobody will overhear us?" she murmured, when the comparative sanctuary of the drawing-room had been reached. "I see that I have interrupted you," she added, glancing at the flowers strewn upon the floor. A moment later she inquired, "Was some one sitting with you?" noticing a handkerchief that Cassandra had dropped in her flight. "Cassandra was helping me to put the flowers in water," said Katharine, and she spoke so firmly and clearly that Mrs. Milvain glanced nervously at the main door and then at the curtain which divided the little room with the relics from the drawing-room. "Ah, Cassandra is still with you," she remarked. "And did William send you those lovely flowers?" Katharine sat down opposite her aunt and said neither yes nor no. She looked past her, and it might have been thought that she was considering very critically the pattern of the curtains. Another advantage of the basement, from Mrs. Milvain s point of view, was that it made it necessary to sit very close together, and the light was dim compared with that which now poured through three windows upon Katharine and the basket of flowers, and gave even the slight angular figure of Mrs. Milvain herself a halo of gold. "They re from Stogdon House," said Katharine abruptly, with a little jerk of her head. Mrs. Milvain felt that it would be easier to tell her niece what she wished to say if they were actually in physical contact, for the spiritual distance between them was formidable. Katharine, however, made no overtures, and Mrs. Milvain, who was possessed of rash but heroic courage, plunged without preface: "People are talking about you, Katharine. That is why I have come this morning. You forgive me for saying what I d much rather not say? What I say is only for your own sake, my child." "There s nothing to forgive yet, Aunt Celia," said Katharine, with apparent good humor. "People are saying that William goes everywhere with you and Cassandra, and that he is always paying her attentions. At the Markhams dance he sat out five dances with her. At the Zoo they were seen alone together. They left together. They never came back here till seven in the evening. But that is not all. They say his manner is very marked he is quite different when she is there." Mrs. Milvain, whose words had run themselves together, and whose voice had raised its tone almost to one of protest, here ceased, and looked intently
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feeling of alarm took possession of Cassandra. Perhaps her words had struck far deeper than she had thought, into depths beyond her reach, as so much of Katharine was beyond her reach. She thought suddenly that she had been playing with very dangerous tools. Looking at her at length, Katharine asked slowly, as if she found the question very difficult to ask. "But do you care for William?" She marked the agitation and bewilderment of the girl s expression, and how she looked away from her. "Do you mean, am I in love with him?" Cassandra asked, breathing quickly, and nervously moving her hands. "Yes, in love with him," Katharine repeated. "How can I love the man you re engaged to marry?" Cassandra burst out. "He may be in love with you." "I don t think you ve any right to say such things, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed. "Why do you say them? Don t you mind in the least how William behaves to other women? If I were engaged, I couldn t bear it!" "We re not engaged," said Katharine, after a pause. "Katharine!" Cassandra cried. "No, we re not engaged," Katharine repeated. "But no one knows it but ourselves." "But why I don t understand you re not engaged!" Cassandra said again. "Oh, that explains it! You re not in love with him! You don t want to marry him!" "We aren t in love with each other any longer," said Katharine, as if disposing of something for ever and ever. "How queer, how strange, how unlike other people you are, Katharine," Cassandra said, her whole body and voice seeming to fall and collapse together, and no trace of anger or excitement remaining, but only a dreamy quietude. "You re not in love with him?" "But I love him," said Katharine. Cassandra remained bowed, as if by the weight of the revelation, for some little while longer. Nor did Katharine speak. Her attitude was that of some one who wishes to be concealed as much as possible from observation. She sighed profoundly; she was absolutely silent, and apparently overcome by her thoughts. "D you know what time it is?" she said at length, and shook her pillow, as if making ready for sleep. Cassandra rose obediently, and once more took up her candle. Perhaps the white dressing-gown, and the loosened hair, and something unseeing in the expression of the eyes gave her a likeness to a woman walking in her sleep. Katharine, at least, thought so. "There s no reason why I should go home, then?" Cassandra said, pausing. "Unless you want me to go, Katharine? What _do_ you want me to do?" For the first time their eyes met. "You wanted us to fall in love," Cassandra exclaimed, as if she read the certainty there. But as she looked she saw a sight that surprised her. The tears rose slowly in Katharine s eyes and stood there, brimming but contained the tears of some profound emotion, happiness, grief, renunciation; an emotion so complex in its nature that to express it was impossible, and Cassandra, bending her head and receiving the tears upon her cheek, accepted them in silence as the consecration of her love. "Please, miss," said the maid, about eleven o clock on the following morning, "Mrs. Milvain is in the kitchen."<|quote|>A long wicker basket of flowers and branches had arrived from the country, and Katharine, kneeling upon the floor of the drawing-room, was sorting them while Cassandra watched her from an arm-chair, and absent-mindedly made spasmodic offers of help which were not accepted. The maid s message had a curious effect upon Katharine. She rose, walked to the window, and, the maid being gone, said emphatically and even tragically:</|quote|>"You know what that means." Cassandra had understood nothing. "Aunt Celia is in the kitchen," Katharine repeated. "Why in the kitchen?" Cassandra asked, not unnaturally. "Probably because she s discovered something," Katharine replied. Cassandra s thoughts flew to the subject of her preoccupation. "About us?" she inquired. "Heaven knows," Katharine replied. "I shan t let her stay in the kitchen, though. I shall bring her up here." The sternness with which this was said suggested that to bring Aunt Celia upstairs was, for some reason, a disciplinary measure. "For goodness sake, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed, jumping from her chair and showing signs of agitation, "don t be rash. Don t let her suspect. Remember, nothing s certain" Katharine assured her by nodding her head several times, but the manner in which she left the room was not calculated to inspire complete confidence in her diplomacy. Mrs. Milvain was sitting, or rather perching, upon the edge of a chair in the servants room. Whether there was any sound reason for her choice of a subterranean chamber, or whether it corresponded with the spirit of her quest, Mrs. Milvain invariably came in by the back door and sat in the servants room when she was engaged in confidential family transactions. The ostensible reason she gave was that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hilbery should be disturbed. But, in truth, Mrs. Milvain depended even more than most elderly women of her generation upon the delicious emotions of intimacy, agony, and secrecy, and the additional thrill provided by the basement was one not lightly to be forfeited. She protested almost plaintively when Katharine proposed to go upstairs. "I ve something that I want to say to you in _private_," she said, hesitating reluctantly upon the
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Night And Day
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“that the wonderful subject of the Verona picture, a very great person clearly, is none other than the very great person of yours.”
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Crimble
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man quite ardently wound up,<|quote|>“that the wonderful subject of the Verona picture, a very great person clearly, is none other than the very great person of yours.”</|quote|>Lord Theign had listened with
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bet my head,” the young man quite ardently wound up,<|quote|>“that the wonderful subject of the Verona picture, a very great person clearly, is none other than the very great person of yours.”</|quote|>Lord Theign had listened with interest. “Mayn’t he be that
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Hugh explained, “is the vivid image of a Mantovano--one of the glories of the short list--in a private collection in that place. The conviction grows in me that the two portraits must be of the same original. In fact I’ll bet my head,” the young man quite ardently wound up,<|quote|>“that the wonderful subject of the Verona picture, a very great person clearly, is none other than the very great person of yours.”</|quote|>Lord Theign had listened with interest. “Mayn’t he be that and yet from another hand?” “It isn’t another hand” --oh Hugh was quite positive. “It’s the hand of the very same painter.” “How can you prove it’s the same?” “Only by the most intimate internal evidence, I admit--and evidence that
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Hugh brightly asked, “to attempt to find out?” The question produced on his lordship’s part a visible, a natural anxiety. “What would it be your idea then to _do_ with my property?” “Nothing at all here--it could all be done, I think, at Verona. What besets, what quite haunts me,” Hugh explained, “is the vivid image of a Mantovano--one of the glories of the short list--in a private collection in that place. The conviction grows in me that the two portraits must be of the same original. In fact I’ll bet my head,” the young man quite ardently wound up,<|quote|>“that the wonderful subject of the Verona picture, a very great person clearly, is none other than the very great person of yours.”</|quote|>Lord Theign had listened with interest. “Mayn’t he be that and yet from another hand?” “It isn’t another hand” --oh Hugh was quite positive. “It’s the hand of the very same painter.” “How can you prove it’s the same?” “Only by the most intimate internal evidence, I admit--and evidence that of course has to be estimated.” “Then who,” Lord Theign asked, “is to estimate it?” “Well,” --Hugh was all ready-- “will you let Pap-pendick, one of the first authorities in Europe, a good friend of mine, in fact more or less my master, and who is generally to be found
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on Lord Theign, whose back was practically presented, he were covertly studying signs. “Well,” he presently said, “in view of the very great interest combined with the very great rarity, more than--ah more than can be estimated off-hand.” It made Lord Theign turn round. “But a fine Moretto has a very great rarity and a very great interest.” “Yes--but not on the whole the same amount of either.” “No, not on the whole the same amount of either!” --Mr. Bender judiciously echoed it. “But how,” he freely pursued, “are you going to find out?” “Have I your permission, Lord Theign,” Hugh brightly asked, “to attempt to find out?” The question produced on his lordship’s part a visible, a natural anxiety. “What would it be your idea then to _do_ with my property?” “Nothing at all here--it could all be done, I think, at Verona. What besets, what quite haunts me,” Hugh explained, “is the vivid image of a Mantovano--one of the glories of the short list--in a private collection in that place. The conviction grows in me that the two portraits must be of the same original. In fact I’ll bet my head,” the young man quite ardently wound up,<|quote|>“that the wonderful subject of the Verona picture, a very great person clearly, is none other than the very great person of yours.”</|quote|>Lord Theign had listened with interest. “Mayn’t he be that and yet from another hand?” “It isn’t another hand” --oh Hugh was quite positive. “It’s the hand of the very same painter.” “How can you prove it’s the same?” “Only by the most intimate internal evidence, I admit--and evidence that of course has to be estimated.” “Then who,” Lord Theign asked, “is to estimate it?” “Well,” --Hugh was all ready-- “will you let Pap-pendick, one of the first authorities in Europe, a good friend of mine, in fact more or less my master, and who is generally to be found at Brussels? I happen to know he knows your picture--he once spoke to me of it; and he’ll go and look again at the Verona one, he’ll go and judge our issue, if I apply to him, in the light of certain new tips that I shall be able to give him.” Lord Theign appeared to wonder. “If you ‘apply’ to him?” “Like a shot, I believe, if I ask it of him--as a service.” “A service to _you?_ He’ll be very obliging,” his lordship smiled. “Well, I’ve obliged _him!_” Hugh readily retorted. “The obligation will be to we” --Lord
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you all we’ve got--only I guess it isn’t much.” And he appeared freely to invite their companions to join in this estimate. They listened to him, however, they watched him, for the moment, but in silence, and with the next he had gone on: “How much higher--if your idea is correct about it--would Lord Theign’s picture come?” Hugh turned to that nobleman. “Does Mr. Bender mean come to _him_, my lord?” Lord Theign looked again hard at Hugh, and then harder than he had done yet at his other invader. “I don’t know _what_ Mr. Bender means!” With which he turned off. “Well, I guess I mean that it would come higher to me than to any one! But how _much_ higher?” the American continued to Hugh. “How much higher to _you?_” “Oh, I can size _that_. How much higher as a Mantovano?” Unmistakably--for us at least--our young man was gaining time; he had the instinct of circumspection and delay. “To any one?” “To any one.” “Than as a Moretto?” Hugh continued. It even acted on Lord John’s nerves. “That’s what we’re talking about--really!” But Hugh still took his ease; as if, with his eyes first on Bender and then on Lord Theign, whose back was practically presented, he were covertly studying signs. “Well,” he presently said, “in view of the very great interest combined with the very great rarity, more than--ah more than can be estimated off-hand.” It made Lord Theign turn round. “But a fine Moretto has a very great rarity and a very great interest.” “Yes--but not on the whole the same amount of either.” “No, not on the whole the same amount of either!” --Mr. Bender judiciously echoed it. “But how,” he freely pursued, “are you going to find out?” “Have I your permission, Lord Theign,” Hugh brightly asked, “to attempt to find out?” The question produced on his lordship’s part a visible, a natural anxiety. “What would it be your idea then to _do_ with my property?” “Nothing at all here--it could all be done, I think, at Verona. What besets, what quite haunts me,” Hugh explained, “is the vivid image of a Mantovano--one of the glories of the short list--in a private collection in that place. The conviction grows in me that the two portraits must be of the same original. In fact I’ll bet my head,” the young man quite ardently wound up,<|quote|>“that the wonderful subject of the Verona picture, a very great person clearly, is none other than the very great person of yours.”</|quote|>Lord Theign had listened with interest. “Mayn’t he be that and yet from another hand?” “It isn’t another hand” --oh Hugh was quite positive. “It’s the hand of the very same painter.” “How can you prove it’s the same?” “Only by the most intimate internal evidence, I admit--and evidence that of course has to be estimated.” “Then who,” Lord Theign asked, “is to estimate it?” “Well,” --Hugh was all ready-- “will you let Pap-pendick, one of the first authorities in Europe, a good friend of mine, in fact more or less my master, and who is generally to be found at Brussels? I happen to know he knows your picture--he once spoke to me of it; and he’ll go and look again at the Verona one, he’ll go and judge our issue, if I apply to him, in the light of certain new tips that I shall be able to give him.” Lord Theign appeared to wonder. “If you ‘apply’ to him?” “Like a shot, I believe, if I ask it of him--as a service.” “A service to _you?_ He’ll be very obliging,” his lordship smiled. “Well, I’ve obliged _him!_” Hugh readily retorted. “The obligation will be to we” --Lord Theign spoke more formally. “Well, the satisfaction,” said Hugh, “will be to all of us. The things Pappendick has seen he intensely, ineffaceably keeps in mind, to every detail; so that he’ll tell me--as no one else really can--if the Verona man is _your_ man.” “But then,” asked Mr. Bender, “we’ve got to believe anyway what he says?” “The market,” said Lord John with emphasis, “would have to believe it--that’s the point.” “Oh,” Hugh returned lightly, “the market will have nothing to do with it, I hope; but I think you’ll feel when he has spoken that you really know where you are.” Mr. Bender couldn’t doubt of that. “Oh, if he gives us a bigger thing we won’t complain. Only, how long will it take him to get there? I want him to start right away.” “Well, as I’m sure he’ll be deeply interested----” “We _may_” --Mr. Bender took it straight up-- “get news next week?” Hugh addressed his reply to Lord Theign; it was already a little too much as if he and the American between them were snatching the case from that possessor’s hands. “The day I hear from Pappendick you shall have a full report. And,”
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haven’t any--to speak of. Only it has seemed to me for a long time,” he added, “that on that head we should all feel together.” Lord Theign looked for a moment as if these were rather large presumptions; then he put them in their place a little curtly. “It’s one thing to keep our possessions for ourselves--it’s another to keep them for other people.” “Well,” Hugh good-humouredly returned, “I’m perhaps not so absolutely sure of myself, if you press me, as that I sha’n’t be glad of a higher and wiser opinion--I mean than my own. It would be awfully interesting, if you’ll allow me to say so, to have the judgment of one or two of the great men.” “You’re not yourself, Mr. Crimble, one of the great men?” his host asked with tempered irony. “Well, I guess he’s going to be, anyhow,” Mr. Bender cordially struck in; “and this remarkable exhibition of intelligence may just let him loose on the world, mayn’t it?” “Thank you, Mr. Bender!” --and Hugh obviously tried to look neither elated nor snubbed. “I’ve too much still to learn, but I’m learning every day, and I shall have learnt immensely this afternoon.” “Pretty well at my expense, however,” Lord Theign laughed, “if you demolish a name we’ve held for generations so dear.” “You may have held the name dear, my lord,” his young critic answered; “but my whole point is that, if I’m right, you’ve held the picture itself cheap.” “Because a Mantovano,” said Lord John, “is so much greater a value?” Hugh met his eyes a moment “Are you talking of values pecuniary?” “What values are _not_ pecuniary?” Hugh might, during his hesitation, have been imagined to stand off a little from the question. “Well, some things have in a higher degree that one, and some have the associational or the factitious, and some the clear artistic.” “And some,” Mr. Bender opined, “have them _all_--in the highest degree. But what you mean,” he went on, “is that a Mantovano would come higher under the hammer than a Moretto?” “Why, sir,” the young man returned, “there aren’t any, as I’ve just stated, _to_ ‘come.’ I account--or I easily can--for every one of the very small number.” “Then do you consider that you account for this one?” “I believe I shall if you’ll give me time.” “Oh, time!” Mr. Bender impatiently sighed. “But we’ll give you all we’ve got--only I guess it isn’t much.” And he appeared freely to invite their companions to join in this estimate. They listened to him, however, they watched him, for the moment, but in silence, and with the next he had gone on: “How much higher--if your idea is correct about it--would Lord Theign’s picture come?” Hugh turned to that nobleman. “Does Mr. Bender mean come to _him_, my lord?” Lord Theign looked again hard at Hugh, and then harder than he had done yet at his other invader. “I don’t know _what_ Mr. Bender means!” With which he turned off. “Well, I guess I mean that it would come higher to me than to any one! But how _much_ higher?” the American continued to Hugh. “How much higher to _you?_” “Oh, I can size _that_. How much higher as a Mantovano?” Unmistakably--for us at least--our young man was gaining time; he had the instinct of circumspection and delay. “To any one?” “To any one.” “Than as a Moretto?” Hugh continued. It even acted on Lord John’s nerves. “That’s what we’re talking about--really!” But Hugh still took his ease; as if, with his eyes first on Bender and then on Lord Theign, whose back was practically presented, he were covertly studying signs. “Well,” he presently said, “in view of the very great interest combined with the very great rarity, more than--ah more than can be estimated off-hand.” It made Lord Theign turn round. “But a fine Moretto has a very great rarity and a very great interest.” “Yes--but not on the whole the same amount of either.” “No, not on the whole the same amount of either!” --Mr. Bender judiciously echoed it. “But how,” he freely pursued, “are you going to find out?” “Have I your permission, Lord Theign,” Hugh brightly asked, “to attempt to find out?” The question produced on his lordship’s part a visible, a natural anxiety. “What would it be your idea then to _do_ with my property?” “Nothing at all here--it could all be done, I think, at Verona. What besets, what quite haunts me,” Hugh explained, “is the vivid image of a Mantovano--one of the glories of the short list--in a private collection in that place. The conviction grows in me that the two portraits must be of the same original. In fact I’ll bet my head,” the young man quite ardently wound up,<|quote|>“that the wonderful subject of the Verona picture, a very great person clearly, is none other than the very great person of yours.”</|quote|>Lord Theign had listened with interest. “Mayn’t he be that and yet from another hand?” “It isn’t another hand” --oh Hugh was quite positive. “It’s the hand of the very same painter.” “How can you prove it’s the same?” “Only by the most intimate internal evidence, I admit--and evidence that of course has to be estimated.” “Then who,” Lord Theign asked, “is to estimate it?” “Well,” --Hugh was all ready-- “will you let Pap-pendick, one of the first authorities in Europe, a good friend of mine, in fact more or less my master, and who is generally to be found at Brussels? I happen to know he knows your picture--he once spoke to me of it; and he’ll go and look again at the Verona one, he’ll go and judge our issue, if I apply to him, in the light of certain new tips that I shall be able to give him.” Lord Theign appeared to wonder. “If you ‘apply’ to him?” “Like a shot, I believe, if I ask it of him--as a service.” “A service to _you?_ He’ll be very obliging,” his lordship smiled. “Well, I’ve obliged _him!_” Hugh readily retorted. “The obligation will be to we” --Lord Theign spoke more formally. “Well, the satisfaction,” said Hugh, “will be to all of us. The things Pappendick has seen he intensely, ineffaceably keeps in mind, to every detail; so that he’ll tell me--as no one else really can--if the Verona man is _your_ man.” “But then,” asked Mr. Bender, “we’ve got to believe anyway what he says?” “The market,” said Lord John with emphasis, “would have to believe it--that’s the point.” “Oh,” Hugh returned lightly, “the market will have nothing to do with it, I hope; but I think you’ll feel when he has spoken that you really know where you are.” Mr. Bender couldn’t doubt of that. “Oh, if he gives us a bigger thing we won’t complain. Only, how long will it take him to get there? I want him to start right away.” “Well, as I’m sure he’ll be deeply interested----” “We _may_” --Mr. Bender took it straight up-- “get news next week?” Hugh addressed his reply to Lord Theign; it was already a little too much as if he and the American between them were snatching the case from that possessor’s hands. “The day I hear from Pappendick you shall have a full report. And,” he conscientiously added, “if I’m proved to have been unfortunately wrong----!” His lordship easily pointed the moral. “You’ll have caused me some inconvenience.” “Of course I shall,” the young man unreservedly agreed-- “like a wanton meddling ass!” His candour, his freedom had decidedly a note of their own. “But my conviction, after those moments with your picture, was too strong for me not to speak--and, since you allow it, I face the danger and risk the test.” “I allow it of course in the form of business.” This produced in Hugh a certain blankness. “‘Business’?” “If I consent to the inquiry I pay for the inquiry.” Hugh demurred. “Even if I turn out mistaken?” “You make me in any event your proper charge.” The young man thought again, and then as for vague accommodation: “Oh, my charge won’t be high!” “Ah,” Mr. Bender protested, “it ought to be handsome if the thing’s marked _up_!” After which he looked at his watch. “But I guess I’ve got to go, Lord Theign, though your lovely old Duchess--for it’s to _her_ I’ve lost my heart--does cry out for me again.” “You’ll find her then still there,” Lord John observed with emphasis, but with his eyes for the time on Lord Theign; “and if you want another look at her I’ll presently come and take one too.” “I’ll order your car to the garden-front,” Lord Theign added to this; “you’ll reach it from the saloon, but I’ll see you again first.” Mr. Bender glared as with the round full force of his pair of motor lamps. “Well, if you’re ready to talk about anything, I am. Good-bye, Mr. Crimble.” “Good-bye, Mr. Bender.” But Hugh, addressing their host while his fellow-guest returned to the saloon, broke into the familiarity of confidence. “As if you _could_ be ready to ‘talk’!” This produced on the part of the others present a mute exchange that could only have denoted surprise at all the irrepressible young outsider thus projected upon them took for granted. “I’ve an idea,” said Lord John to his friend, “that you’re quite ready to talk with _me_.” Hugh then, with his appetite so richly quickened, could but rejoice. “Lady Grace spoke to me of things in the library.” “You’ll find it _that_ way” --Lord Theign gave the indication. “Thanks,” said Hugh elatedly, and hastened away. Lord John, when he had gone, found relief in a
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we’ll give you all we’ve got--only I guess it isn’t much.” And he appeared freely to invite their companions to join in this estimate. They listened to him, however, they watched him, for the moment, but in silence, and with the next he had gone on: “How much higher--if your idea is correct about it--would Lord Theign’s picture come?” Hugh turned to that nobleman. “Does Mr. Bender mean come to _him_, my lord?” Lord Theign looked again hard at Hugh, and then harder than he had done yet at his other invader. “I don’t know _what_ Mr. Bender means!” With which he turned off. “Well, I guess I mean that it would come higher to me than to any one! But how _much_ higher?” the American continued to Hugh. “How much higher to _you?_” “Oh, I can size _that_. How much higher as a Mantovano?” Unmistakably--for us at least--our young man was gaining time; he had the instinct of circumspection and delay. “To any one?” “To any one.” “Than as a Moretto?” Hugh continued. It even acted on Lord John’s nerves. “That’s what we’re talking about--really!” But Hugh still took his ease; as if, with his eyes first on Bender and then on Lord Theign, whose back was practically presented, he were covertly studying signs. “Well,” he presently said, “in view of the very great interest combined with the very great rarity, more than--ah more than can be estimated off-hand.” It made Lord Theign turn round. “But a fine Moretto has a very great rarity and a very great interest.” “Yes--but not on the whole the same amount of either.” “No, not on the whole the same amount of either!” --Mr. Bender judiciously echoed it. “But how,” he freely pursued, “are you going to find out?” “Have I your permission, Lord Theign,” Hugh brightly asked, “to attempt to find out?” The question produced on his lordship’s part a visible, a natural anxiety. “What would it be your idea then to _do_ with my property?” “Nothing at all here--it could all be done, I think, at Verona. What besets, what quite haunts me,” Hugh explained, “is the vivid image of a Mantovano--one of the glories of the short list--in a private collection in that place. The conviction grows in me that the two portraits must be of the same original. In fact I’ll bet my head,” the young man quite ardently wound up,<|quote|>“that the wonderful subject of the Verona picture, a very great person clearly, is none other than the very great person of yours.”</|quote|>Lord Theign had listened with interest. “Mayn’t he be that and yet from another hand?” “It isn’t another hand” --oh Hugh was quite positive. “It’s the hand of the very same painter.” “How can you prove it’s the same?” “Only by the most intimate internal evidence, I admit--and evidence that of course has to be estimated.” “Then who,” Lord Theign asked, “is to estimate it?” “Well,” --Hugh was all ready-- “will you let Pap-pendick, one of the first authorities in Europe, a good friend of mine, in fact more or less my master, and who is generally to be found at Brussels? I happen to know he knows your picture--he once spoke to me of it; and he’ll go and look again at the Verona one, he’ll go and judge our issue, if I apply to him, in the light of certain new tips that I shall be able to give him.” Lord Theign appeared to wonder. “If you ‘apply’ to him?” “Like a shot, I believe, if I ask it of him--as a service.” “A service to _you?_ He’ll be very obliging,” his lordship smiled. “Well, I’ve obliged _him!_” Hugh readily retorted. “The obligation will be to we” --Lord Theign spoke more formally. “Well, the satisfaction,” said Hugh, “will be to all of us. The things Pappendick has seen he intensely, ineffaceably keeps in mind, to every detail; so that he’ll tell me--as no one else really can--if the Verona man is _your_ man.” “But then,” asked Mr. Bender, “we’ve got to believe anyway what he says?” “The market,” said Lord John with emphasis, “would have to believe it--that’s the point.” “Oh,” Hugh returned lightly, “the market will have nothing to do with it, I hope; but I think you’ll feel when he has spoken that you really know where you are.” Mr. Bender couldn’t doubt of that. “Oh, if he gives us a bigger thing we won’t complain. Only, how long will it take him to get there? I want him to start right away.” “Well, as I’m sure he’ll be deeply interested----” “We _may_” --Mr. Bender took it straight up-- “get news next week?” Hugh addressed his reply to Lord Theign; it was already a little too much as if he and the American between them were snatching the case from that possessor’s hands. “The day I hear from Pappendick you shall have a full report. And,” he conscientiously added, “if I’m proved to have been unfortunately wrong----!” His lordship easily pointed the moral. “You’ll have caused me some inconvenience.” “Of course I shall,” the young man unreservedly agreed-- “like a wanton meddling ass!” His candour, his freedom had decidedly a note of their own. “But my conviction, after those moments with your picture, was too strong for me not to speak--and, since you allow it, I face the danger and risk the test.” “I allow it of course in the
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The Outcry
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"It doesn t hurt any one to have to earn their own living. I m very glad I have to earn mine."
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Joan
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re talking nonsense," she said.<|quote|>"It doesn t hurt any one to have to earn their own living. I m very glad I have to earn mine."</|quote|>Ralph was pleased that she
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s cheek. "You know you re talking nonsense," she said.<|quote|>"It doesn t hurt any one to have to earn their own living. I m very glad I have to earn mine."</|quote|>Ralph was pleased that she should feel this, and wished
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Charles must write to Uncle John if he s going there." Ralph sighed impatiently. "I suppose it doesn t much matter either way," he exclaimed. "He s doomed to misery in the long run." A slight flush came into Joan s cheek. "You know you re talking nonsense," she said.<|quote|>"It doesn t hurt any one to have to earn their own living. I m very glad I have to earn mine."</|quote|>Ralph was pleased that she should feel this, and wished her to continue, but he went on, perversely enough. "Isn t that only because you ve forgotten how to enjoy yourself? You never have time for anything decent" "As for instance?" "Well, going for walks, or music, or books, or
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herself earned her own living. The infinite dreariness and sordidness of their life oppressed him in spite of his fundamental belief that, as a family, they were somehow remarkable. "Shall you talk to mother?" Joan inquired. "Because, you see, the thing s got to be settled, one way or another. Charles must write to Uncle John if he s going there." Ralph sighed impatiently. "I suppose it doesn t much matter either way," he exclaimed. "He s doomed to misery in the long run." A slight flush came into Joan s cheek. "You know you re talking nonsense," she said.<|quote|>"It doesn t hurt any one to have to earn their own living. I m very glad I have to earn mine."</|quote|>Ralph was pleased that she should feel this, and wished her to continue, but he went on, perversely enough. "Isn t that only because you ve forgotten how to enjoy yourself? You never have time for anything decent" "As for instance?" "Well, going for walks, or music, or books, or seeing interesting people. You never do anything that s really worth doing any more than I do." "I always think you could make this room much nicer, if you liked," she observed. "What does it matter what sort of room I have when I m forced to spend all the
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life of the Hilberys was getting the better of the life of the Denhams in his mind, and he wanted to assure himself that there was some quality in which Joan infinitely surpassed Miss Hilbery. He should have felt that his own sister was more original, and had greater vitality than Miss Hilbery had; but his main impression of Katharine now was of a person of great vitality and composure; and at the moment he could not perceive what poor dear Joan had gained from the fact that she was the granddaughter of a man who kept a shop, and herself earned her own living. The infinite dreariness and sordidness of their life oppressed him in spite of his fundamental belief that, as a family, they were somehow remarkable. "Shall you talk to mother?" Joan inquired. "Because, you see, the thing s got to be settled, one way or another. Charles must write to Uncle John if he s going there." Ralph sighed impatiently. "I suppose it doesn t much matter either way," he exclaimed. "He s doomed to misery in the long run." A slight flush came into Joan s cheek. "You know you re talking nonsense," she said.<|quote|>"It doesn t hurt any one to have to earn their own living. I m very glad I have to earn mine."</|quote|>Ralph was pleased that she should feel this, and wished her to continue, but he went on, perversely enough. "Isn t that only because you ve forgotten how to enjoy yourself? You never have time for anything decent" "As for instance?" "Well, going for walks, or music, or books, or seeing interesting people. You never do anything that s really worth doing any more than I do." "I always think you could make this room much nicer, if you liked," she observed. "What does it matter what sort of room I have when I m forced to spend all the best years of my life drawing up deeds in an office?" "You said two days ago that you found the law so interesting." "So it is if one could afford to know anything about it." (" "That s Herbert only just going to bed now," Joan interposed, as a door on the landing slammed vigorously. "And then he won t get up in the morning." ") Ralph looked at the ceiling, and shut his lips closely together. Why, he wondered, could Joan never for one moment detach her mind from the details of domestic life? It seemed to him that
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and balancing them together before she made up her mind. "Happiness," she remarked at length enigmatically, rather as if she were sampling the word, and then she paused. She paused for a considerable space, as if she were considering happiness in all its bearings. "Hilda was here to-day," she suddenly resumed, as if they had never mentioned happiness. "She brought Bobbie he s a fine boy now." Ralph observed, with an amusement that had a tinge of irony in it, that she was now going to sidle away quickly from this dangerous approach to intimacy on to topics of general and family interest. Nevertheless, he reflected, she was the only one of his family with whom he found it possible to discuss happiness, although he might very well have discussed happiness with Miss Hilbery at their first meeting. He looked critically at Joan, and wished that she did not look so provincial or suburban in her high green dress with the faded trimming, so patient, and almost resigned. He began to wish to tell her about the Hilberys in order to abuse them, for in the miniature battle which so often rages between two quickly following impressions of life, the life of the Hilberys was getting the better of the life of the Denhams in his mind, and he wanted to assure himself that there was some quality in which Joan infinitely surpassed Miss Hilbery. He should have felt that his own sister was more original, and had greater vitality than Miss Hilbery had; but his main impression of Katharine now was of a person of great vitality and composure; and at the moment he could not perceive what poor dear Joan had gained from the fact that she was the granddaughter of a man who kept a shop, and herself earned her own living. The infinite dreariness and sordidness of their life oppressed him in spite of his fundamental belief that, as a family, they were somehow remarkable. "Shall you talk to mother?" Joan inquired. "Because, you see, the thing s got to be settled, one way or another. Charles must write to Uncle John if he s going there." Ralph sighed impatiently. "I suppose it doesn t much matter either way," he exclaimed. "He s doomed to misery in the long run." A slight flush came into Joan s cheek. "You know you re talking nonsense," she said.<|quote|>"It doesn t hurt any one to have to earn their own living. I m very glad I have to earn mine."</|quote|>Ralph was pleased that she should feel this, and wished her to continue, but he went on, perversely enough. "Isn t that only because you ve forgotten how to enjoy yourself? You never have time for anything decent" "As for instance?" "Well, going for walks, or music, or books, or seeing interesting people. You never do anything that s really worth doing any more than I do." "I always think you could make this room much nicer, if you liked," she observed. "What does it matter what sort of room I have when I m forced to spend all the best years of my life drawing up deeds in an office?" "You said two days ago that you found the law so interesting." "So it is if one could afford to know anything about it." (" "That s Herbert only just going to bed now," Joan interposed, as a door on the landing slammed vigorously. "And then he won t get up in the morning." ") Ralph looked at the ceiling, and shut his lips closely together. Why, he wondered, could Joan never for one moment detach her mind from the details of domestic life? It seemed to him that she was getting more and more enmeshed in them, and capable of shorter and less frequent flights into the outer world, and yet she was only thirty-three. "D you ever pay calls now?" he asked abruptly. "I don t often have the time. Why do you ask?" "It might be a good thing, to get to know new people, that s all." "Poor Ralph!" said Joan suddenly, with a smile. "You think your sister s getting very old and very dull that s it, isn t it?" "I don t think anything of the kind," he said stoutly, but he flushed. "But you lead a dog s life, Joan. When you re not working in an office, you re worrying over the rest of us. And I m not much good to you, I m afraid." Joan rose, and stood for a moment warming her hands, and, apparently, meditating as to whether she should say anything more or not. A feeling of great intimacy united the brother and sister, and the semicircular lines above their eyebrows disappeared. No, there was nothing more to be said on either side. Joan brushed her brother s head with her hand as she passed
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run risks" "You really can t expect her to sell out again." "She ought to look upon it as an investment; but if she won t, we must find some other way, that s all." A threat was contained in this sentence, and Joan knew, without asking, what the threat was. In the course of his professional life, which now extended over six or seven years, Ralph had saved, perhaps, three or four hundred pounds. Considering the sacrifices he had made in order to put by this sum it always amazed Joan to find that he used it to gamble with, buying shares and selling them again, increasing it sometimes, sometimes diminishing it, and always running the risk of losing every penny of it in a day s disaster. But although she wondered, she could not help loving him the better for his odd combination of Spartan self-control and what appeared to her romantic and childish folly. Ralph interested her more than any one else in the world, and she often broke off in the middle of one of these economic discussions, in spite of their gravity, to consider some fresh aspect of his character. "I think you d be foolish to risk your money on poor old Charles," she observed. "Fond as I am of him, he doesn t seem to me exactly brilliant.... Besides, why should you be sacrificed?" "My dear Joan," Ralph exclaimed, stretching himself out with a gesture of impatience, "don t you see that we ve all got to be sacrificed? What s the use of denying it? What s the use of struggling against it? So it always has been, so it always will be. We ve got no money and we never shall have any money. We shall just turn round in the mill every day of our lives until we drop and die, worn out, as most people do, when one comes to think of it." Joan looked at him, opened her lips as if to speak, and closed them again. Then she said, very tentatively: "Aren t you happy, Ralph?" "No. Are you? Perhaps I m as happy as most people, though. God knows whether I m happy or not. What is happiness?" He glanced with half a smile, in spite of his gloomy irritation, at his sister. She looked, as usual, as if she were weighing one thing with another, and balancing them together before she made up her mind. "Happiness," she remarked at length enigmatically, rather as if she were sampling the word, and then she paused. She paused for a considerable space, as if she were considering happiness in all its bearings. "Hilda was here to-day," she suddenly resumed, as if they had never mentioned happiness. "She brought Bobbie he s a fine boy now." Ralph observed, with an amusement that had a tinge of irony in it, that she was now going to sidle away quickly from this dangerous approach to intimacy on to topics of general and family interest. Nevertheless, he reflected, she was the only one of his family with whom he found it possible to discuss happiness, although he might very well have discussed happiness with Miss Hilbery at their first meeting. He looked critically at Joan, and wished that she did not look so provincial or suburban in her high green dress with the faded trimming, so patient, and almost resigned. He began to wish to tell her about the Hilberys in order to abuse them, for in the miniature battle which so often rages between two quickly following impressions of life, the life of the Hilberys was getting the better of the life of the Denhams in his mind, and he wanted to assure himself that there was some quality in which Joan infinitely surpassed Miss Hilbery. He should have felt that his own sister was more original, and had greater vitality than Miss Hilbery had; but his main impression of Katharine now was of a person of great vitality and composure; and at the moment he could not perceive what poor dear Joan had gained from the fact that she was the granddaughter of a man who kept a shop, and herself earned her own living. The infinite dreariness and sordidness of their life oppressed him in spite of his fundamental belief that, as a family, they were somehow remarkable. "Shall you talk to mother?" Joan inquired. "Because, you see, the thing s got to be settled, one way or another. Charles must write to Uncle John if he s going there." Ralph sighed impatiently. "I suppose it doesn t much matter either way," he exclaimed. "He s doomed to misery in the long run." A slight flush came into Joan s cheek. "You know you re talking nonsense," she said.<|quote|>"It doesn t hurt any one to have to earn their own living. I m very glad I have to earn mine."</|quote|>Ralph was pleased that she should feel this, and wished her to continue, but he went on, perversely enough. "Isn t that only because you ve forgotten how to enjoy yourself? You never have time for anything decent" "As for instance?" "Well, going for walks, or music, or books, or seeing interesting people. You never do anything that s really worth doing any more than I do." "I always think you could make this room much nicer, if you liked," she observed. "What does it matter what sort of room I have when I m forced to spend all the best years of my life drawing up deeds in an office?" "You said two days ago that you found the law so interesting." "So it is if one could afford to know anything about it." (" "That s Herbert only just going to bed now," Joan interposed, as a door on the landing slammed vigorously. "And then he won t get up in the morning." ") Ralph looked at the ceiling, and shut his lips closely together. Why, he wondered, could Joan never for one moment detach her mind from the details of domestic life? It seemed to him that she was getting more and more enmeshed in them, and capable of shorter and less frequent flights into the outer world, and yet she was only thirty-three. "D you ever pay calls now?" he asked abruptly. "I don t often have the time. Why do you ask?" "It might be a good thing, to get to know new people, that s all." "Poor Ralph!" said Joan suddenly, with a smile. "You think your sister s getting very old and very dull that s it, isn t it?" "I don t think anything of the kind," he said stoutly, but he flushed. "But you lead a dog s life, Joan. When you re not working in an office, you re worrying over the rest of us. And I m not much good to you, I m afraid." Joan rose, and stood for a moment warming her hands, and, apparently, meditating as to whether she should say anything more or not. A feeling of great intimacy united the brother and sister, and the semicircular lines above their eyebrows disappeared. No, there was nothing more to be said on either side. Joan brushed her brother s head with her hand as she passed him, murmured good night, and left the room. For some minutes after she had gone Ralph lay quiescent, resting his head on his hand, but gradually his eyes filled with thought, and the line reappeared on his brow, as the pleasant impression of companionship and ancient sympathy waned, and he was left to think on alone. After a time he opened his book, and read on steadily, glancing once or twice at his watch, as if he had set himself a task to be accomplished in a certain measure of time. Now and then he heard voices in the house, and the closing of bedroom doors, which showed that the building, at the top of which he sat, was inhabited in every one of its cells. When midnight struck, Ralph shut his book, and with a candle in his hand, descended to the ground floor, to ascertain that all lights were extinct and all doors locked. It was a threadbare, well-worn house that he thus examined, as if the inmates had grazed down all luxuriance and plenty to the verge of decency; and in the night, bereft of life, bare places and ancient blemishes were unpleasantly visible. Katharine Hilbery, he thought, would condemn it off-hand. CHAPTER III Denham had accused Katharine Hilbery of belonging to one of the most distinguished families in England, and if any one will take the trouble to consult Mr. Galton s "Hereditary Genius," he will find that this assertion is not far from the truth. The Alardyces, the Hilberys, the Millingtons, and the Otways seem to prove that intellect is a possession which can be tossed from one member of a certain group to another almost indefinitely, and with apparent certainty that the brilliant gift will be safely caught and held by nine out of ten of the privileged race. They had been conspicuous judges and admirals, lawyers and servants of the State for some years before the richness of the soil culminated in the rarest flower that any family can boast, a great writer, a poet eminent among the poets of England, a Richard Alardyce; and having produced him, they proved once more the amazing virtues of their race by proceeding unconcernedly again with their usual task of breeding distinguished men. They had sailed with Sir John Franklin to the North Pole, and ridden with Havelock to the Relief of Lucknow, and when they
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at their first meeting. He looked critically at Joan, and wished that she did not look so provincial or suburban in her high green dress with the faded trimming, so patient, and almost resigned. He began to wish to tell her about the Hilberys in order to abuse them, for in the miniature battle which so often rages between two quickly following impressions of life, the life of the Hilberys was getting the better of the life of the Denhams in his mind, and he wanted to assure himself that there was some quality in which Joan infinitely surpassed Miss Hilbery. He should have felt that his own sister was more original, and had greater vitality than Miss Hilbery had; but his main impression of Katharine now was of a person of great vitality and composure; and at the moment he could not perceive what poor dear Joan had gained from the fact that she was the granddaughter of a man who kept a shop, and herself earned her own living. The infinite dreariness and sordidness of their life oppressed him in spite of his fundamental belief that, as a family, they were somehow remarkable. "Shall you talk to mother?" Joan inquired. "Because, you see, the thing s got to be settled, one way or another. Charles must write to Uncle John if he s going there." Ralph sighed impatiently. "I suppose it doesn t much matter either way," he exclaimed. "He s doomed to misery in the long run." A slight flush came into Joan s cheek. "You know you re talking nonsense," she said.<|quote|>"It doesn t hurt any one to have to earn their own living. I m very glad I have to earn mine."</|quote|>Ralph was pleased that she should feel this, and wished her to continue, but he went on, perversely enough. "Isn t that only because you ve forgotten how to enjoy yourself? You never have time for anything decent" "As for instance?" "Well, going for walks, or music, or books, or seeing interesting people. You never do anything that s really worth doing any more than I do." "I always think you could make this room much nicer, if you liked," she observed. "What does it matter what sort of room I have when I m forced to spend all the best years of my life drawing up deeds in an office?" "You said two days ago that you found the law so interesting." "So it is if one could afford to know anything about it." (" "That s Herbert only just going to bed now," Joan interposed, as a door on the landing slammed vigorously. "And then he won t get up in the morning." ") Ralph looked at the ceiling, and shut his lips closely together. Why, he wondered, could Joan never for one moment detach her mind from the details of domestic life? It seemed to him that she was getting more and more enmeshed in them, and capable of shorter and less frequent flights into the outer world, and yet she was only thirty-three. "D you ever pay calls now?" he asked abruptly. "I don t often have the time. Why do you ask?" "It might be a good thing, to get to know new people, that s all." "Poor Ralph!" said Joan suddenly, with a smile. "You think your sister s getting very old and very dull that s it, isn t it?" "I don t think anything of the kind," he said stoutly, but he flushed. "But you lead a dog s life, Joan. When you re not working in an office, you re worrying over the rest of us. And I m not much good to you, I m afraid." Joan rose, and stood for a moment warming her hands, and, apparently, meditating as to whether she should say anything more or not. A feeling of great intimacy united the brother and sister, and the semicircular lines above their eyebrows disappeared. No, there was nothing more to be said on either side. Joan brushed her brother s head with her hand as she passed him, murmured good night, and left the room. For some minutes after she had gone Ralph lay quiescent, resting his head on his hand, but gradually his eyes filled with thought, and the line reappeared on his brow, as the pleasant impression of companionship and ancient sympathy waned, and he was left to think on alone. After a time he opened his book, and read on steadily, glancing once
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Night And Day
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she said firmly.
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No speaker
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allow shop at tea, Sally,"<|quote|>she said firmly.</|quote|>"We fine her a penny
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her short. "We don t allow shop at tea, Sally,"<|quote|>she said firmly.</|quote|>"We fine her a penny each time she forgets, and
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t you think we should circularize the provinces with Partridge s last speech? What? You ve not read it? Oh, it s the best thing they ve had in the House this Session. Even the Prime Minister" But Mary cut her short. "We don t allow shop at tea, Sally,"<|quote|>she said firmly.</|quote|>"We fine her a penny each time she forgets, and the fines go to buying a plum cake," she explained, seeking to draw Katharine into the community. She had given up all hope of impressing her. "I m sorry, I m sorry," Mrs. Seal apologized. "It s my misfortune to
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the proofs still not come?" said Mrs. Seal, putting both her elbows on the table, and propping her chin on her hands, as Mary began to pour out tea. "It s too bad too bad. At this rate we shall miss the country post. Which reminds me, Mr. Clacton, don t you think we should circularize the provinces with Partridge s last speech? What? You ve not read it? Oh, it s the best thing they ve had in the House this Session. Even the Prime Minister" But Mary cut her short. "We don t allow shop at tea, Sally,"<|quote|>she said firmly.</|quote|>"We fine her a penny each time she forgets, and the fines go to buying a plum cake," she explained, seeking to draw Katharine into the community. She had given up all hope of impressing her. "I m sorry, I m sorry," Mrs. Seal apologized. "It s my misfortune to be an enthusiast," she said, turning to Katharine. "My father s daughter could hardly be anything else. I think I ve been on as many committees as most people. Waifs and Strays, Rescue Work, Church Work, C. O. S. local branch besides the usual civic duties which fall to one
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Katharine for the first time, suspiciously, because she was a person who needed cake. Here Mr. Clacton opened the door, and came in, holding a typewritten letter in his hand, which he was reading aloud. "Salford s affiliated," he said. "Well done, Salford!" Mrs. Seal exclaimed enthusiastically, thumping the teapot which she held upon the table, in token of applause. "Yes, these provincial centers seem to be coming into line at last," said Mr. Clacton, and then Mary introduced him to Miss Hilbery, and he asked her, in a very formal manner, if she were interested "in our work." "And the proofs still not come?" said Mrs. Seal, putting both her elbows on the table, and propping her chin on her hands, as Mary began to pour out tea. "It s too bad too bad. At this rate we shall miss the country post. Which reminds me, Mr. Clacton, don t you think we should circularize the provinces with Partridge s last speech? What? You ve not read it? Oh, it s the best thing they ve had in the House this Session. Even the Prime Minister" But Mary cut her short. "We don t allow shop at tea, Sally,"<|quote|>she said firmly.</|quote|>"We fine her a penny each time she forgets, and the fines go to buying a plum cake," she explained, seeking to draw Katharine into the community. She had given up all hope of impressing her. "I m sorry, I m sorry," Mrs. Seal apologized. "It s my misfortune to be an enthusiast," she said, turning to Katharine. "My father s daughter could hardly be anything else. I think I ve been on as many committees as most people. Waifs and Strays, Rescue Work, Church Work, C. O. S. local branch besides the usual civic duties which fall to one as a householder. But I ve given them all up for our work here, and I don t regret it for a second," she added. "This is the root question, I feel; until women have votes" "It ll be sixpence, at least, Sally," said Mary, bringing her fist down on the table. "And we re all sick to death of women and their votes." Mrs. Seal looked for a moment as though she could hardly believe her ears, and made a deprecating "tut-tut-tut" in her throat, looking alternately at Katharine and Mary, and shaking her head as she did so.
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out of place in the office. Her figure in the long cloak, which took deep folds, and her face, which was composed into a mask of sensitive apprehension, disturbed Mary for a moment with a sense of the presence of some one who was of another world, and, therefore, subversive of her world. She became immediately anxious that Katharine should be impressed by the importance of her world, and hoped that neither Mrs. Seal nor Mr. Clacton would appear until the impression of importance had been received. But in this she was disappointed. Mrs. Seal burst into the room holding a kettle in her hand, which she set upon the stove, and then, with inefficient haste, she set light to the gas, which flared up, exploded, and went out. "Always the way, always the way," she muttered. "Kit Markham is the only person who knows how to deal with the thing." Mary had to go to her help, and together they spread the table, and apologized for the disparity between the cups and the plainness of the food. "If we had known Miss Hilbery was coming, we should have bought a cake," said Mary, upon which Mrs. Seal looked at Katharine for the first time, suspiciously, because she was a person who needed cake. Here Mr. Clacton opened the door, and came in, holding a typewritten letter in his hand, which he was reading aloud. "Salford s affiliated," he said. "Well done, Salford!" Mrs. Seal exclaimed enthusiastically, thumping the teapot which she held upon the table, in token of applause. "Yes, these provincial centers seem to be coming into line at last," said Mr. Clacton, and then Mary introduced him to Miss Hilbery, and he asked her, in a very formal manner, if she were interested "in our work." "And the proofs still not come?" said Mrs. Seal, putting both her elbows on the table, and propping her chin on her hands, as Mary began to pour out tea. "It s too bad too bad. At this rate we shall miss the country post. Which reminds me, Mr. Clacton, don t you think we should circularize the provinces with Partridge s last speech? What? You ve not read it? Oh, it s the best thing they ve had in the House this Session. Even the Prime Minister" But Mary cut her short. "We don t allow shop at tea, Sally,"<|quote|>she said firmly.</|quote|>"We fine her a penny each time she forgets, and the fines go to buying a plum cake," she explained, seeking to draw Katharine into the community. She had given up all hope of impressing her. "I m sorry, I m sorry," Mrs. Seal apologized. "It s my misfortune to be an enthusiast," she said, turning to Katharine. "My father s daughter could hardly be anything else. I think I ve been on as many committees as most people. Waifs and Strays, Rescue Work, Church Work, C. O. S. local branch besides the usual civic duties which fall to one as a householder. But I ve given them all up for our work here, and I don t regret it for a second," she added. "This is the root question, I feel; until women have votes" "It ll be sixpence, at least, Sally," said Mary, bringing her fist down on the table. "And we re all sick to death of women and their votes." Mrs. Seal looked for a moment as though she could hardly believe her ears, and made a deprecating "tut-tut-tut" in her throat, looking alternately at Katharine and Mary, and shaking her head as she did so. Then she remarked, rather confidentially to Katharine, with a little nod in Mary s direction: "She s doing more for the cause than any of us. She s giving her youth for, alas! when I was young there were domestic circumstances" she sighed, and stopped short. Mr. Clacton hastily reverted to the joke about luncheon, and explained how Mrs. Seal fed on a bag of biscuits under the trees, whatever the weather might be, rather, Katharine thought, as though Mrs. Seal were a pet dog who had convenient tricks. "Yes, I took my little bag into the square," said Mrs. Seal, with the self-conscious guilt of a child owning some fault to its elders. "It was really very sustaining, and the bare boughs against the sky do one so much _good_. But I shall have to give up going into the square," she proceeded, wrinkling her forehead. "The injustice of it! Why should I have a beautiful square all to myself, when poor women who need rest have nowhere at all to sit?" She looked fiercely at Katharine, giving her short locks a little shake. "It s dreadful what a tyrant one still is, in spite of all one s
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the evening veil of unreality, was ill-adapted to her home surroundings. Perhaps, on the whole, a shop was the best place in which to preserve this queer sense of heightened existence. At the same time she wished to talk. Remembering Mary Datchet and her repeated invitations, she crossed the road, turned into Russell Square, and peered about, seeking for numbers with a sense of adventure that was out of all proportion to the deed itself. She found herself in a dimly lighted hall, unguarded by a porter, and pushed open the first swing door. But the office-boy had never heard of Miss Datchet. Did she belong to the S.R.F.R.? Katharine shook her head with a smile of dismay. A voice from within shouted, "No. The S.G.S. top floor." Katharine mounted past innumerable glass doors, with initials on them, and became steadily more and more doubtful of the wisdom of her venture. At the top she paused for a moment to breathe and collect herself. She heard the typewriter and formal professional voices inside, not belonging, she thought, to any one she had ever spoken to. She touched the bell, and the door was opened almost immediately by Mary herself. Her face had to change its expression entirely when she saw Katharine. "You!" she exclaimed. "We thought you were the printer." Still holding the door open, she called back, "No, Mr. Clacton, it s not Penningtons. I should ring them up again double three double eight, Central. Well, this is a surprise. Come in," she added. "You re just in time for tea." The light of relief shone in Mary s eyes. The boredom of the afternoon was dissipated at once, and she was glad that Katharine had found them in a momentary press of activity, owing to the failure of the printer to send back certain proofs. The unshaded electric light shining upon the table covered with papers dazed Katharine for a moment. After the confusion of her twilight walk, and her random thoughts, life in this small room appeared extremely concentrated and bright. She turned instinctively to look out of the window, which was uncurtained, but Mary immediately recalled her. "It was very clever of you to find your way," she said, and Katharine wondered, as she stood there, feeling, for the moment, entirely detached and unabsorbed, why she had come. She looked, indeed, to Mary s eyes strangely out of place in the office. Her figure in the long cloak, which took deep folds, and her face, which was composed into a mask of sensitive apprehension, disturbed Mary for a moment with a sense of the presence of some one who was of another world, and, therefore, subversive of her world. She became immediately anxious that Katharine should be impressed by the importance of her world, and hoped that neither Mrs. Seal nor Mr. Clacton would appear until the impression of importance had been received. But in this she was disappointed. Mrs. Seal burst into the room holding a kettle in her hand, which she set upon the stove, and then, with inefficient haste, she set light to the gas, which flared up, exploded, and went out. "Always the way, always the way," she muttered. "Kit Markham is the only person who knows how to deal with the thing." Mary had to go to her help, and together they spread the table, and apologized for the disparity between the cups and the plainness of the food. "If we had known Miss Hilbery was coming, we should have bought a cake," said Mary, upon which Mrs. Seal looked at Katharine for the first time, suspiciously, because she was a person who needed cake. Here Mr. Clacton opened the door, and came in, holding a typewritten letter in his hand, which he was reading aloud. "Salford s affiliated," he said. "Well done, Salford!" Mrs. Seal exclaimed enthusiastically, thumping the teapot which she held upon the table, in token of applause. "Yes, these provincial centers seem to be coming into line at last," said Mr. Clacton, and then Mary introduced him to Miss Hilbery, and he asked her, in a very formal manner, if she were interested "in our work." "And the proofs still not come?" said Mrs. Seal, putting both her elbows on the table, and propping her chin on her hands, as Mary began to pour out tea. "It s too bad too bad. At this rate we shall miss the country post. Which reminds me, Mr. Clacton, don t you think we should circularize the provinces with Partridge s last speech? What? You ve not read it? Oh, it s the best thing they ve had in the House this Session. Even the Prime Minister" But Mary cut her short. "We don t allow shop at tea, Sally,"<|quote|>she said firmly.</|quote|>"We fine her a penny each time she forgets, and the fines go to buying a plum cake," she explained, seeking to draw Katharine into the community. She had given up all hope of impressing her. "I m sorry, I m sorry," Mrs. Seal apologized. "It s my misfortune to be an enthusiast," she said, turning to Katharine. "My father s daughter could hardly be anything else. I think I ve been on as many committees as most people. Waifs and Strays, Rescue Work, Church Work, C. O. S. local branch besides the usual civic duties which fall to one as a householder. But I ve given them all up for our work here, and I don t regret it for a second," she added. "This is the root question, I feel; until women have votes" "It ll be sixpence, at least, Sally," said Mary, bringing her fist down on the table. "And we re all sick to death of women and their votes." Mrs. Seal looked for a moment as though she could hardly believe her ears, and made a deprecating "tut-tut-tut" in her throat, looking alternately at Katharine and Mary, and shaking her head as she did so. Then she remarked, rather confidentially to Katharine, with a little nod in Mary s direction: "She s doing more for the cause than any of us. She s giving her youth for, alas! when I was young there were domestic circumstances" she sighed, and stopped short. Mr. Clacton hastily reverted to the joke about luncheon, and explained how Mrs. Seal fed on a bag of biscuits under the trees, whatever the weather might be, rather, Katharine thought, as though Mrs. Seal were a pet dog who had convenient tricks. "Yes, I took my little bag into the square," said Mrs. Seal, with the self-conscious guilt of a child owning some fault to its elders. "It was really very sustaining, and the bare boughs against the sky do one so much _good_. But I shall have to give up going into the square," she proceeded, wrinkling her forehead. "The injustice of it! Why should I have a beautiful square all to myself, when poor women who need rest have nowhere at all to sit?" She looked fiercely at Katharine, giving her short locks a little shake. "It s dreadful what a tyrant one still is, in spite of all one s efforts. One tries to lead a decent life, but one can t. Of course, directly one thinks of it, one sees that _all_ squares should be open to _every one_. Is there any society with that object, Mr. Clacton? If not, there should be, surely." "A most excellent object," said Mr. Clacton in his professional manner. "At the same time, one must deplore the ramification of organizations, Mrs. Seal. So much excellent effort thrown away, not to speak of pounds, shillings, and pence. Now how many organizations of a philanthropic nature do you suppose there are in the City of London itself, Miss Hilbery?" he added, screwing his mouth into a queer little smile, as if to show that the question had its frivolous side. Katharine smiled, too. Her unlikeness to the rest of them had, by this time, penetrated to Mr. Clacton, who was not naturally observant, and he was wondering who she was; this same unlikeness had subtly stimulated Mrs. Seal to try and make a convert of her. Mary, too, looked at her almost as if she begged her to make things easy. For Katharine had shown no disposition to make things easy. She had scarcely spoken, and her silence, though grave and even thoughtful, seemed to Mary the silence of one who criticizes. "Well, there are more in this house than I d any notion of," she said. "On the ground floor you protect natives, on the next you emigrate women and tell people to eat nuts" "Why do you say that we do these things?" Mary interposed, rather sharply. "We re not responsible for all the cranks who choose to lodge in the same house with us." Mr. Clacton cleared his throat and looked at each of the young ladies in turn. He was a good deal struck by the appearance and manner of Miss Hilbery, which seemed to him to place her among those cultivated and luxurious people of whom he used to dream. Mary, on the other hand, was more of his own sort, and a little too much inclined to order him about. He picked up crumbs of dry biscuit and put them into his mouth with incredible rapidity. "You don t belong to our society, then?" said Mrs. Seal. "No, I m afraid I don t," said Katharine, with such ready candor that Mrs. Seal was nonplussed, and stared at her
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Mary immediately recalled her. "It was very clever of you to find your way," she said, and Katharine wondered, as she stood there, feeling, for the moment, entirely detached and unabsorbed, why she had come. She looked, indeed, to Mary s eyes strangely out of place in the office. Her figure in the long cloak, which took deep folds, and her face, which was composed into a mask of sensitive apprehension, disturbed Mary for a moment with a sense of the presence of some one who was of another world, and, therefore, subversive of her world. She became immediately anxious that Katharine should be impressed by the importance of her world, and hoped that neither Mrs. Seal nor Mr. Clacton would appear until the impression of importance had been received. But in this she was disappointed. Mrs. Seal burst into the room holding a kettle in her hand, which she set upon the stove, and then, with inefficient haste, she set light to the gas, which flared up, exploded, and went out. "Always the way, always the way," she muttered. "Kit Markham is the only person who knows how to deal with the thing." Mary had to go to her help, and together they spread the table, and apologized for the disparity between the cups and the plainness of the food. "If we had known Miss Hilbery was coming, we should have bought a cake," said Mary, upon which Mrs. Seal looked at Katharine for the first time, suspiciously, because she was a person who needed cake. Here Mr. Clacton opened the door, and came in, holding a typewritten letter in his hand, which he was reading aloud. "Salford s affiliated," he said. "Well done, Salford!" Mrs. Seal exclaimed enthusiastically, thumping the teapot which she held upon the table, in token of applause. "Yes, these provincial centers seem to be coming into line at last," said Mr. Clacton, and then Mary introduced him to Miss Hilbery, and he asked her, in a very formal manner, if she were interested "in our work." "And the proofs still not come?" said Mrs. Seal, putting both her elbows on the table, and propping her chin on her hands, as Mary began to pour out tea. "It s too bad too bad. At this rate we shall miss the country post. Which reminds me, Mr. Clacton, don t you think we should circularize the provinces with Partridge s last speech? What? You ve not read it? Oh, it s the best thing they ve had in the House this Session. Even the Prime Minister" But Mary cut her short. "We don t allow shop at tea, Sally,"<|quote|>she said firmly.</|quote|>"We fine her a penny each time she forgets, and the fines go to buying a plum cake," she explained, seeking to draw Katharine into the community. She had given up all hope of impressing her. "I m sorry, I m sorry," Mrs. Seal apologized. "It s my misfortune to be an enthusiast," she said, turning to Katharine. "My father s daughter could hardly be anything else. I think I ve been on as many committees as most people. Waifs and Strays, Rescue Work, Church Work, C. O. S. local branch besides the usual civic duties which fall to one as a householder. But I ve given them all up for our work here, and I don t regret it for a second," she added. "This is the root question, I feel; until women have votes" "It ll be sixpence, at least, Sally," said Mary, bringing her fist down on the table. "And we re all sick to death of women and their votes." Mrs. Seal looked for a moment as though she could hardly believe her ears, and made a deprecating "tut-tut-tut" in her throat, looking alternately at Katharine and Mary, and shaking her head as she did so. Then she remarked, rather confidentially to Katharine, with a little nod in Mary s direction: "She s doing more for the cause than any of us. She s giving her youth for, alas! when I was young there were domestic circumstances" she sighed, and stopped short. Mr. Clacton hastily reverted to the joke about luncheon, and explained how Mrs. Seal fed on a bag of biscuits under the trees, whatever the weather might be, rather, Katharine thought, as though Mrs. Seal were a pet dog who had convenient tricks. "Yes, I took my little bag into the square," said Mrs. Seal, with the self-conscious guilt of a child owning some fault to its elders. "It was really very sustaining, and the bare boughs against the sky do one so much _good_. But I shall have to give up going into the square," she proceeded, wrinkling her forehead. "The injustice of it! Why should I have a beautiful square all to myself, when poor women who need rest have nowhere at all to sit?" She looked fiercely at Katharine, giving her short locks a little shake. "It s dreadful what a tyrant one still is, in spite of all one s efforts. One tries to lead a decent life, but one can t. Of course, directly one thinks of it, one sees that _all_ squares should be open to _every one_. Is there any society with that object, Mr. Clacton? If not, there should be, surely." "A most excellent object," said Mr. Clacton in his professional manner. "At the same time, one must deplore the ramification of organizations, Mrs. Seal. So much excellent effort thrown away, not to speak of pounds, shillings, and pence. Now how many organizations of a philanthropic nature do you suppose there are in the City of London itself, Miss Hilbery?" he added, screwing his mouth into a queer little smile, as if to show that the question had its frivolous side. Katharine smiled, too. Her unlikeness to the rest of them had, by this time, penetrated to Mr. Clacton, who was not naturally
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Night And Day
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"I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly."
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Winnie-the-pooh
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to go away," said Pooh.<|quote|>"I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly."</|quote|>"And Piglet?" "I think Piglet
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of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh.<|quote|>"I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly."</|quote|>"And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the
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Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh.<|quote|>"I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly."</|quote|>"And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought. "Some can and
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or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh.<|quote|>"I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly."</|quote|>"And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought. "Some can and some can't. That's how it is." But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this
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"Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is," said Rabbit. "Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh.<|quote|>"I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly."</|quote|>"And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought. "Some can and some can't. That's how it is." But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to flying I never it."" And as he went up in the air he said, "_Ooooooo!_" and as he came down he said, "_Ow!_" And he was saying, "_Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow_" all the way to Kanga's house. Of course as soon as Kanga unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened. Just for a moment, she thought she was frightened, and then she knew she wasn't; for she felt quite sure that Christopher Robin would never let any harm happen to Roo. So she said to herself, "If they are having a joke with me,
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of it," said Piglet. "Oh, yes," said Kanga, but she still looked at Baby Roo. "_How_ did it go, Pooh?" said Rabbit. Pooh gave a little cough and began. "LINES WRITTEN BY A BEAR OF VERY LITTLE BRAIN On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: "Now is it true, or is it not," "That what is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose--but whose are these? On Friday---" - "Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is," said Rabbit. "Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh.<|quote|>"I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly."</|quote|>"And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought. "Some can and some can't. That's how it is." But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to flying I never it."" And as he went up in the air he said, "_Ooooooo!_" and as he came down he said, "_Ow!_" And he was saying, "_Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow_" all the way to Kanga's house. Of course as soon as Kanga unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened. Just for a moment, she thought she was frightened, and then she knew she wasn't; for she felt quite sure that Christopher Robin would never let any harm happen to Roo. So she said to herself, "If they are having a joke with me, I will have a joke with them." "Now then, Roo, dear," she said, as she took Piglet out of her pocket. "Bed-time." "_Aha!_" said Piglet, as well as he could after his Terrifying Journey. But it wasn't a very good "_Aha!_" and Kanga didn't seem to understand what it meant. "Bath first," said Kanga in a cheerful voice. "_Aha!_" said Piglet again, looking round anxiously for the others. But the others weren't there. Rabbit was playing with Baby Roo in his own house, and feeling more fond of him every minute, and Pooh, who had decided to be a Kanga, was still at the sandy place on the top of the Forest, practising jumps. "I am not at all sure," said Kanga in a thoughtful voice, "that it wouldn't be a good idea to have a _cold_ bath this evening. Would you like that, Roo, dear?" Piglet, who had never been really fond of baths, shuddered a long indignant shudder, and said in as brave a voice as he could: "Kanga, I see that the time has come to spleak painly." "Funny little Roo," said Kanga, as she got the bath-water ready. "I am _not_ Roo," said Piglet loudly. "I
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_we all three_ say it. As long as we all three say it," said Piglet, "I don't mind," he said, "but I shouldn't care to say '_Aha!_' by myself. It wouldn't sound _nearly_ so well. By the way," he said, "you _are_ quite sure about what you said about the winter months?" "The winter months?" "Yes, only being Fierce in the Winter Months." "Oh, yes, yes, that's all right. Well, Pooh? You see what you have to do?" "No," said Pooh Bear. "Not yet," he said. "What _do_ I do?" "Well, you just have to talk very hard to Kanga so as she doesn't notice anything." "Oh! What about?" "Anything you like." "You mean like telling her a little bit of poetry or something?" "That's it," said Rabbit. "Splendid. Now come along." So they all went out to look for Kanga. Kanga and Roo were spending a quiet afternoon in a sandy part of the Forest. Baby Roo was practising very small jumps in the sand, and falling down mouse-holes and climbing out of them, and Kanga was fidgeting about and saying "Just one more jump, dear, and then we must go home." And at that moment who should come stumping up the hill but Pooh. "Good afternoon, Kanga." "Good afternoon, Pooh." "Look at me jumping," squeaked Roo, and fell into another mouse-hole. "Hallo, Roo, my little fellow!" "We were just going home," said Kanga. "Good afternoon, Rabbit. Good afternoon, Piglet." Rabbit and Piglet, who had now come up from the other side of the hill, said "Good afternoon," and "Hallo, Roo," and Roo asked them to look at him jumping, so they stayed and looked. And Kanga looked too.... "Oh, Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice, "I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?" "Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear, just one more jump and then we must go home." There was a short silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up a little piece as I was coming along. It went like this. Er--now let me see----" "Fancy!" said Kanga. "Now Roo, dear----" "You'll like this piece of poetry," said Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it," said Piglet. "Oh, yes," said Kanga, but she still looked at Baby Roo. "_How_ did it go, Pooh?" said Rabbit. Pooh gave a little cough and began. "LINES WRITTEN BY A BEAR OF VERY LITTLE BRAIN On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: "Now is it true, or is it not," "That what is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose--but whose are these? On Friday---" - "Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is," said Rabbit. "Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh.<|quote|>"I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly."</|quote|>"And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought. "Some can and some can't. That's how it is." But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to flying I never it."" And as he went up in the air he said, "_Ooooooo!_" and as he came down he said, "_Ow!_" And he was saying, "_Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow_" all the way to Kanga's house. Of course as soon as Kanga unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened. Just for a moment, she thought she was frightened, and then she knew she wasn't; for she felt quite sure that Christopher Robin would never let any harm happen to Roo. So she said to herself, "If they are having a joke with me, I will have a joke with them." "Now then, Roo, dear," she said, as she took Piglet out of her pocket. "Bed-time." "_Aha!_" said Piglet, as well as he could after his Terrifying Journey. But it wasn't a very good "_Aha!_" and Kanga didn't seem to understand what it meant. "Bath first," said Kanga in a cheerful voice. "_Aha!_" said Piglet again, looking round anxiously for the others. But the others weren't there. Rabbit was playing with Baby Roo in his own house, and feeling more fond of him every minute, and Pooh, who had decided to be a Kanga, was still at the sandy place on the top of the Forest, practising jumps. "I am not at all sure," said Kanga in a thoughtful voice, "that it wouldn't be a good idea to have a _cold_ bath this evening. Would you like that, Roo, dear?" Piglet, who had never been really fond of baths, shuddered a long indignant shudder, and said in as brave a voice as he could: "Kanga, I see that the time has come to spleak painly." "Funny little Roo," said Kanga, as she got the bath-water ready. "I am _not_ Roo," said Piglet loudly. "I am Piglet!" "Yes, dear, yes," said Kanga soothingly. "And imitating Piglet's voice too! So clever of him," she went on, as she took a large bar of yellow soap out of the cupboard. "What _will_ he be doing next?" "Can't you _see_?" shouted Piglet. "Haven't you got _eyes_? _Look_ at me!" "I _am_ looking, Roo, dear," said Kanga rather severely. "And you know what I told you yesterday about making faces. If you go on making faces like Piglet's, you will grow up to _look_ like Piglet--and _then_ think how sorry you will be. Now then, into the bath, and don't let me have to speak to you about it again." Before he knew where he was, Piglet was in the bath, and Kanga was scrubbing him firmly with a large lathery flannel. "Ow!" cried Piglet. "Let me out! I'm Piglet!" "Don't open the mouth, dear, or the soap goes in," said Kanga. "There! What did I tell you?" "You--you--you did it on purpose," spluttered Piglet, as soon as he could speak again ... and then accidentally had another mouthful of lathery flannel. "That's right, dear, don't say anything," said Kanga, and in another minute Piglet was out of the bath, and being rubbed dry with a towel. "Now," said Kanga, "there's your medicine, and then bed." "W-w-what medicine?" said Piglet. "To make you grow big and strong, dear. You don't want to grow up small and weak like Piglet, do you? Well, then!" At that moment there was a knock at the door. "Come in," said Kanga, and in came Christopher Robin. "Christopher Robin, Christopher Robin!" cried Piglet. "Tell Kanga who I am! She keeps saying I'm Roo. I'm _not_ Roo, am I?" Christopher Robin looked at him very carefully, and shook his head. "You can't be Roo," he said, "because I've just seen Roo playing in Rabbit's house." "Well!" said Kanga. "Fancy that! Fancy my making a mistake like that." "There you are!" said Piglet. "I told you so. I'm Piglet." Christopher Robin shook his head again. "Oh, you're not Piglet," he said. "I know Piglet well, and he's _quite_ a different colour." Piglet began to say that this was because he had just had a bath, and then he thought that perhaps he wouldn't say that, and as he opened his mouth to say something else, Kanga slipped the medicine spoon in, and then patted him on
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Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it," said Piglet. "Oh, yes," said Kanga, but she still looked at Baby Roo. "_How_ did it go, Pooh?" said Rabbit. Pooh gave a little cough and began. "LINES WRITTEN BY A BEAR OF VERY LITTLE BRAIN On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: "Now is it true, or is it not," "That what is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose--but whose are these? On Friday---" - "Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is," said Rabbit. "Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh.<|quote|>"I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly."</|quote|>"And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought. "Some can and some can't. That's how it is." But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to flying I never it."" And as he went up in the air he said, "_Ooooooo!_" and as he came down he said, "_Ow!_" And he was saying, "_Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow_" all the way to Kanga's house. Of course as soon as Kanga unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened. Just for a moment, she thought she was frightened, and then she knew she wasn't; for she felt quite sure that Christopher Robin would never let any harm happen to Roo. So she said to herself, "If they are having a joke with me, I will have a joke with them." "Now then, Roo, dear," she said, as she took Piglet out of her pocket. "Bed-time." "_Aha!_" said Piglet, as well as he could after his Terrifying Journey. But it wasn't a very good "_Aha!_" and Kanga didn't seem to understand what it meant. "Bath first," said Kanga in a cheerful voice. "_Aha!_" said Piglet again, looking round anxiously for the others. But the others weren't there. Rabbit was playing with Baby Roo in his own house, and feeling more fond of him every minute, and Pooh, who had decided to be a Kanga, was still at the sandy place on the top of the Forest, practising jumps. "I am not at all sure," said Kanga in
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Winnie The Pooh
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said Jane, finding breath enough for utterance at last.
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No speaker
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him! Why, it's so romantic!"<|quote|>said Jane, finding breath enough for utterance at last.</|quote|>"Of course you'll speak to
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"Oh, Anne, how splendid of him! Why, it's so romantic!"<|quote|>said Jane, finding breath enough for utterance at last.</|quote|>"Of course you'll speak to him after this." "Of course
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murderers--because we had made--you be--Elaine. And Ruby is in hysterics--oh, Anne, how did you escape?" "I climbed up on one of the piles," explained Anne wearily, "and Gilbert Blythe came along in Mr. Andrews's dory and brought me to land." "Oh, Anne, how splendid of him! Why, it's so romantic!"<|quote|>said Jane, finding breath enough for utterance at last.</|quote|>"Of course you'll speak to him after this." "Of course I won't," flashed Anne, with a momentary return of her old spirit. "And I don't want ever to hear the word ?romantic' again, Jane Andrews. I'm awfully sorry you were so frightened, girls. It is all my fault. I feel
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across the brook to Green Gables. There they had found nobody either, for Marilla had gone to Carmody and Matthew was making hay in the back field. "Oh, Anne," gasped Diana, fairly falling on the former's neck and weeping with relief and delight, "oh, Anne--we thought--you were--drowned--and we felt like murderers--because we had made--you be--Elaine. And Ruby is in hysterics--oh, Anne, how did you escape?" "I climbed up on one of the piles," explained Anne wearily, "and Gilbert Blythe came along in Mr. Andrews's dory and brought me to land." "Oh, Anne, how splendid of him! Why, it's so romantic!"<|quote|>said Jane, finding breath enough for utterance at last.</|quote|>"Of course you'll speak to him after this." "Of course I won't," flashed Anne, with a momentary return of her old spirit. "And I don't want ever to hear the word ?romantic' again, Jane Andrews. I'm awfully sorry you were so frightened, girls. It is all my fault. I feel sure I was born under an unlucky star. Everything I do gets me or my dearest friends into a scrape. We've gone and lost your father's flat, Diana, and I have a presentiment that we'll not be allowed to row on the pond any more." Anne's presentiment proved more trustworthy
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still--! Altogether, Anne rather thought it would be a relief to sit down and have a good cry. She was really quite unstrung, for the reaction from her fright and cramped clinging was making itself felt. Halfway up the path she met Jane and Diana rushing back to the pond in a state narrowly removed from positive frenzy. They had found nobody at Orchard Slope, both Mr. and Mrs. Barry being away. Here Ruby Gillis had succumbed to hysterics, and was left to recover from them as best she might, while Jane and Diana flew through the Haunted Wood and across the brook to Green Gables. There they had found nobody either, for Marilla had gone to Carmody and Matthew was making hay in the back field. "Oh, Anne," gasped Diana, fairly falling on the former's neck and weeping with relief and delight, "oh, Anne--we thought--you were--drowned--and we felt like murderers--because we had made--you be--Elaine. And Ruby is in hysterics--oh, Anne, how did you escape?" "I climbed up on one of the piles," explained Anne wearily, "and Gilbert Blythe came along in Mr. Andrews's dory and brought me to land." "Oh, Anne, how splendid of him! Why, it's so romantic!"<|quote|>said Jane, finding breath enough for utterance at last.</|quote|>"Of course you'll speak to him after this." "Of course I won't," flashed Anne, with a momentary return of her old spirit. "And I don't want ever to hear the word ?romantic' again, Jane Andrews. I'm awfully sorry you were so frightened, girls. It is all my fault. I feel sure I was born under an unlucky star. Everything I do gets me or my dearest friends into a scrape. We've gone and lost your father's flat, Diana, and I have a presentiment that we'll not be allowed to row on the pond any more." Anne's presentiment proved more trustworthy than presentiments are apt to do. Great was the consternation in the Barry and Cuthbert households when the events of the afternoon became known. "Will you ever have any sense, Anne?" groaned Marilla. "Oh, yes, I think I will, Marilla," returned Anne optimistically. A good cry, indulged in the grateful solitude of the east gable, had soothed her nerves and restored her to her wonted cheerfulness. "I think my prospects of becoming sensible are brighter now than ever." "I don't see how," said Marilla. "Well," explained Anne, "I've learned a new and valuable lesson today. Ever since I came to
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Gilbert's hazel eyes was something that was very good to see. Her heart gave a quick, queer little beat. But the bitterness of her old grievance promptly stiffened up her wavering determination. That scene of two years before flashed back into her recollection as vividly as if it had taken place yesterday. Gilbert had called her "carrots" and had brought about her disgrace before the whole school. Her resentment, which to other and older people might be as laughable as its cause, was in no whit allayed and softened by time seemingly. She hated Gilbert Blythe! She would never forgive him! "No," she said coldly, "I shall never be friends with you, Gilbert Blythe; and I don't want to be!" "All right!" Gilbert sprang into his skiff with an angry color in his cheeks. "I'll never ask you to be friends again, Anne Shirley. And I don't care either!" He pulled away with swift defiant strokes, and Anne went up the steep, ferny little path under the maples. She held her head very high, but she was conscious of an odd feeling of regret. She almost wished she had answered Gilbert differently. Of course, he had insulted her terribly, but still--! Altogether, Anne rather thought it would be a relief to sit down and have a good cry. She was really quite unstrung, for the reaction from her fright and cramped clinging was making itself felt. Halfway up the path she met Jane and Diana rushing back to the pond in a state narrowly removed from positive frenzy. They had found nobody at Orchard Slope, both Mr. and Mrs. Barry being away. Here Ruby Gillis had succumbed to hysterics, and was left to recover from them as best she might, while Jane and Diana flew through the Haunted Wood and across the brook to Green Gables. There they had found nobody either, for Marilla had gone to Carmody and Matthew was making hay in the back field. "Oh, Anne," gasped Diana, fairly falling on the former's neck and weeping with relief and delight, "oh, Anne--we thought--you were--drowned--and we felt like murderers--because we had made--you be--Elaine. And Ruby is in hysterics--oh, Anne, how did you escape?" "I climbed up on one of the piles," explained Anne wearily, "and Gilbert Blythe came along in Mr. Andrews's dory and brought me to land." "Oh, Anne, how splendid of him! Why, it's so romantic!"<|quote|>said Jane, finding breath enough for utterance at last.</|quote|>"Of course you'll speak to him after this." "Of course I won't," flashed Anne, with a momentary return of her old spirit. "And I don't want ever to hear the word ?romantic' again, Jane Andrews. I'm awfully sorry you were so frightened, girls. It is all my fault. I feel sure I was born under an unlucky star. Everything I do gets me or my dearest friends into a scrape. We've gone and lost your father's flat, Diana, and I have a presentiment that we'll not be allowed to row on the pond any more." Anne's presentiment proved more trustworthy than presentiments are apt to do. Great was the consternation in the Barry and Cuthbert households when the events of the afternoon became known. "Will you ever have any sense, Anne?" groaned Marilla. "Oh, yes, I think I will, Marilla," returned Anne optimistically. A good cry, indulged in the grateful solitude of the east gable, had soothed her nerves and restored her to her wonted cheerfulness. "I think my prospects of becoming sensible are brighter now than ever." "I don't see how," said Marilla. "Well," explained Anne, "I've learned a new and valuable lesson today. Ever since I came to Green Gables I've been making mistakes, and each mistake has helped to cure me of some great shortcoming. The affair of the amethyst brooch cured me of meddling with things that didn't belong to me. The Haunted Wood mistake cured me of letting my imagination run away with me. The liniment cake mistake cured me of carelessness in cooking. Dyeing my hair cured me of vanity. I never think about my hair and nose now--at least, very seldom. And today's mistake is going to cure me of being too romantic. I have come to the conclusion that it is no use trying to be romantic in Avonlea. It was probably easy enough in towered Camelot hundreds of years ago, but romance is not appreciated now. I feel quite sure that you will soon see a great improvement in me in this respect, Marilla." "I'm sure I hope so," said Marilla skeptically. But Matthew, who had been sitting mutely in his corner, laid a hand on Anne's shoulder when Marilla had gone out. "Don't give up all your romance, Anne," he whispered shyly, "a little of it is a good thing--not too much, of course--but keep a little of it, Anne,
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come, but meanwhile her position was a very uncomfortable one. The minutes passed by, each seeming an hour to the unfortunate lily maid. Why didn't somebody come? Where had the girls gone? Suppose they had fainted, one and all! Suppose nobody ever came! Suppose she grew so tired and cramped that she could hold on no longer! Anne looked at the wicked green depths below her, wavering with long, oily shadows, and shivered. Her imagination began to suggest all manner of gruesome possibilities to her. Then, just as she thought she really could not endure the ache in her arms and wrists another moment, Gilbert Blythe came rowing under the bridge in Harmon Andrews's dory! Gilbert glanced up and, much to his amazement, beheld a little white scornful face looking down upon him with big, frightened but also scornful gray eyes. "Anne Shirley! How on earth did you get there?" he exclaimed. Without waiting for an answer he pulled close to the pile and extended his hand. There was no help for it; Anne, clinging to Gilbert Blythe's hand, scrambled down into the dory, where she sat, drabbled and furious, in the stern with her arms full of dripping shawl and wet crepe. It was certainly extremely difficult to be dignified under the circumstances! "What has happened, Anne?" asked Gilbert, taking up his oars. "We were playing Elaine" explained Anne frigidly, without even looking at her rescuer, "and I had to drift down to Camelot in the barge--I mean the flat. The flat began to leak and I climbed out on the pile. The girls went for help. Will you be kind enough to row me to the landing?" Gilbert obligingly rowed to the landing and Anne, disdaining assistance, sprang nimbly on shore. "I'm very much obliged to you," she said haughtily as she turned away. But Gilbert had also sprung from the boat and now laid a detaining hand on her arm. "Anne," he said hurriedly, "look here. Can't we be good friends? I'm awfully sorry I made fun of your hair that time. I didn't mean to vex you and I only meant it for a joke. Besides, it's so long ago. I think your hair is awfully pretty now--honest I do. Let's be friends." For a moment Anne hesitated. She had an odd, newly awakened consciousness under all her outraged dignity that the half-shy, half-eager expression in Gilbert's hazel eyes was something that was very good to see. Her heart gave a quick, queer little beat. But the bitterness of her old grievance promptly stiffened up her wavering determination. That scene of two years before flashed back into her recollection as vividly as if it had taken place yesterday. Gilbert had called her "carrots" and had brought about her disgrace before the whole school. Her resentment, which to other and older people might be as laughable as its cause, was in no whit allayed and softened by time seemingly. She hated Gilbert Blythe! She would never forgive him! "No," she said coldly, "I shall never be friends with you, Gilbert Blythe; and I don't want to be!" "All right!" Gilbert sprang into his skiff with an angry color in his cheeks. "I'll never ask you to be friends again, Anne Shirley. And I don't care either!" He pulled away with swift defiant strokes, and Anne went up the steep, ferny little path under the maples. She held her head very high, but she was conscious of an odd feeling of regret. She almost wished she had answered Gilbert differently. Of course, he had insulted her terribly, but still--! Altogether, Anne rather thought it would be a relief to sit down and have a good cry. She was really quite unstrung, for the reaction from her fright and cramped clinging was making itself felt. Halfway up the path she met Jane and Diana rushing back to the pond in a state narrowly removed from positive frenzy. They had found nobody at Orchard Slope, both Mr. and Mrs. Barry being away. Here Ruby Gillis had succumbed to hysterics, and was left to recover from them as best she might, while Jane and Diana flew through the Haunted Wood and across the brook to Green Gables. There they had found nobody either, for Marilla had gone to Carmody and Matthew was making hay in the back field. "Oh, Anne," gasped Diana, fairly falling on the former's neck and weeping with relief and delight, "oh, Anne--we thought--you were--drowned--and we felt like murderers--because we had made--you be--Elaine. And Ruby is in hysterics--oh, Anne, how did you escape?" "I climbed up on one of the piles," explained Anne wearily, "and Gilbert Blythe came along in Mr. Andrews's dory and brought me to land." "Oh, Anne, how splendid of him! Why, it's so romantic!"<|quote|>said Jane, finding breath enough for utterance at last.</|quote|>"Of course you'll speak to him after this." "Of course I won't," flashed Anne, with a momentary return of her old spirit. "And I don't want ever to hear the word ?romantic' again, Jane Andrews. I'm awfully sorry you were so frightened, girls. It is all my fault. I feel sure I was born under an unlucky star. Everything I do gets me or my dearest friends into a scrape. We've gone and lost your father's flat, Diana, and I have a presentiment that we'll not be allowed to row on the pond any more." Anne's presentiment proved more trustworthy than presentiments are apt to do. Great was the consternation in the Barry and Cuthbert households when the events of the afternoon became known. "Will you ever have any sense, Anne?" groaned Marilla. "Oh, yes, I think I will, Marilla," returned Anne optimistically. A good cry, indulged in the grateful solitude of the east gable, had soothed her nerves and restored her to her wonted cheerfulness. "I think my prospects of becoming sensible are brighter now than ever." "I don't see how," said Marilla. "Well," explained Anne, "I've learned a new and valuable lesson today. Ever since I came to Green Gables I've been making mistakes, and each mistake has helped to cure me of some great shortcoming. The affair of the amethyst brooch cured me of meddling with things that didn't belong to me. The Haunted Wood mistake cured me of letting my imagination run away with me. The liniment cake mistake cured me of carelessness in cooking. Dyeing my hair cured me of vanity. I never think about my hair and nose now--at least, very seldom. And today's mistake is going to cure me of being too romantic. I have come to the conclusion that it is no use trying to be romantic in Avonlea. It was probably easy enough in towered Camelot hundreds of years ago, but romance is not appreciated now. I feel quite sure that you will soon see a great improvement in me in this respect, Marilla." "I'm sure I hope so," said Marilla skeptically. But Matthew, who had been sitting mutely in his corner, laid a hand on Anne's shoulder when Marilla had gone out. "Don't give up all your romance, Anne," he whispered shyly, "a little of it is a good thing--not too much, of course--but keep a little of it, Anne, keep a little of it." CHAPTER XXIX. An Epoch in Anne's Life |ANNE was bringing the cows home from the back pasture by way of Lover's Lane. It was a September evening and all the gaps and clearings in the woods were brimmed up with ruby sunset light. Here and there the lane was splashed with it, but for the most part it was already quite shadowy beneath the maples, and the spaces under the firs were filled with a clear violet dusk like airy wine. The winds were out in their tops, and there is no sweeter music on earth than that which the wind makes in the fir trees at evening. The cows swung placidly down the lane, and Anne followed them dreamily, repeating aloud the battle canto from _Marmion_--which had also been part of their English course the preceding winter and which Miss Stacy had made them learn off by heart--and exulting in its rushing lines and the clash of spears in its imagery. When she came to the lines The stubborn spearsmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, she stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she might the better fancy herself one of that heroic ring. When she opened them again it was to behold Diana coming through the gate that led into the Barry field and looking so important that Anne instantly divined there was news to be told. But betray too eager curiosity she would not. "Isn't this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best; but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." "It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses." "Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it," cried Anne. "No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again." "Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?" Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment. "I can't think what it can be," said Anne in despair, "unless it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson
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maples. She held her head very high, but she was conscious of an odd feeling of regret. She almost wished she had answered Gilbert differently. Of course, he had insulted her terribly, but still--! Altogether, Anne rather thought it would be a relief to sit down and have a good cry. She was really quite unstrung, for the reaction from her fright and cramped clinging was making itself felt. Halfway up the path she met Jane and Diana rushing back to the pond in a state narrowly removed from positive frenzy. They had found nobody at Orchard Slope, both Mr. and Mrs. Barry being away. Here Ruby Gillis had succumbed to hysterics, and was left to recover from them as best she might, while Jane and Diana flew through the Haunted Wood and across the brook to Green Gables. There they had found nobody either, for Marilla had gone to Carmody and Matthew was making hay in the back field. "Oh, Anne," gasped Diana, fairly falling on the former's neck and weeping with relief and delight, "oh, Anne--we thought--you were--drowned--and we felt like murderers--because we had made--you be--Elaine. And Ruby is in hysterics--oh, Anne, how did you escape?" "I climbed up on one of the piles," explained Anne wearily, "and Gilbert Blythe came along in Mr. Andrews's dory and brought me to land." "Oh, Anne, how splendid of him! Why, it's so romantic!"<|quote|>said Jane, finding breath enough for utterance at last.</|quote|>"Of course you'll speak to him after this." "Of course I won't," flashed Anne, with a momentary return of her old spirit. "And I don't want ever to hear the word ?romantic' again, Jane Andrews. I'm awfully sorry you were so frightened, girls. It is all my fault. I feel sure I was born under an unlucky star. Everything I do gets me or my dearest friends into a scrape. We've gone and lost your father's flat, Diana, and I have a presentiment that we'll not be allowed to row on the pond any more." Anne's presentiment proved more trustworthy than presentiments are apt to do. Great was the consternation in the Barry and Cuthbert households when the events of the afternoon became known. "Will you ever have any sense, Anne?" groaned Marilla. "Oh, yes, I think I will, Marilla," returned Anne optimistically. A good cry, indulged in the grateful solitude of the east gable, had soothed her nerves and restored her to her wonted cheerfulness. "I think my prospects of becoming sensible are brighter now than ever." "I don't see how," said Marilla. "Well," explained Anne, "I've learned a new and valuable lesson today. Ever since I came to Green Gables I've been making mistakes, and each mistake has helped to cure me of some great shortcoming. The affair of the amethyst brooch cured me of meddling with things that didn't belong to me. The Haunted Wood mistake cured me of letting my imagination run away with me.
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Anne Of Green Gables
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“is the view that gets itself _most_ comfortably taken of the implications of Honour!”
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Crimble
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to person,” he brightly brooded,<|quote|>“is the view that gets itself _most_ comfortably taken of the implications of Honour!”</|quote|>“Yes,” the girl returned; “my
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position to position and person to person,” he brightly brooded,<|quote|>“is the view that gets itself _most_ comfortably taken of the implications of Honour!”</|quote|>“Yes,” the girl returned; “my father, in the act of
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of me, as his daughter’s trusted friend, out of the question.” “Well, you won’t mind that, will you?” Lady Grace asked, “if he finds his daughter herself, in any such relation to you, quite as much so.” “Different enough, from position to position and person to person,” he brightly brooded,<|quote|>“is the view that gets itself _most_ comfortably taken of the implications of Honour!”</|quote|>“Yes,” the girl returned; “my father, in the act of despoiling us all, all who are interested, without apparently the least unpleasant consciousness, keeps the balance showily even, to his mostly so fine, so delicate sense, by suddenly discovering that he’s scandalised at my caring for your friendship.” Hugh looked
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given him, at a stroke, he clearly felt, all freedom for the closer criticism. “Lord Theign perhaps recognises some such canny truth, but ‘takes care,’ with the least trouble to himself and the finest short cut--does it, if you’ll let me say so, rather on the cheap--by finding ‘the likes’ of me, as his daughter’s trusted friend, out of the question.” “Well, you won’t mind that, will you?” Lady Grace asked, “if he finds his daughter herself, in any such relation to you, quite as much so.” “Different enough, from position to position and person to person,” he brightly brooded,<|quote|>“is the view that gets itself _most_ comfortably taken of the implications of Honour!”</|quote|>“Yes,” the girl returned; “my father, in the act of despoiling us all, all who are interested, without apparently the least unpleasant consciousness, keeps the balance showily even, to his mostly so fine, so delicate sense, by suddenly discovering that he’s scandalised at my caring for your friendship.” Hugh looked at her, on this, as with the gladness verily of possession promised and only waiting--or as if from that moment forth he had her assurance of everything that most concerned him and that might most inspire. “Well, isn’t the moral of it all simply that what his perversity of pride,
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bare the light veil of an evasion, “‘Great people,’ I’ve learned to see, mustn’t--to remain great--do what my father’s doing.” “It’s indeed on the theory of their not so behaving,” Hugh returned, “that we see them--all the inferior rest of us--in the grand glamour of their greatness!” If he had spoken to meet her admirable frankness half-way, that beauty in her almost brushed him aside to make at a single step the rest of the journey. “You won’t see them in it for long--if they don’t now, under such tests and with such opportunities, begin to take care.” This had given him, at a stroke, he clearly felt, all freedom for the closer criticism. “Lord Theign perhaps recognises some such canny truth, but ‘takes care,’ with the least trouble to himself and the finest short cut--does it, if you’ll let me say so, rather on the cheap--by finding ‘the likes’ of me, as his daughter’s trusted friend, out of the question.” “Well, you won’t mind that, will you?” Lady Grace asked, “if he finds his daughter herself, in any such relation to you, quite as much so.” “Different enough, from position to position and person to person,” he brightly brooded,<|quote|>“is the view that gets itself _most_ comfortably taken of the implications of Honour!”</|quote|>“Yes,” the girl returned; “my father, in the act of despoiling us all, all who are interested, without apparently the least unpleasant consciousness, keeps the balance showily even, to his mostly so fine, so delicate sense, by suddenly discovering that he’s scandalised at my caring for your friendship.” Hugh looked at her, on this, as with the gladness verily of possession promised and only waiting--or as if from that moment forth he had her assurance of everything that most concerned him and that might most inspire. “Well, isn’t the moral of it all simply that what his perversity of pride, as we can only hold it, will have most done for us is to bring us--and to keep us--blessedly together?” She seemed for a moment to question his “simply.” “Do you regard us as so much ‘together’ when you remember where, in spite of everything, I’ve put myself?” “By telling him to do what he likes?” he recalled without embarrassment. “Oh, that wasn’t in spite of ‘everything’--it was only in spite of the Manto-vano.” “‘Only’?” she flushed-- “when I’ve given the picture up?” “Ah,” Hugh cried, “I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him,
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wanted it so adorably definite-- “that you didn’t see your way to accepting----?” “No, not to accepting the condition he named.” “Which was that he’d keep the picture for you if you’d treat me as too ‘low’----?” “If I’d treat you,” said Lady Grace with her eyes on his fine young face, “as impossible.” He kept her eyes--he clearly liked so to make her repeat it. “And not even for the sake of the picture--?” After he had given her time, however, her silence, with her beautiful look in it, seemed to admonish him not to force her for his pleasure; as if what she had already told him didn’t make him throb enough for the wonder of it. He _had_ it, and let her see by his high flush how he made it his own--while, the next thing, as it was but part of her avowal, the rest of that illumination called for a different intelligence. “Your father’s reprobation of me personally is on the ground that you’re all such great people?” She spared him the invidious answer to this as, a moment before, his eagerness had spared her reserve; she flung over the “ground” that his question laid bare the light veil of an evasion, “‘Great people,’ I’ve learned to see, mustn’t--to remain great--do what my father’s doing.” “It’s indeed on the theory of their not so behaving,” Hugh returned, “that we see them--all the inferior rest of us--in the grand glamour of their greatness!” If he had spoken to meet her admirable frankness half-way, that beauty in her almost brushed him aside to make at a single step the rest of the journey. “You won’t see them in it for long--if they don’t now, under such tests and with such opportunities, begin to take care.” This had given him, at a stroke, he clearly felt, all freedom for the closer criticism. “Lord Theign perhaps recognises some such canny truth, but ‘takes care,’ with the least trouble to himself and the finest short cut--does it, if you’ll let me say so, rather on the cheap--by finding ‘the likes’ of me, as his daughter’s trusted friend, out of the question.” “Well, you won’t mind that, will you?” Lady Grace asked, “if he finds his daughter herself, in any such relation to you, quite as much so.” “Different enough, from position to position and person to person,” he brightly brooded,<|quote|>“is the view that gets itself _most_ comfortably taken of the implications of Honour!”</|quote|>“Yes,” the girl returned; “my father, in the act of despoiling us all, all who are interested, without apparently the least unpleasant consciousness, keeps the balance showily even, to his mostly so fine, so delicate sense, by suddenly discovering that he’s scandalised at my caring for your friendship.” Hugh looked at her, on this, as with the gladness verily of possession promised and only waiting--or as if from that moment forth he had her assurance of everything that most concerned him and that might most inspire. “Well, isn’t the moral of it all simply that what his perversity of pride, as we can only hold it, will have most done for us is to bring us--and to keep us--blessedly together?” She seemed for a moment to question his “simply.” “Do you regard us as so much ‘together’ when you remember where, in spite of everything, I’ve put myself?” “By telling him to do what he likes?” he recalled without embarrassment. “Oh, that wasn’t in spite of ‘everything’--it was only in spite of the Manto-vano.” “‘Only’?” she flushed-- “when I’ve given the picture up?” “Ah,” Hugh cried, “I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him, closer, close to her with this, possess himself of her hands: “We both only care, don’t we, that we’re given to each other thus? We both only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?” “Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!” she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave the thing up _for_ me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given _me_ up----!” “For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?” “Well, if you will----!” “Oh for ever and ever and ever!” --and with this ardent cry of his devotion his arms closed in their strength and she was clasped to his breast and to his lips. The next moment, however, she had checked him with the warning “Amy Sandgate!” --as if she had heard their hostess enter the other room. Lady Sand-gate was in fact almost already upon them--their disjunction had scarce been effected and she had reached the nearer threshold. They had at once put the widest space possible between them--a little of the flurry of which transaction agitated doubtless their clutch at composure. They gave back a shade awkwardly and consciously, on one side and the
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“I can still hope--and I can still pray.” He set free again with a joyous gesture all his confidence. “Well, what more _could_ you do, anyhow? So isn’t that enough?” It took her a moment to say, and even then she didn’t. “Is it enough for _you_, Mr. Crimble?” “What _is_ enough for me” --he could for his part readily name it-- “is the harm done you at our last meeting by my irruption; so that if you got his consent to see me----!” “I didn’t get his consent!” --she had turned away from the searching eyes, but she faced them again to rectify: “I see you against his express command.” “Ah then thank God I came!” --it was like a bland breath on a _feu de joie_: he flamed so much higher. “Thank God you’ve come, yes--for my deplorable exposure.” And to justify her name for it before he could protest, “I _offered_ him here not to see you,” she rigorously explained. “‘Offered him?” --Hugh did drop for it. “Not to see me--ever again?” She didn’t falter. “Never again.” Ah then he understood. “But he wouldn’t let that serve----?” “Not for the price I put on it.” “His yielding on the picture?” “His yielding on the picture.” Hugh lingered before it all. “Your proposal wasn’t ‘good enough’?” “It wasn’t good enough.” “I see,” he repeated-- “I see.” But he was in that light again mystified. “Then why are you therefore not free?” “Because--just after--you came back, and I _did_ see you again!” Ah, it was all present. “You found you were too sorry for me?” “I found I was too sorry for you--as he himself found I was.” Hugh had got hold of it now. “And _that_, you mean, he couldn’t stomach?” “So little that when you had gone (and _how_ you had to go you remember) he at once proposed, rather than that I should deceive you in a way so different from his own----” “To do all we want of him?” “To do all I did at least.” “And it was _then_,” he took in, “that you wouldn’t deal?” “Well” --try though she might to keep the colour out, it all came straighter and straighter now-- “those moments had brought you home to me as they had also brought _him_; making such a difference, I felt, for what he veered round to agree to.” “The difference” --Hugh wanted it so adorably definite-- “that you didn’t see your way to accepting----?” “No, not to accepting the condition he named.” “Which was that he’d keep the picture for you if you’d treat me as too ‘low’----?” “If I’d treat you,” said Lady Grace with her eyes on his fine young face, “as impossible.” He kept her eyes--he clearly liked so to make her repeat it. “And not even for the sake of the picture--?” After he had given her time, however, her silence, with her beautiful look in it, seemed to admonish him not to force her for his pleasure; as if what she had already told him didn’t make him throb enough for the wonder of it. He _had_ it, and let her see by his high flush how he made it his own--while, the next thing, as it was but part of her avowal, the rest of that illumination called for a different intelligence. “Your father’s reprobation of me personally is on the ground that you’re all such great people?” She spared him the invidious answer to this as, a moment before, his eagerness had spared her reserve; she flung over the “ground” that his question laid bare the light veil of an evasion, “‘Great people,’ I’ve learned to see, mustn’t--to remain great--do what my father’s doing.” “It’s indeed on the theory of their not so behaving,” Hugh returned, “that we see them--all the inferior rest of us--in the grand glamour of their greatness!” If he had spoken to meet her admirable frankness half-way, that beauty in her almost brushed him aside to make at a single step the rest of the journey. “You won’t see them in it for long--if they don’t now, under such tests and with such opportunities, begin to take care.” This had given him, at a stroke, he clearly felt, all freedom for the closer criticism. “Lord Theign perhaps recognises some such canny truth, but ‘takes care,’ with the least trouble to himself and the finest short cut--does it, if you’ll let me say so, rather on the cheap--by finding ‘the likes’ of me, as his daughter’s trusted friend, out of the question.” “Well, you won’t mind that, will you?” Lady Grace asked, “if he finds his daughter herself, in any such relation to you, quite as much so.” “Different enough, from position to position and person to person,” he brightly brooded,<|quote|>“is the view that gets itself _most_ comfortably taken of the implications of Honour!”</|quote|>“Yes,” the girl returned; “my father, in the act of despoiling us all, all who are interested, without apparently the least unpleasant consciousness, keeps the balance showily even, to his mostly so fine, so delicate sense, by suddenly discovering that he’s scandalised at my caring for your friendship.” Hugh looked at her, on this, as with the gladness verily of possession promised and only waiting--or as if from that moment forth he had her assurance of everything that most concerned him and that might most inspire. “Well, isn’t the moral of it all simply that what his perversity of pride, as we can only hold it, will have most done for us is to bring us--and to keep us--blessedly together?” She seemed for a moment to question his “simply.” “Do you regard us as so much ‘together’ when you remember where, in spite of everything, I’ve put myself?” “By telling him to do what he likes?” he recalled without embarrassment. “Oh, that wasn’t in spite of ‘everything’--it was only in spite of the Manto-vano.” “‘Only’?” she flushed-- “when I’ve given the picture up?” “Ah,” Hugh cried, “I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him, closer, close to her with this, possess himself of her hands: “We both only care, don’t we, that we’re given to each other thus? We both only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?” “Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!” she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave the thing up _for_ me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given _me_ up----!” “For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?” “Well, if you will----!” “Oh for ever and ever and ever!” --and with this ardent cry of his devotion his arms closed in their strength and she was clasped to his breast and to his lips. The next moment, however, she had checked him with the warning “Amy Sandgate!” --as if she had heard their hostess enter the other room. Lady Sand-gate was in fact almost already upon them--their disjunction had scarce been effected and she had reached the nearer threshold. They had at once put the widest space possible between them--a little of the flurry of which transaction agitated doubtless their clutch at composure. They gave back a shade awkwardly and consciously, on one side and the other, the speculative though gracious attention she for a few moments made them and their recent intimate relation the subject of; from all of which indeed Lady Grace sought and found cover in a prompt and responsible address to Hugh. “Mustn’t you go without more delay to Clifford Street?” He came back to it all alert “At once!” He had recovered his hat and reached the other door, whence he gesticulated farewell to the elder lady. “Please pardon me” --and he disappeared. Lady Sandgate hereupon stood for a little silently confronted with the girl. “Have you freedom of mind for the fact that your father’s suddenly at hand?” “He has come back?” --Lady Grace was sharply struck. “He arrives this afternoon and appears to go straight to Kitty--according to a wire that I find downstairs on coming back late from my luncheon. He has returned with a rush--as,” said his correspondent in the elation of triumph, “I was _sure_ he would!” Her young friend was more at sea. “Brought back, you mean, by the outcry--even though he so hates it?” But she was more and more all lucidity--save in so far as she was now almost all authority. “Ah, hating still more to seem afraid, he has come back to face the music!” Lady Grace, turning away as in vague despair for the manner in which the music might affect him, yet wheeled about again, after thought, to a positive recognition and even to quite an inconsequent pride. “Yes--that’s dear old father!” And what was Lady Sandgate moreover but mistress now of the subject? “At the point the row has reached he couldn’t stand it another day; so he has thrown up his cure and--lest we should oppose him!--not even announced his start.” “Well,” her companion returned, “now that I’ve _done_ it all I shall never oppose him again!” Lady Sandgate appeared to show herself as still under the impression she might have received on entering. “He’ll only oppose _you!_” “If he does,” said Lady Grace, “we’re at present two to bear it.” “Heaven save us then” --the elder woman was quick, was even cordial, for the sense of this-- “your good friend _is_ clever!” Lady Grace honoured the remark. “Mr. Crim-ble’s remarkably clever.” “And you’ve arranged----?” “We haven’t arranged--but we’ve understood. So that, dear Amy, if _you_ understand--!” Lady Grace paused, for Gotch had come in from the hall.
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had gone (and _how_ you had to go you remember) he at once proposed, rather than that I should deceive you in a way so different from his own----” “To do all we want of him?” “To do all I did at least.” “And it was _then_,” he took in, “that you wouldn’t deal?” “Well” --try though she might to keep the colour out, it all came straighter and straighter now-- “those moments had brought you home to me as they had also brought _him_; making such a difference, I felt, for what he veered round to agree to.” “The difference” --Hugh wanted it so adorably definite-- “that you didn’t see your way to accepting----?” “No, not to accepting the condition he named.” “Which was that he’d keep the picture for you if you’d treat me as too ‘low’----?” “If I’d treat you,” said Lady Grace with her eyes on his fine young face, “as impossible.” He kept her eyes--he clearly liked so to make her repeat it. “And not even for the sake of the picture--?” After he had given her time, however, her silence, with her beautiful look in it, seemed to admonish him not to force her for his pleasure; as if what she had already told him didn’t make him throb enough for the wonder of it. He _had_ it, and let her see by his high flush how he made it his own--while, the next thing, as it was but part of her avowal, the rest of that illumination called for a different intelligence. “Your father’s reprobation of me personally is on the ground that you’re all such great people?” She spared him the invidious answer to this as, a moment before, his eagerness had spared her reserve; she flung over the “ground” that his question laid bare the light veil of an evasion, “‘Great people,’ I’ve learned to see, mustn’t--to remain great--do what my father’s doing.” “It’s indeed on the theory of their not so behaving,” Hugh returned, “that we see them--all the inferior rest of us--in the grand glamour of their greatness!” If he had spoken to meet her admirable frankness half-way, that beauty in her almost brushed him aside to make at a single step the rest of the journey. “You won’t see them in it for long--if they don’t now, under such tests and with such opportunities, begin to take care.” This had given him, at a stroke, he clearly felt, all freedom for the closer criticism. “Lord Theign perhaps recognises some such canny truth, but ‘takes care,’ with the least trouble to himself and the finest short cut--does it, if you’ll let me say so, rather on the cheap--by finding ‘the likes’ of me, as his daughter’s trusted friend, out of the question.” “Well, you won’t mind that, will you?” Lady Grace asked, “if he finds his daughter herself, in any such relation to you, quite as much so.” “Different enough, from position to position and person to person,” he brightly brooded,<|quote|>“is the view that gets itself _most_ comfortably taken of the implications of Honour!”</|quote|>“Yes,” the girl returned; “my father, in the act of despoiling us all, all who are interested, without apparently the least unpleasant consciousness, keeps the balance showily even, to his mostly so fine, so delicate sense, by suddenly discovering that he’s scandalised at my caring for your friendship.” Hugh looked at her, on this, as with the gladness verily of possession promised and only waiting--or as if from that moment forth he had her assurance of everything that most concerned him and that might most inspire. “Well, isn’t the moral of it all simply that what his perversity of pride, as we can only hold it, will have most done for us is to bring us--and to keep us--blessedly together?” She seemed for a moment to question his “simply.” “Do you regard us as so much ‘together’ when you remember where, in spite of everything, I’ve put myself?” “By telling him to do what he likes?” he recalled without embarrassment. “Oh, that wasn’t in spite of ‘everything’--it was only in spite of the Manto-vano.” “‘Only’?” she flushed-- “when I’ve given the picture up?” “Ah,” Hugh cried, “I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him, closer, close to her with this, possess himself of her hands: “We both only care, don’t we, that we’re given to each other thus? We both only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?” “Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!” she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave the thing up _for_ me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given _me_ up----!” “For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?” “Well, if you will----!” “Oh for ever and ever and ever!” --and with this ardent cry of his devotion his arms closed in their strength and she was clasped to his breast and to his lips. The next moment, however, she had checked him with the warning “Amy Sandgate!” --as if she had heard their hostess enter the other room. Lady Sand-gate was in fact almost already upon them--their disjunction had scarce been effected and she had reached the nearer threshold. They had at once put the widest space possible between them--a little of the flurry of which transaction agitated doubtless their clutch at composure. They gave back a shade awkwardly and consciously, on one side and the other, the speculative though gracious attention she for a few moments made them and their recent intimate relation the subject of; from all of which indeed Lady Grace sought and found cover in a prompt and responsible address to Hugh. “Mustn’t you go without more delay to Clifford Street?” He
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The Outcry
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Aziz did not know, but said he did. He too generalized from his disappointments it is difficult for members of a subject race to do otherwise. Granted the exceptions, he agreed that all Englishwomen are haughty and venal. The gleam passed from the conversation, whose wintry surface unrolled and expanded interminably. A servant announced dinner. They ignored him. The elder men had reached their eternal politics, Aziz drifted into the garden. The trees smelt sweet green-blossomed champak and scraps of Persian poetry came into his head. Dinner, dinner, dinner . . . but when he returned to the house for it, Mahmoud Ali had drifted away in his turn, to speak to his sais.
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No speaker
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you know what she is."<|quote|>Aziz did not know, but said he did. He too generalized from his disappointments it is difficult for members of a subject race to do otherwise. Granted the exceptions, he agreed that all Englishwomen are haughty and venal. The gleam passed from the conversation, whose wintry surface unrolled and expanded interminably. A servant announced dinner. They ignored him. The elder men had reached their eternal politics, Aziz drifted into the garden. The trees smelt sweet green-blossomed champak and scraps of Persian poetry came into his head. Dinner, dinner, dinner . . . but when he returned to the house for it, Mahmoud Ali had drifted away in his turn, to speak to his sais.</|quote|>"Come and see my wife
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like Mrs. Turton, and, Aziz, you know what she is."<|quote|>Aziz did not know, but said he did. He too generalized from his disappointments it is difficult for members of a subject race to do otherwise. Granted the exceptions, he agreed that all Englishwomen are haughty and venal. The gleam passed from the conversation, whose wintry surface unrolled and expanded interminably. A servant announced dinner. They ignored him. The elder men had reached their eternal politics, Aziz drifted into the garden. The trees smelt sweet green-blossomed champak and scraps of Persian poetry came into his head. Dinner, dinner, dinner . . . but when he returned to the house for it, Mahmoud Ali had drifted away in his turn, to speak to his sais.</|quote|>"Come and see my wife a little then," said Hamidullah,
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other, who only knew Anglo-India, had to ransack his memory for scraps, and it was not surprising that he should return to "But of course all this is exceptional. The exception does not prove the rule. The average woman is like Mrs. Turton, and, Aziz, you know what she is."<|quote|>Aziz did not know, but said he did. He too generalized from his disappointments it is difficult for members of a subject race to do otherwise. Granted the exceptions, he agreed that all Englishwomen are haughty and venal. The gleam passed from the conversation, whose wintry surface unrolled and expanded interminably. A servant announced dinner. They ignored him. The elder men had reached their eternal politics, Aziz drifted into the garden. The trees smelt sweet green-blossomed champak and scraps of Persian poetry came into his head. Dinner, dinner, dinner . . . but when he returned to the house for it, Mahmoud Ali had drifted away in his turn, to speak to his sais.</|quote|>"Come and see my wife a little then," said Hamidullah, and they spent twenty minutes behind the purdah. Hamidullah Begum was a distant aunt of Aziz, and the only female relative he had in Chandrapore, and she had much to say to him on this occasion about a family circumcision
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"All ladies are far from alike." Their mood was changed, and they recalled little kindnesses and courtesies. "She said" Thank you so much' "in the most natural way." "She offered me a lozenge when the dust irritated my throat." Hamidullah could remember more important examples of angelic ministration, but the other, who only knew Anglo-India, had to ransack his memory for scraps, and it was not surprising that he should return to "But of course all this is exceptional. The exception does not prove the rule. The average woman is like Mrs. Turton, and, Aziz, you know what she is."<|quote|>Aziz did not know, but said he did. He too generalized from his disappointments it is difficult for members of a subject race to do otherwise. Granted the exceptions, he agreed that all Englishwomen are haughty and venal. The gleam passed from the conversation, whose wintry surface unrolled and expanded interminably. A servant announced dinner. They ignored him. The elder men had reached their eternal politics, Aziz drifted into the garden. The trees smelt sweet green-blossomed champak and scraps of Persian poetry came into his head. Dinner, dinner, dinner . . . but when he returned to the house for it, Mahmoud Ali had drifted away in his turn, to speak to his sais.</|quote|>"Come and see my wife a little then," said Hamidullah, and they spent twenty minutes behind the purdah. Hamidullah Begum was a distant aunt of Aziz, and the only female relative he had in Chandrapore, and she had much to say to him on this occasion about a family circumcision that had been celebrated with imperfect pomp. It was difficult to get away, because until they had had their dinner she would not begin hers, and consequently prolonged her remarks in case they should suppose she was impatient. Having censured the circumcision, she bethought her of kindred topics, and asked
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him long ago. He will probably think that I want something, and I cannot face that from the son of my old friends. Oh, what in this country has gone wrong with everything, Vakil Sahib? I ask you." Aziz joined in. "Why talk about the English? Brrrr . . . ! Why be either friends with the fellows or not friends? Let us shut them out and be jolly. Queen Victoria and Mrs. Bannister were the only exceptions, and they're dead." "No, no, I do not admit that, I have met others." "So have I," said Mahmoud Ali, unexpectedly veering. "All ladies are far from alike." Their mood was changed, and they recalled little kindnesses and courtesies. "She said" Thank you so much' "in the most natural way." "She offered me a lozenge when the dust irritated my throat." Hamidullah could remember more important examples of angelic ministration, but the other, who only knew Anglo-India, had to ransack his memory for scraps, and it was not surprising that he should return to "But of course all this is exceptional. The exception does not prove the rule. The average woman is like Mrs. Turton, and, Aziz, you know what she is."<|quote|>Aziz did not know, but said he did. He too generalized from his disappointments it is difficult for members of a subject race to do otherwise. Granted the exceptions, he agreed that all Englishwomen are haughty and venal. The gleam passed from the conversation, whose wintry surface unrolled and expanded interminably. A servant announced dinner. They ignored him. The elder men had reached their eternal politics, Aziz drifted into the garden. The trees smelt sweet green-blossomed champak and scraps of Persian poetry came into his head. Dinner, dinner, dinner . . . but when he returned to the house for it, Mahmoud Ali had drifted away in his turn, to speak to his sais.</|quote|>"Come and see my wife a little then," said Hamidullah, and they spent twenty minutes behind the purdah. Hamidullah Begum was a distant aunt of Aziz, and the only female relative he had in Chandrapore, and she had much to say to him on this occasion about a family circumcision that had been celebrated with imperfect pomp. It was difficult to get away, because until they had had their dinner she would not begin hers, and consequently prolonged her remarks in case they should suppose she was impatient. Having censured the circumcision, she bethought her of kindred topics, and asked Aziz when he was going to be married. Respectful but irritated, he answered, "Once is enough." "Yes, he has done his duty," said Hamidullah. "Do not tease him so. He carries on his family, two boys and their sister." "Aunt, they live most comfortably with my wife's mother, where she was living when she died. I can see them whenever I like. They are such very, very small children." "And he sends them the whole of his salary and lives like a low-grade clerk, and tells no one the reason. What more do you require him to do?" But this
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"Oh, not yet hookah is so jolly now." "You are a very selfish boy." He raised his voice suddenly, and shouted for dinner. Servants shouted back that it was ready. They meant that they wished it was ready, and were so understood, for nobody moved. Then Hamidullah continued, but with changed manner and evident emotion. "But take my case the case of young Hugh Bannister. Here is the son of my dear, my dead friends, the Reverend and Mrs. Bannister, whose goodness to me in England I shall never forget or describe. They were father and mother to me, I talked to them as I do now. In the vacations their Rectory became my home. They entrusted all their children to me I often carried little Hugh about I took him up to the Funeral of Queen Victoria, and held him in my arms above the crowd." "Queen Victoria was different," murmured Mahmoud Ali. "I learn now that this boy is in business as a leather merchant at Cawnpore. Imagine how I long to see him and to pay his fare that this house may be his home. But it is useless. The other Anglo-Indians will have got hold of him long ago. He will probably think that I want something, and I cannot face that from the son of my old friends. Oh, what in this country has gone wrong with everything, Vakil Sahib? I ask you." Aziz joined in. "Why talk about the English? Brrrr . . . ! Why be either friends with the fellows or not friends? Let us shut them out and be jolly. Queen Victoria and Mrs. Bannister were the only exceptions, and they're dead." "No, no, I do not admit that, I have met others." "So have I," said Mahmoud Ali, unexpectedly veering. "All ladies are far from alike." Their mood was changed, and they recalled little kindnesses and courtesies. "She said" Thank you so much' "in the most natural way." "She offered me a lozenge when the dust irritated my throat." Hamidullah could remember more important examples of angelic ministration, but the other, who only knew Anglo-India, had to ransack his memory for scraps, and it was not surprising that he should return to "But of course all this is exceptional. The exception does not prove the rule. The average woman is like Mrs. Turton, and, Aziz, you know what she is."<|quote|>Aziz did not know, but said he did. He too generalized from his disappointments it is difficult for members of a subject race to do otherwise. Granted the exceptions, he agreed that all Englishwomen are haughty and venal. The gleam passed from the conversation, whose wintry surface unrolled and expanded interminably. A servant announced dinner. They ignored him. The elder men had reached their eternal politics, Aziz drifted into the garden. The trees smelt sweet green-blossomed champak and scraps of Persian poetry came into his head. Dinner, dinner, dinner . . . but when he returned to the house for it, Mahmoud Ali had drifted away in his turn, to speak to his sais.</|quote|>"Come and see my wife a little then," said Hamidullah, and they spent twenty minutes behind the purdah. Hamidullah Begum was a distant aunt of Aziz, and the only female relative he had in Chandrapore, and she had much to say to him on this occasion about a family circumcision that had been celebrated with imperfect pomp. It was difficult to get away, because until they had had their dinner she would not begin hers, and consequently prolonged her remarks in case they should suppose she was impatient. Having censured the circumcision, she bethought her of kindred topics, and asked Aziz when he was going to be married. Respectful but irritated, he answered, "Once is enough." "Yes, he has done his duty," said Hamidullah. "Do not tease him so. He carries on his family, two boys and their sister." "Aunt, they live most comfortably with my wife's mother, where she was living when she died. I can see them whenever I like. They are such very, very small children." "And he sends them the whole of his salary and lives like a low-grade clerk, and tells no one the reason. What more do you require him to do?" But this was not Hamidullah Begum's point, and having courteously changed the conversation for a few moments she returned and made it. She said, "What is to become of all our daughters if men refuse to marry? They will marry beneath them, or" And she began the oft-told tale of a lady of Imperial descent who could find no husband in the narrow circle where her pride permitted her to mate, and had lived on unwed, her age now thirty, and would die unwed, for no one would have her now. While the tale was in progress, it convinced the two men, the tragedy seemed a slur on the whole community; better polygamy almost, than that a woman should die without the joys God has intended her to receive. Wedlock, motherhood, power in the house for what else is she born, and how can the man who has denied them to her stand up to face her creator and his own at the last day? Aziz took his leave saying "Perhaps . . . but later . . ." his invariable reply to such an appeal. "You mustn't put off what you think right," said Hamidullah. "That is why India is in
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rising in front and the servants preparing dinner behind, and no trouble happening. "Well, look at my own experience this morning." "I only contend that it is possible in England," replied Hamidullah, who had been to that country long ago, before the big rush, and had received a cordial welcome at Cambridge. "It is impossible here. Aziz! The red-nosed boy has again insulted me in Court. I do not blame him. He was told that he ought to insult me. Until lately he was quite a nice boy, but the others have got hold of him." "Yes, they have no chance here, that is my point. They come out intending to be gentlemen, and are told it will not do. Look at Lesley, look at Blakiston, now it is your red-nosed boy, and Fielding will go next. Why, I remember when Turton came out first. It was in another part of the Province. You fellows will not believe me, but I have driven with Turton in his carriage Turton! Oh yes, we were once quite intimate. He has shown me his stamp collection." "He would expect you to steal it now. Turton! But red-nosed boy will be far worse than Turton!" "I do not think so. They all become exactly the same, not worse, not better. I give any Englishman two years, be he Turton or Burton. It is only the difference of a letter. And I give any Englishwoman six months. All are exactly alike. Do you not agree with me?" "I do not," replied Mahmoud Ali, entering into the bitter fun, and feeling both pain and amusement at each word that was uttered. "For my own part I find such profound differences among our rulers. Red-nose mumbles, Turton talks distinctly, Mrs. Turton takes bribes, Mrs. Red-nose does not and cannot, because so far there is no Mrs. Red-nose." "Bribes?" "Did you not know that when they were lent to Central India over a Canal Scheme, some Rajah or other gave her a sewing machine in solid gold so that the water should run through his state." "And does it?" "No, that is where Mrs. Turton is so skilful. When we poor blacks take bribes, we perform what we are bribed to perform, and the law discovers us in consequence. The English take and do nothing. I admire them." "We all admire them. Aziz, please pass me the hookah." "Oh, not yet hookah is so jolly now." "You are a very selfish boy." He raised his voice suddenly, and shouted for dinner. Servants shouted back that it was ready. They meant that they wished it was ready, and were so understood, for nobody moved. Then Hamidullah continued, but with changed manner and evident emotion. "But take my case the case of young Hugh Bannister. Here is the son of my dear, my dead friends, the Reverend and Mrs. Bannister, whose goodness to me in England I shall never forget or describe. They were father and mother to me, I talked to them as I do now. In the vacations their Rectory became my home. They entrusted all their children to me I often carried little Hugh about I took him up to the Funeral of Queen Victoria, and held him in my arms above the crowd." "Queen Victoria was different," murmured Mahmoud Ali. "I learn now that this boy is in business as a leather merchant at Cawnpore. Imagine how I long to see him and to pay his fare that this house may be his home. But it is useless. The other Anglo-Indians will have got hold of him long ago. He will probably think that I want something, and I cannot face that from the son of my old friends. Oh, what in this country has gone wrong with everything, Vakil Sahib? I ask you." Aziz joined in. "Why talk about the English? Brrrr . . . ! Why be either friends with the fellows or not friends? Let us shut them out and be jolly. Queen Victoria and Mrs. Bannister were the only exceptions, and they're dead." "No, no, I do not admit that, I have met others." "So have I," said Mahmoud Ali, unexpectedly veering. "All ladies are far from alike." Their mood was changed, and they recalled little kindnesses and courtesies. "She said" Thank you so much' "in the most natural way." "She offered me a lozenge when the dust irritated my throat." Hamidullah could remember more important examples of angelic ministration, but the other, who only knew Anglo-India, had to ransack his memory for scraps, and it was not surprising that he should return to "But of course all this is exceptional. The exception does not prove the rule. The average woman is like Mrs. Turton, and, Aziz, you know what she is."<|quote|>Aziz did not know, but said he did. He too generalized from his disappointments it is difficult for members of a subject race to do otherwise. Granted the exceptions, he agreed that all Englishwomen are haughty and venal. The gleam passed from the conversation, whose wintry surface unrolled and expanded interminably. A servant announced dinner. They ignored him. The elder men had reached their eternal politics, Aziz drifted into the garden. The trees smelt sweet green-blossomed champak and scraps of Persian poetry came into his head. Dinner, dinner, dinner . . . but when he returned to the house for it, Mahmoud Ali had drifted away in his turn, to speak to his sais.</|quote|>"Come and see my wife a little then," said Hamidullah, and they spent twenty minutes behind the purdah. Hamidullah Begum was a distant aunt of Aziz, and the only female relative he had in Chandrapore, and she had much to say to him on this occasion about a family circumcision that had been celebrated with imperfect pomp. It was difficult to get away, because until they had had their dinner she would not begin hers, and consequently prolonged her remarks in case they should suppose she was impatient. Having censured the circumcision, she bethought her of kindred topics, and asked Aziz when he was going to be married. Respectful but irritated, he answered, "Once is enough." "Yes, he has done his duty," said Hamidullah. "Do not tease him so. He carries on his family, two boys and their sister." "Aunt, they live most comfortably with my wife's mother, where she was living when she died. I can see them whenever I like. They are such very, very small children." "And he sends them the whole of his salary and lives like a low-grade clerk, and tells no one the reason. What more do you require him to do?" But this was not Hamidullah Begum's point, and having courteously changed the conversation for a few moments she returned and made it. She said, "What is to become of all our daughters if men refuse to marry? They will marry beneath them, or" And she began the oft-told tale of a lady of Imperial descent who could find no husband in the narrow circle where her pride permitted her to mate, and had lived on unwed, her age now thirty, and would die unwed, for no one would have her now. While the tale was in progress, it convinced the two men, the tragedy seemed a slur on the whole community; better polygamy almost, than that a woman should die without the joys God has intended her to receive. Wedlock, motherhood, power in the house for what else is she born, and how can the man who has denied them to her stand up to face her creator and his own at the last day? Aziz took his leave saying "Perhaps . . . but later . . ." his invariable reply to such an appeal. "You mustn't put off what you think right," said Hamidullah. "That is why India is in such a plight, because we put off things." But seeing that his young relative looked worried, he added a few soothing words, and thus wiped out any impression that his wife might have made. During their absence, Mahmoud Ali had gone off in his carriage leaving a message that he should be back in five minutes, but they were on no account to wait. They sat down to meat with a distant cousin of the house, Mohammed Latif, who lived on Hamidullah's bounty and who occupied the position neither of a servant nor of an equal. He did not speak unless spoken to, and since no one spoke kept unoffended silence. Now and then he belched, in compliment to the richness of the food. A gentle, happy and dishonest old man; all his life he had never done a stroke of work. So long as some one of his relatives had a house he was sure of a home, and it was unlikely that so large a family would all go bankrupt. His wife led a similar existence some hundreds of miles away he did not visit her, owing to the expense of the railway ticket. Presently Aziz chaffed him, also the servants, and then began quoting poetry, Persian, Urdu, a little Arabic. His memory was good, and for so young a man he had read largely; the themes he preferred were the decay of Islam and the brevity of love. They listened delighted, for they took the public view of poetry, not the private which obtains in England. It never bored them to hear words, words; they breathed them with the cool night air, never stopping to analyse; the name of the poet, Hafiz, Hali, Iqbal, was sufficient guarantee. India a hundred Indias whispered outside beneath the indifferent moon, but for the time India seemed one and their own, and they regained their departed greatness by hearing its departure lamented, they felt young again because reminded that youth must fly. A servant in scarlet interrupted him; he was the chuprassi of the Civil Surgeon, and he handed Aziz a note. "Old Callendar wants to see me at his bungalow," he said, not rising. "He might have the politeness to say why." "Some case, I daresay." "I daresay not, I daresay nothing. He has found out our dinner hour, that's all, and chooses to interrupt us every time, in order
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never forget or describe. They were father and mother to me, I talked to them as I do now. In the vacations their Rectory became my home. They entrusted all their children to me I often carried little Hugh about I took him up to the Funeral of Queen Victoria, and held him in my arms above the crowd." "Queen Victoria was different," murmured Mahmoud Ali. "I learn now that this boy is in business as a leather merchant at Cawnpore. Imagine how I long to see him and to pay his fare that this house may be his home. But it is useless. The other Anglo-Indians will have got hold of him long ago. He will probably think that I want something, and I cannot face that from the son of my old friends. Oh, what in this country has gone wrong with everything, Vakil Sahib? I ask you." Aziz joined in. "Why talk about the English? Brrrr . . . ! Why be either friends with the fellows or not friends? Let us shut them out and be jolly. Queen Victoria and Mrs. Bannister were the only exceptions, and they're dead." "No, no, I do not admit that, I have met others." "So have I," said Mahmoud Ali, unexpectedly veering. "All ladies are far from alike." Their mood was changed, and they recalled little kindnesses and courtesies. "She said" Thank you so much' "in the most natural way." "She offered me a lozenge when the dust irritated my throat." Hamidullah could remember more important examples of angelic ministration, but the other, who only knew Anglo-India, had to ransack his memory for scraps, and it was not surprising that he should return to "But of course all this is exceptional. The exception does not prove the rule. The average woman is like Mrs. Turton, and, Aziz, you know what she is."<|quote|>Aziz did not know, but said he did. He too generalized from his disappointments it is difficult for members of a subject race to do otherwise. Granted the exceptions, he agreed that all Englishwomen are haughty and venal. The gleam passed from the conversation, whose wintry surface unrolled and expanded interminably. A servant announced dinner. They ignored him. The elder men had reached their eternal politics, Aziz drifted into the garden. The trees smelt sweet green-blossomed champak and scraps of Persian poetry came into his head. Dinner, dinner, dinner . . . but when he returned to the house for it, Mahmoud Ali had drifted away in his turn, to speak to his sais.</|quote|>"Come and see my wife a little then," said Hamidullah, and they spent twenty minutes behind the purdah. Hamidullah Begum was a distant aunt of Aziz, and the only female relative he had in Chandrapore, and she had much to say to him on this occasion about a family circumcision that had been celebrated with imperfect pomp. It was difficult to get away, because until they had had their dinner she would not begin hers, and consequently prolonged her remarks in case they should suppose she was impatient. Having censured the circumcision, she bethought her of kindred topics, and asked Aziz when he was going to be married. Respectful but irritated, he answered, "Once is enough." "Yes, he has done his duty," said Hamidullah. "Do not tease him so. He carries on his family, two boys and their sister." "Aunt, they live most comfortably with my wife's mother, where she was living when she died. I can see them whenever I like. They are such very, very small children." "And he sends them the whole of his salary and lives like a low-grade clerk, and tells no one the reason. What more do you require him to do?" But this was not Hamidullah Begum's point, and having courteously changed the conversation for a few moments she returned and made it. She said, "What is to become of all our daughters if men refuse to marry? They will marry beneath them, or" And she began the oft-told tale of a lady of Imperial descent who could find no husband in the narrow circle where her pride permitted her to mate, and had lived on unwed, her age now thirty, and would die unwed, for no one would have her now. While the tale was in progress, it convinced the two men, the tragedy seemed a slur on the whole community; better polygamy almost, than that a woman should die without the joys God has intended her to receive. Wedlock, motherhood, power in the house for what else is she born, and how can the man who has denied them to her stand up to face her creator and his own at the last day? Aziz took
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A Passage To India
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"Into Santa Deodata s?"
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Mr. Herriton
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those cowardly people!--into the church."<|quote|>"Into Santa Deodata s?"</|quote|>"Yes; I m sure she
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I had finished speaking--just like those cowardly people!--into the church."<|quote|>"Into Santa Deodata s?"</|quote|>"Yes; I m sure she needs it. Anything more unchristian--"
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your peace with Miss Abbott. For if she chooses, she can help you better than I can." "There can be no peace between me and her," said Harriet gloomily. "Did you--" "Oh, not all I wanted. She went away before I had finished speaking--just like those cowardly people!--into the church."<|quote|>"Into Santa Deodata s?"</|quote|>"Yes; I m sure she needs it. Anything more unchristian--" In time Philip went to the church also, leaving his sister a little calmer and a little disposed to think over his advice. What had come over Miss Abbott? He had always thought her both stable and sincere. That conversation
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the rest of her. But Philip was averse to losing his temper. The access of joy that had come to him yesterday in the theatre promised to be permanent. He was more anxious than heretofore to be charitable towards the world. "If you want to carry off the baby, keep your peace with Miss Abbott. For if she chooses, she can help you better than I can." "There can be no peace between me and her," said Harriet gloomily. "Did you--" "Oh, not all I wanted. She went away before I had finished speaking--just like those cowardly people!--into the church."<|quote|>"Into Santa Deodata s?"</|quote|>"Yes; I m sure she needs it. Anything more unchristian--" In time Philip went to the church also, leaving his sister a little calmer and a little disposed to think over his advice. What had come over Miss Abbott? He had always thought her both stable and sincere. That conversation he had had with her last Christmas in the train to Charing Cross--that alone furnished him with a parallel. For the second time, Monteriano must have turned her head. He was not angry with her, for he was quite indifferent to the outcome of their expedition. He was only extremely
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she d lie." "I do." "When she got there, there was some pretty domestic scene between him and the baby, and she has got swept off in a gush of sentimentalism. Before very long, if I know anything about psychology, there will be a reaction. She ll be swept back." "I don t understand your long words. Say plainly--" "When she s swept back, she ll be invaluable. For she has made quite an impression on him. He thinks her so nice with the baby. You know, she washed it for him." "Disgusting!" Harriet s ejaculations were more aggravating than the rest of her. But Philip was averse to losing his temper. The access of joy that had come to him yesterday in the theatre promised to be permanent. He was more anxious than heretofore to be charitable towards the world. "If you want to carry off the baby, keep your peace with Miss Abbott. For if she chooses, she can help you better than I can." "There can be no peace between me and her," said Harriet gloomily. "Did you--" "Oh, not all I wanted. She went away before I had finished speaking--just like those cowardly people!--into the church."<|quote|>"Into Santa Deodata s?"</|quote|>"Yes; I m sure she needs it. Anything more unchristian--" In time Philip went to the church also, leaving his sister a little calmer and a little disposed to think over his advice. What had come over Miss Abbott? He had always thought her both stable and sincere. That conversation he had had with her last Christmas in the train to Charing Cross--that alone furnished him with a parallel. For the second time, Monteriano must have turned her head. He was not angry with her, for he was quite indifferent to the outcome of their expedition. He was only extremely interested. It was now nearly midday, and the streets were clearing. But the intense heat had broken, and there was a pleasant suggestion of rain. The Piazza, with its three great attractions--the Palazzo Pubblico, the Collegiate Church, and the Caffe Garibaldi: the intellect, the soul, and the body--had never looked more charming. For a moment Philip stood in its centre, much inclined to be dreamy, and thinking how wonderful it must feel to belong to a city, however mean. He was here, however, as an emissary of civilization and as a student of character, and, after a sigh, he entered
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about his second interview with Gino, he felt at the bottom of his heart that it would fail. Gino was too courteous: he would not break off negotiations by sharp denial; he loved this civil, half-humorous bargaining. And he loved fooling his opponent, and did it so nicely that his opponent did not mind being fooled. "Miss Abbott has behaved extraordinarily," he said at last; "but at the same time--" His sister would not hear him. She burst forth again on the madness, the interference, the intolerable duplicity of Caroline. "Harriet, you must listen. My dear, you must stop crying. I have something quite important to say." "I shall not stop crying," said she. But in time, finding that he would not speak to her, she did stop. "Remember that Miss Abbott has done us no harm. She said nothing to him about the matter. He assumes that she is working with us: I gathered that." "Well, she isn t." "Yes; but if you re careful she may be. I interpret her behaviour thus: She went to see him, honestly intending to get the child away. In the note she left me she says so, and I don t believe she d lie." "I do." "When she got there, there was some pretty domestic scene between him and the baby, and she has got swept off in a gush of sentimentalism. Before very long, if I know anything about psychology, there will be a reaction. She ll be swept back." "I don t understand your long words. Say plainly--" "When she s swept back, she ll be invaluable. For she has made quite an impression on him. He thinks her so nice with the baby. You know, she washed it for him." "Disgusting!" Harriet s ejaculations were more aggravating than the rest of her. But Philip was averse to losing his temper. The access of joy that had come to him yesterday in the theatre promised to be permanent. He was more anxious than heretofore to be charitable towards the world. "If you want to carry off the baby, keep your peace with Miss Abbott. For if she chooses, she can help you better than I can." "There can be no peace between me and her," said Harriet gloomily. "Did you--" "Oh, not all I wanted. She went away before I had finished speaking--just like those cowardly people!--into the church."<|quote|>"Into Santa Deodata s?"</|quote|>"Yes; I m sure she needs it. Anything more unchristian--" In time Philip went to the church also, leaving his sister a little calmer and a little disposed to think over his advice. What had come over Miss Abbott? He had always thought her both stable and sincere. That conversation he had had with her last Christmas in the train to Charing Cross--that alone furnished him with a parallel. For the second time, Monteriano must have turned her head. He was not angry with her, for he was quite indifferent to the outcome of their expedition. He was only extremely interested. It was now nearly midday, and the streets were clearing. But the intense heat had broken, and there was a pleasant suggestion of rain. The Piazza, with its three great attractions--the Palazzo Pubblico, the Collegiate Church, and the Caffe Garibaldi: the intellect, the soul, and the body--had never looked more charming. For a moment Philip stood in its centre, much inclined to be dreamy, and thinking how wonderful it must feel to belong to a city, however mean. He was here, however, as an emissary of civilization and as a student of character, and, after a sigh, he entered Santa Deodata s to continue his mission. There had been a FESTA two days before, and the church still smelt of incense and of garlic. The little son of the sacristan was sweeping the nave, more for amusement than for cleanliness, sending great clouds of dust over the frescoes and the scattered worshippers. The sacristan himself had propped a ladder in the centre of the Deluge--which fills one of the nave spandrels--and was freeing a column from its wealth of scarlet calico. Much scarlet calico also lay upon the floor--for the church can look as fine as any theatre--and the sacristan s little daughter was trying to fold it up. She was wearing a tinsel crown. The crown really belonged to St. Augustine. But it had been cut too big: it fell down over his cheeks like a collar: you never saw anything so absurd. One of the canons had unhooked it just before the FIESTA began, and had given it to the sacristan s daughter. "Please," cried Philip, "is there an English lady here?" The man s mouth was full of tin-tacks, but he nodded cheerfully towards a kneeling figure. In the midst of this confusion Miss Abbott was
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judged it better not to contradict her. "What s she here for? Answer me that. What s she doing in Monteriano in August? Why isn t she in Normandy? Answer that. She won t. I can: she s come to thwart us; she s betrayed us--got hold of mother s plans. Oh, goodness, my head!" He was unwise enough to reply, "You mustn t accuse her of that. Though she is exasperating, she hasn t come here to betray us." "Then why has she come here? Answer me that." He made no answer. But fortunately his sister was too much agitated to wait for one. "Bursting in on me--crying and looking a disgusting sight--and says she has been to see the Italian. Couldn t even talk properly; pretended she had changed her opinions. What are her opinions to us? I was very calm. I said: Miss Abbott, I think there is a little misapprehension in this matter. My mother, Mrs. Herriton-- Oh, goodness, my head! Of course you ve failed--don t trouble to answer--I know you ve failed. Where s the baby, pray? Of course you haven t got it. Dear sweet Caroline won t let you. Oh, yes, and we re to go away at once and trouble the father no more. Those are her commands. Commands! COMMANDS!" And Harriet also burst into tears. Philip governed his temper. His sister was annoying, but quite reasonable in her indignation. Moreover, Miss Abbott had behaved even worse than she supposed. "I ve not got the baby, Harriet, but at the same time I haven t exactly failed. I and Signor Carella are to have another interview this afternoon, at the Caffe Garibaldi. He is perfectly reasonable and pleasant. Should you be disposed to come with me, you would find him quite willing to discuss things. He is desperately in want of money, and has no prospect of getting any. I discovered that. At the same time, he has a certain affection for the child." For Philip s insight, or perhaps his opportunities, had not been equal to Miss Abbott s. Harriet would only sob, and accuse her brother of insulting her; how could a lady speak to such a horrible man? That, and nothing else, was enough to stamp Caroline. Oh, poor Lilia! Philip drummed on the bedroom window-sill. He saw no escape from the deadlock. For though he spoke cheerfully about his second interview with Gino, he felt at the bottom of his heart that it would fail. Gino was too courteous: he would not break off negotiations by sharp denial; he loved this civil, half-humorous bargaining. And he loved fooling his opponent, and did it so nicely that his opponent did not mind being fooled. "Miss Abbott has behaved extraordinarily," he said at last; "but at the same time--" His sister would not hear him. She burst forth again on the madness, the interference, the intolerable duplicity of Caroline. "Harriet, you must listen. My dear, you must stop crying. I have something quite important to say." "I shall not stop crying," said she. But in time, finding that he would not speak to her, she did stop. "Remember that Miss Abbott has done us no harm. She said nothing to him about the matter. He assumes that she is working with us: I gathered that." "Well, she isn t." "Yes; but if you re careful she may be. I interpret her behaviour thus: She went to see him, honestly intending to get the child away. In the note she left me she says so, and I don t believe she d lie." "I do." "When she got there, there was some pretty domestic scene between him and the baby, and she has got swept off in a gush of sentimentalism. Before very long, if I know anything about psychology, there will be a reaction. She ll be swept back." "I don t understand your long words. Say plainly--" "When she s swept back, she ll be invaluable. For she has made quite an impression on him. He thinks her so nice with the baby. You know, she washed it for him." "Disgusting!" Harriet s ejaculations were more aggravating than the rest of her. But Philip was averse to losing his temper. The access of joy that had come to him yesterday in the theatre promised to be permanent. He was more anxious than heretofore to be charitable towards the world. "If you want to carry off the baby, keep your peace with Miss Abbott. For if she chooses, she can help you better than I can." "There can be no peace between me and her," said Harriet gloomily. "Did you--" "Oh, not all I wanted. She went away before I had finished speaking--just like those cowardly people!--into the church."<|quote|>"Into Santa Deodata s?"</|quote|>"Yes; I m sure she needs it. Anything more unchristian--" In time Philip went to the church also, leaving his sister a little calmer and a little disposed to think over his advice. What had come over Miss Abbott? He had always thought her both stable and sincere. That conversation he had had with her last Christmas in the train to Charing Cross--that alone furnished him with a parallel. For the second time, Monteriano must have turned her head. He was not angry with her, for he was quite indifferent to the outcome of their expedition. He was only extremely interested. It was now nearly midday, and the streets were clearing. But the intense heat had broken, and there was a pleasant suggestion of rain. The Piazza, with its three great attractions--the Palazzo Pubblico, the Collegiate Church, and the Caffe Garibaldi: the intellect, the soul, and the body--had never looked more charming. For a moment Philip stood in its centre, much inclined to be dreamy, and thinking how wonderful it must feel to belong to a city, however mean. He was here, however, as an emissary of civilization and as a student of character, and, after a sigh, he entered Santa Deodata s to continue his mission. There had been a FESTA two days before, and the church still smelt of incense and of garlic. The little son of the sacristan was sweeping the nave, more for amusement than for cleanliness, sending great clouds of dust over the frescoes and the scattered worshippers. The sacristan himself had propped a ladder in the centre of the Deluge--which fills one of the nave spandrels--and was freeing a column from its wealth of scarlet calico. Much scarlet calico also lay upon the floor--for the church can look as fine as any theatre--and the sacristan s little daughter was trying to fold it up. She was wearing a tinsel crown. The crown really belonged to St. Augustine. But it had been cut too big: it fell down over his cheeks like a collar: you never saw anything so absurd. One of the canons had unhooked it just before the FIESTA began, and had given it to the sacristan s daughter. "Please," cried Philip, "is there an English lady here?" The man s mouth was full of tin-tacks, but he nodded cheerfully towards a kneeling figure. In the midst of this confusion Miss Abbott was praying. He was not much surprised: a spiritual breakdown was quite to be expected. For though he was growing more charitable towards mankind, he was still a little jaunty, and too apt to stake out beforehand the course that will be pursued by the wounded soul. It did not surprise him, however, that she should greet him naturally, with none of the sour self-consciousness of a person who had just risen from her knees. This was indeed the spirit of Santa Deodata s, where a prayer to God is thought none the worse of because it comes next to a pleasant word to a neighbour. "I am sure that I need it," said she; and he, who had expected her to be ashamed, became confused, and knew not what to reply. "I ve nothing to tell you," she continued. "I have simply changed straight round. If I had planned the whole thing out, I could not have treated you worse. I can talk it over now; but please believe that I have been crying." "And please believe that I have not come to scold you," said Philip. "I know what has happened." "What?" asked Miss Abbott. Instinctively she led the way to the famous chapel, the fifth chapel on the right, wherein Giovanni da Empoli has painted the death and burial of the saint. Here they could sit out of the dust and the noise, and proceed with a discussion which promised to be important. "What might have happened to me--he had made you believe that he loved the child." "Oh, yes; he has. He will never give it up." "At present it is still unsettled." "It will never be settled." "Perhaps not. Well, as I said, I know what has happened, and I am not here to scold you. But I must ask you to withdraw from the thing for the present. Harriet is furious. But she will calm down when she realizes that you have done us no harm, and will do none." "I can do no more," she said. "But I tell you plainly I have changed sides." "If you do no more, that is all we want. You promise not to prejudice our cause by speaking to Signor Carella?" "Oh, certainly. I don t want to speak to him again; I shan t ever see him again." "Quite nice, wasn t he?" "Quite." "Well, that s
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him, honestly intending to get the child away. In the note she left me she says so, and I don t believe she d lie." "I do." "When she got there, there was some pretty domestic scene between him and the baby, and she has got swept off in a gush of sentimentalism. Before very long, if I know anything about psychology, there will be a reaction. She ll be swept back." "I don t understand your long words. Say plainly--" "When she s swept back, she ll be invaluable. For she has made quite an impression on him. He thinks her so nice with the baby. You know, she washed it for him." "Disgusting!" Harriet s ejaculations were more aggravating than the rest of her. But Philip was averse to losing his temper. The access of joy that had come to him yesterday in the theatre promised to be permanent. He was more anxious than heretofore to be charitable towards the world. "If you want to carry off the baby, keep your peace with Miss Abbott. For if she chooses, she can help you better than I can." "There can be no peace between me and her," said Harriet gloomily. "Did you--" "Oh, not all I wanted. She went away before I had finished speaking--just like those cowardly people!--into the church."<|quote|>"Into Santa Deodata s?"</|quote|>"Yes; I m sure she needs it. Anything more unchristian--" In time Philip went to the church also, leaving his sister a little calmer and a little disposed to think over his advice. What had come over Miss Abbott? He had always thought her both stable and sincere. That conversation he had had with her last Christmas in the train to Charing Cross--that alone furnished him with a parallel. For the second time, Monteriano must have turned her head. He was not angry with her, for he was quite indifferent to the outcome of their expedition. He was only extremely interested. It was now nearly midday, and the streets were clearing. But the intense heat had broken, and there was a pleasant suggestion of rain. The Piazza, with its three great attractions--the Palazzo Pubblico, the Collegiate Church, and the Caffe Garibaldi: the intellect, the soul, and the body--had never looked more charming. For a moment Philip stood in its centre, much inclined to be dreamy, and thinking how wonderful it must feel to belong to a city, however mean. He was here, however, as an emissary of civilization and as a student of character, and, after a sigh, he entered Santa Deodata s to continue his mission. There had been a FESTA two days before, and the church still smelt of incense and of garlic. The little son of the sacristan was sweeping the nave, more for amusement than for cleanliness, sending great clouds of dust over the frescoes and the scattered worshippers. The sacristan himself had propped a ladder in the centre of the Deluge--which fills one of the nave spandrels--and was freeing a column from its wealth of scarlet calico. Much scarlet calico also lay upon the floor--for the church can look as fine as any theatre--and the sacristan s little daughter was trying to fold it up. She was wearing a tinsel crown. The crown really belonged to St. Augustine. But it had been cut too big: it fell down over his cheeks like a collar: you never saw anything so absurd. One of the canons had unhooked it just before the FIESTA began, and had given it to the sacristan s daughter. "Please," cried Philip, "is there an English lady here?" The man s mouth was full of tin-tacks, but he nodded cheerfully towards a kneeling figure. In the midst of this confusion Miss Abbott was praying. He was not much surprised: a spiritual breakdown was quite to be expected. For though he was growing more charitable towards mankind, he was still a little jaunty, and too apt to stake out beforehand the course that will be pursued by the wounded soul. It did not surprise him, however, that she should greet him naturally, with none of the sour self-consciousness of a person who had just risen from her knees. This was indeed the spirit of Santa Deodata s, where a prayer to God is thought none the worse of because it
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Where Angels Fear To Tread
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asked Anne, running breathlessly down from the east gable one February evening.
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No speaker
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Diana just for a minute?"<|quote|>asked Anne, running breathlessly down from the east gable one February evening.</|quote|>"I don't see what you
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I go over to see Diana just for a minute?"<|quote|>asked Anne, running breathlessly down from the east gable one February evening.</|quote|>"I don't see what you want to be traipsing about
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down to Lover's Lane. I assure you, Marilla, that I feel like praying tonight and I'm going to think out a special brand-new prayer in honor of the occasion." CHAPTER XIX. A Concert a Catastrophe and a Confession "MARILLA, can I go over to see Diana just for a minute?"<|quote|>asked Anne, running breathlessly down from the east gable one February evening.</|quote|>"I don't see what you want to be traipsing about after dark for," said Marilla shortly. "You and Diana walked home from school together and then stood down there in the snow for half an hour more, your tongues going the whole blessed time, clickety-clack. So I don't think you're
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walked over one plate and that had to be thrown away. But the making of it was splendid fun. Then when I came home Mrs. Barry asked me to come over as often as I could and Diana stood at the window and threw kisses to me all the way down to Lover's Lane. I assure you, Marilla, that I feel like praying tonight and I'm going to think out a special brand-new prayer in honor of the occasion." CHAPTER XIX. A Concert a Catastrophe and a Confession "MARILLA, can I go over to see Diana just for a minute?"<|quote|>asked Anne, running breathlessly down from the east gable one February evening.</|quote|>"I don't see what you want to be traipsing about after dark for," said Marilla shortly. "You and Diana walked home from school together and then stood down there in the snow for half an hour more, your tongues going the whole blessed time, clickety-clack. So I don't think you're very badly off to see her again." "But she wants to see me," pleaded Anne. "She has something very important to tell me." "How do you know she has?" "Because she just signaled to me from her window. We have arranged a way to signal with our candles and cardboard.
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brief sigh. "Well, anyway, when I am grown up," said Anne decidedly, "I'm always going to talk to little girls as if they were too, and I'll never laugh when they use big words. I know from sorrowful experience how that hurts one's feelings. After tea Diana and I made taffy. The taffy wasn't very good, I suppose because neither Diana nor I had ever made any before. Diana left me to stir it while she buttered the plates and I forgot and let it burn; and then when we set it out on the platform to cool the cat walked over one plate and that had to be thrown away. But the making of it was splendid fun. Then when I came home Mrs. Barry asked me to come over as often as I could and Diana stood at the window and threw kisses to me all the way down to Lover's Lane. I assure you, Marilla, that I feel like praying tonight and I'm going to think out a special brand-new prayer in honor of the occasion." CHAPTER XIX. A Concert a Catastrophe and a Confession "MARILLA, can I go over to see Diana just for a minute?"<|quote|>asked Anne, running breathlessly down from the east gable one February evening.</|quote|>"I don't see what you want to be traipsing about after dark for," said Marilla shortly. "You and Diana walked home from school together and then stood down there in the snow for half an hour more, your tongues going the whole blessed time, clickety-clack. So I don't think you're very badly off to see her again." "But she wants to see me," pleaded Anne. "She has something very important to tell me." "How do you know she has?" "Because she just signaled to me from her window. We have arranged a way to signal with our candles and cardboard. We set the candle on the window sill and make flashes by passing the cardboard back and forth. So many flashes mean a certain thing. It was my idea, Marilla." "I'll warrant you it was," said Marilla emphatically. "And the next thing you'll be setting fire to the curtains with your signaling nonsense." "Oh, we're very careful, Marilla. And it's so interesting. Two flashes mean, ?Are you there?' Three mean ?yes' and four ?no.' Five mean, ?Come over as soon as possible, because I have something important to reveal.' Diana has just signaled five flashes, and I'm really suffering to
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fancy crochet stitch her aunt over at Carmody taught her. Not a soul in Avonlea knows it but us, and we pledged a solemn vow never to reveal it to anyone else. Diana gave me a beautiful card with a wreath of roses on it and a verse of poetry:" "If you love me as I love you Nothing but death can part us two." "And that is true, Marilla. We're going to ask Mr. Phillips to let us sit together in school again, and Gertie Pye can go with Minnie Andrews. We had an elegant tea. Mrs. Barry had the very best china set out, Marilla, just as if I was real company. I can't tell you what a thrill it gave me. Nobody ever used their very best china on my account before. And we had fruit cake and pound cake and doughnuts and two kinds of preserves, Marilla. And Mrs. Barry asked me if I took tea and said" ?Pa, why don't you pass the biscuits to Anne?' "It must be lovely to be grown up, Marilla, when just being treated as if you were is so nice." "I don't know about that," said Marilla, with a brief sigh. "Well, anyway, when I am grown up," said Anne decidedly, "I'm always going to talk to little girls as if they were too, and I'll never laugh when they use big words. I know from sorrowful experience how that hurts one's feelings. After tea Diana and I made taffy. The taffy wasn't very good, I suppose because neither Diana nor I had ever made any before. Diana left me to stir it while she buttered the plates and I forgot and let it burn; and then when we set it out on the platform to cool the cat walked over one plate and that had to be thrown away. But the making of it was splendid fun. Then when I came home Mrs. Barry asked me to come over as often as I could and Diana stood at the window and threw kisses to me all the way down to Lover's Lane. I assure you, Marilla, that I feel like praying tonight and I'm going to think out a special brand-new prayer in honor of the occasion." CHAPTER XIX. A Concert a Catastrophe and a Confession "MARILLA, can I go over to see Diana just for a minute?"<|quote|>asked Anne, running breathlessly down from the east gable one February evening.</|quote|>"I don't see what you want to be traipsing about after dark for," said Marilla shortly. "You and Diana walked home from school together and then stood down there in the snow for half an hour more, your tongues going the whole blessed time, clickety-clack. So I don't think you're very badly off to see her again." "But she wants to see me," pleaded Anne. "She has something very important to tell me." "How do you know she has?" "Because she just signaled to me from her window. We have arranged a way to signal with our candles and cardboard. We set the candle on the window sill and make flashes by passing the cardboard back and forth. So many flashes mean a certain thing. It was my idea, Marilla." "I'll warrant you it was," said Marilla emphatically. "And the next thing you'll be setting fire to the curtains with your signaling nonsense." "Oh, we're very careful, Marilla. And it's so interesting. Two flashes mean, ?Are you there?' Three mean ?yes' and four ?no.' Five mean, ?Come over as soon as possible, because I have something important to reveal.' Diana has just signaled five flashes, and I'm really suffering to know what it is." "Well, you needn't suffer any longer," said Marilla sarcastically. "You can go, but you're to be back here in just ten minutes, remember that." Anne did remember it and was back in the stipulated time, although probably no mortal will ever know just what it cost her to confine the discussion of Diana's important communication within the limits of ten minutes. But at least she had made good use of them. "Oh, Marilla, what do you think? You know tomorrow is Diana's birthday. Well, her mother told her she could ask me to go home with her from school and stay all night with her. And her cousins are coming over from Newbridge in a big pung sleigh to go to the Debating Club concert at the hall tomorrow night. And they are going to take Diana and me to the concert--if you'll let me go, that is. You will, won't you, Marilla? Oh, I feel so excited." "You can calm down then, because you're not going. You're better at home in your own bed, and as for that club concert, it's all nonsense, and little girls should not be allowed to go out to such
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of the currant wine. She says she knows now you didn't mean to set Diana drunk, and she hopes you'll forgive her and be good friends with Diana again. You're to go over this evening if you like for Diana can't stir outside the door on account of a bad cold she caught last night. Now, Anne Shirley, for pity's sake don't fly up into the air." The warning seemed not unnecessary, so uplifted and aerial was Anne's expression and attitude as she sprang to her feet, her face irradiated with the flame of her spirit. "Oh, Marilla, can I go right now--without washing my dishes? I'll wash them when I come back, but I cannot tie myself down to anything so unromantic as dishwashing at this thrilling moment." "Yes, yes, run along," said Marilla indulgently. "Anne Shirley--are you crazy? Come back this instant and put something on you. I might as well call to the wind. She's gone without a cap or wrap. Look at her tearing through the orchard with her hair streaming. It'll be a mercy if she doesn't catch her death of cold." Anne came dancing home in the purple winter twilight across the snowy places. Afar in the southwest was the great shimmering, pearl-like sparkle of an evening star in a sky that was pale golden and ethereal rose over gleaming white spaces and dark glens of spruce. The tinkles of sleigh bells among the snowy hills came like elfin chimes through the frosty air, but their music was not sweeter than the song in Anne's heart and on her lips. "You see before you a perfectly happy person, Marilla," she announced. "I'm perfectly happy--yes, in spite of my red hair. Just at present I have a soul above red hair. Mrs. Barry kissed me and cried and said she was so sorry and she could never repay me. I felt fearfully embarrassed, Marilla, but I just said as politely as I could," ?I have no hard feelings for you, Mrs. Barry. I assure you once for all that I did not mean to intoxicate Diana and henceforth I shall cover the past with the mantle of oblivion.' "That was a pretty dignified way of speaking wasn't it, Marilla?" "I felt that I was heaping coals of fire on Mrs. Barry's head. And Diana and I had a lovely afternoon. Diana showed me a new fancy crochet stitch her aunt over at Carmody taught her. Not a soul in Avonlea knows it but us, and we pledged a solemn vow never to reveal it to anyone else. Diana gave me a beautiful card with a wreath of roses on it and a verse of poetry:" "If you love me as I love you Nothing but death can part us two." "And that is true, Marilla. We're going to ask Mr. Phillips to let us sit together in school again, and Gertie Pye can go with Minnie Andrews. We had an elegant tea. Mrs. Barry had the very best china set out, Marilla, just as if I was real company. I can't tell you what a thrill it gave me. Nobody ever used their very best china on my account before. And we had fruit cake and pound cake and doughnuts and two kinds of preserves, Marilla. And Mrs. Barry asked me if I took tea and said" ?Pa, why don't you pass the biscuits to Anne?' "It must be lovely to be grown up, Marilla, when just being treated as if you were is so nice." "I don't know about that," said Marilla, with a brief sigh. "Well, anyway, when I am grown up," said Anne decidedly, "I'm always going to talk to little girls as if they were too, and I'll never laugh when they use big words. I know from sorrowful experience how that hurts one's feelings. After tea Diana and I made taffy. The taffy wasn't very good, I suppose because neither Diana nor I had ever made any before. Diana left me to stir it while she buttered the plates and I forgot and let it burn; and then when we set it out on the platform to cool the cat walked over one plate and that had to be thrown away. But the making of it was splendid fun. Then when I came home Mrs. Barry asked me to come over as often as I could and Diana stood at the window and threw kisses to me all the way down to Lover's Lane. I assure you, Marilla, that I feel like praying tonight and I'm going to think out a special brand-new prayer in honor of the occasion." CHAPTER XIX. A Concert a Catastrophe and a Confession "MARILLA, can I go over to see Diana just for a minute?"<|quote|>asked Anne, running breathlessly down from the east gable one February evening.</|quote|>"I don't see what you want to be traipsing about after dark for," said Marilla shortly. "You and Diana walked home from school together and then stood down there in the snow for half an hour more, your tongues going the whole blessed time, clickety-clack. So I don't think you're very badly off to see her again." "But she wants to see me," pleaded Anne. "She has something very important to tell me." "How do you know she has?" "Because she just signaled to me from her window. We have arranged a way to signal with our candles and cardboard. We set the candle on the window sill and make flashes by passing the cardboard back and forth. So many flashes mean a certain thing. It was my idea, Marilla." "I'll warrant you it was," said Marilla emphatically. "And the next thing you'll be setting fire to the curtains with your signaling nonsense." "Oh, we're very careful, Marilla. And it's so interesting. Two flashes mean, ?Are you there?' Three mean ?yes' and four ?no.' Five mean, ?Come over as soon as possible, because I have something important to reveal.' Diana has just signaled five flashes, and I'm really suffering to know what it is." "Well, you needn't suffer any longer," said Marilla sarcastically. "You can go, but you're to be back here in just ten minutes, remember that." Anne did remember it and was back in the stipulated time, although probably no mortal will ever know just what it cost her to confine the discussion of Diana's important communication within the limits of ten minutes. But at least she had made good use of them. "Oh, Marilla, what do you think? You know tomorrow is Diana's birthday. Well, her mother told her she could ask me to go home with her from school and stay all night with her. And her cousins are coming over from Newbridge in a big pung sleigh to go to the Debating Club concert at the hall tomorrow night. And they are going to take Diana and me to the concert--if you'll let me go, that is. You will, won't you, Marilla? Oh, I feel so excited." "You can calm down then, because you're not going. You're better at home in your own bed, and as for that club concert, it's all nonsense, and little girls should not be allowed to go out to such places at all." "I'm sure the Debating Club is a most respectable affair," pleaded Anne. "I'm not saying it isn't. But you're not going to begin gadding about to concerts and staying out all hours of the night. Pretty doings for children. I'm surprised at Mrs. Barry's letting Diana go." "But it's such a very special occasion," mourned Anne, on the verge of tears. "Diana has only one birthday in a year. It isn't as if birthdays were common things, Marilla. Prissy Andrews is going to recite ?Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight.' That is such a good moral piece, Marilla, I'm sure it would do me lots of good to hear it. And the choir are going to sing four lovely pathetic songs that are pretty near as good as hymns. And oh, Marilla, the minister is going to take part; yes, indeed, he is; he's going to give an address. That will be just about the same thing as a sermon. Please, mayn't I go, Marilla?" "You heard what I said, Anne, didn't you? Take off your boots now and go to bed. It's past eight." "There's just one more thing, Marilla," said Anne, with the air of producing the last shot in her locker. "Mrs. Barry told Diana that we might sleep in the spare-room bed. Think of the honor of your little Anne being put in the spare-room bed." "It's an honor you'll have to get along without. Go to bed, Anne, and don't let me hear another word out of you." When Anne, with tears rolling over her cheeks, had gone sorrowfully upstairs, Matthew, who had been apparently sound asleep on the lounge during the whole dialogue, opened his eyes and said decidedly: "Well now, Marilla, I think you ought to let Anne go." "I don't then," retorted Marilla. "Who's bringing this child up, Matthew, you or me?" "Well now, you," admitted Matthew. "Don't interfere then." "Well now, I ain't interfering. It ain't interfering to have your own opinion. And my opinion is that you ought to let Anne go." "You'd think I ought to let Anne go to the moon if she took the notion, I've no doubt" was Marilla's amiable rejoinder. "I might have let her spend the night with Diana, if that was all. But I don't approve of this concert plan. She'd go there and catch cold like as not, and have
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than the song in Anne's heart and on her lips. "You see before you a perfectly happy person, Marilla," she announced. "I'm perfectly happy--yes, in spite of my red hair. Just at present I have a soul above red hair. Mrs. Barry kissed me and cried and said she was so sorry and she could never repay me. I felt fearfully embarrassed, Marilla, but I just said as politely as I could," ?I have no hard feelings for you, Mrs. Barry. I assure you once for all that I did not mean to intoxicate Diana and henceforth I shall cover the past with the mantle of oblivion.' "That was a pretty dignified way of speaking wasn't it, Marilla?" "I felt that I was heaping coals of fire on Mrs. Barry's head. And Diana and I had a lovely afternoon. Diana showed me a new fancy crochet stitch her aunt over at Carmody taught her. Not a soul in Avonlea knows it but us, and we pledged a solemn vow never to reveal it to anyone else. Diana gave me a beautiful card with a wreath of roses on it and a verse of poetry:" "If you love me as I love you Nothing but death can part us two." "And that is true, Marilla. We're going to ask Mr. Phillips to let us sit together in school again, and Gertie Pye can go with Minnie Andrews. We had an elegant tea. Mrs. Barry had the very best china set out, Marilla, just as if I was real company. I can't tell you what a thrill it gave me. Nobody ever used their very best china on my account before. And we had fruit cake and pound cake and doughnuts and two kinds of preserves, Marilla. And Mrs. Barry asked me if I took tea and said" ?Pa, why don't you pass the biscuits to Anne?' "It must be lovely to be grown up, Marilla, when just being treated as if you were is so nice." "I don't know about that," said Marilla, with a brief sigh. "Well, anyway, when I am grown up," said Anne decidedly, "I'm always going to talk to little girls as if they were too, and I'll never laugh when they use big words. I know from sorrowful experience how that hurts one's feelings. After tea Diana and I made taffy. The taffy wasn't very good, I suppose because neither Diana nor I had ever made any before. Diana left me to stir it while she buttered the plates and I forgot and let it burn; and then when we set it out on the platform to cool the cat walked over one plate and that had to be thrown away. But the making of it was splendid fun. Then when I came home Mrs. Barry asked me to come over as often as I could and Diana stood at the window and threw kisses to me all the way down to Lover's Lane. I assure you, Marilla, that I feel like praying tonight and I'm going to think out a special brand-new prayer in honor of the occasion." CHAPTER XIX. A Concert a Catastrophe and a Confession "MARILLA, can I go over to see Diana just for a minute?"<|quote|>asked Anne, running breathlessly down from the east gable one February evening.</|quote|>"I don't see what you want to be traipsing about after dark for," said Marilla shortly. "You and Diana walked home from school together and then stood down there in the snow for half an hour more, your tongues going the whole blessed time, clickety-clack. So I don't think you're very badly off to see her again." "But she wants to see me," pleaded Anne. "She has something very important to tell me." "How do you know she has?" "Because she just signaled to me from her window. We have arranged a way to signal with our candles and cardboard. We set the candle on the window sill and make flashes by passing the cardboard back and forth. So many flashes mean a certain thing. It was my idea, Marilla." "I'll warrant you it was," said Marilla emphatically. "And the next thing you'll be setting fire to the curtains with your signaling nonsense." "Oh, we're very careful, Marilla. And it's so interesting. Two flashes mean, ?Are you there?' Three mean ?yes' and four ?no.' Five mean, ?Come over as soon as possible, because I have something important to reveal.' Diana has just signaled five flashes, and I'm really suffering to know what it is." "Well, you needn't suffer any longer," said Marilla sarcastically. "You can go, but you're to be back here in just ten minutes, remember that." Anne did remember it and was back in the stipulated time, although probably no mortal will ever know just what it cost her to confine the discussion of Diana's important communication within the limits of ten minutes. But at least she had made good use of them. "Oh, Marilla, what do you think? You know tomorrow is Diana's birthday. Well, her mother told her she could ask me to go home with her from school and stay all night with her. And her cousins are coming over from Newbridge in a big pung sleigh to go to the Debating Club concert at the hall tomorrow night. And they are going to take Diana and me to the concert--if you'll let me go, that is. You will, won't you, Marilla? Oh, I feel so excited." "You can calm down then, because you're not going. You're better at home in your own bed, and as for that club concert, it's all nonsense, and little girls should not be allowed to go out to such places at all." "I'm sure the Debating Club is a most respectable affair," pleaded Anne. "I'm not saying it isn't. But you're not going to begin gadding about to concerts and
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Anne Of Green Gables
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He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees.
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No speaker
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have warred with it. Look."<|quote|>He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees.</|quote|>"Fifty miles of Spring, and
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meaning." "The point is, we have warred with it. Look."<|quote|>He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees.</|quote|>"Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to admire
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wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'" Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. "Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the May' "would render a correct meaning." "The point is, we have warred with it. Look."<|quote|>He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees.</|quote|>"Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to admire them. Do you suppose there's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both." No one encouraged
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of Lorenzo de Medici?" Miss Lavish bristled. "Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?" "The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'" Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. "Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the May' "would render a correct meaning." "The point is, we have warred with it. Look."<|quote|>He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees.</|quote|>"Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to admire them. Do you suppose there's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both." No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still
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to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul." Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character. "He was not driving us well," she said. "He jolted us." "That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now. Can you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I'd be frightened of the girl, too. It doesn't do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?" Miss Lavish bristled. "Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?" "The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'" Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. "Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the May' "would render a correct meaning." "The point is, we have warred with it. Look."<|quote|>He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees.</|quote|>"Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to admire them. Do you suppose there's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both." No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d'Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly had he stood? That was the question which
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in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click. "Signorina!" said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy? "Signorina!" echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why? For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box. "Victory at last!" said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again. "It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson. "It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy." Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son. "We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul." Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character. "He was not driving us well," she said. "He jolted us." "That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now. Can you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I'd be frightened of the girl, too. It doesn't do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?" Miss Lavish bristled. "Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?" "The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'" Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. "Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the May' "would render a correct meaning." "The point is, we have warred with it. Look."<|quote|>He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees.</|quote|>"Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to admire them. Do you suppose there's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both." No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d'Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly had he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, had become equally enthusiastic. But it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in your head, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting. And the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest. The party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keep together being only equalled by their desire to go different directions. Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with the drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics in common, were left to each other. The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emerson what his profession was, and he had answered "the railway." She was very sorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be such a dreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe
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the Renaissance, or was he one of its manifestations? The other carriage was left behind. As the pace increased to a gallop the large, slumbering form of Mr. Emerson was thrown against the chaplain with the regularity of a machine. "Piano! piano!" said he, with a martyred look at Lucy. An extra lurch made him turn angrily in his seat. Phaethon, who for some time had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded. A little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, was most unpleasant. The horses were stopped, the lovers were ordered to disentangle themselves, the boy was to lose his pourboire, the girl was immediately to get down. "She is my sister," said he, turning round on them with piteous eyes. Mr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that he was a liar. Phaethon hung down his head, not at the matter of the accusation, but at its manner. At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stopping had awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated, and patted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish, though unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of Bohemianism. "Most certainly I would let them be," she cried. "But I dare say I shall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of the conventions all my life. This is what I call an adventure." "We must not submit," said Mr. Eager. "I knew he was trying it on. He is treating us as if we were a party of Cook's tourists." "Surely no!" said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing. The other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behave themselves properly. "Leave them alone," Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. "Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers--A king might envy us, and if we part them it's more like sacrilege than anything I know." Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect. Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click. "Signorina!" said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy? "Signorina!" echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why? For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box. "Victory at last!" said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again. "It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson. "It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy." Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son. "We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul." Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character. "He was not driving us well," she said. "He jolted us." "That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now. Can you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I'd be frightened of the girl, too. It doesn't do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?" Miss Lavish bristled. "Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?" "The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'" Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. "Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the May' "would render a correct meaning." "The point is, we have warred with it. Look."<|quote|>He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees.</|quote|>"Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to admire them. Do you suppose there's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both." No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d'Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly had he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, had become equally enthusiastic. But it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in your head, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting. And the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest. The party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keep together being only equalled by their desire to go different directions. Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with the drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics in common, were left to each other. The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emerson what his profession was, and he had answered "the railway." She was very sorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be such a dreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe had turned the conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not very much hurt at her asking him. "The railway!" gasped Miss Lavish. "Oh, but I shall die! Of course it was the railway!" She could not control her mirth. "He is the image of a porter--on, on the South-Eastern." "Eleanor, be quiet," plucking at her vivacious companion. "Hush! They'll hear--the Emersons--" "I can't stop. Let me go my wicked way. A porter--" "Eleanor!" "I'm sure it's all right," put in Lucy. "The Emersons won't hear, and they wouldn't mind if they did." Miss Lavish did not seem pleased at this. "Miss Honeychurch listening!" she said rather crossly. "Pouf! Wouf! You naughty girl! Go away!" "Oh, Lucy, you ought to be with Mr. Eager, I'm sure." "I can't find them now, and I don't want to either." "Mr. Eager will be offended. It is your party." "Please, I'd rather stop here with you." "No, I agree," said Miss Lavish. "It's like a school feast; the boys have got separated from the girls. Miss Lucy, you are to go. We wish to converse on high topics unsuited for your ear." The girl was stubborn. As her time at Florence drew to its close she was only at ease amongst those to whom she felt indifferent. Such a one was Miss Lavish, and such for the moment was Charlotte. She wished she had not called attention to herself; they were both annoyed at her remark and seemed determined to get rid of her. "How tired one gets," said Miss Bartlett. "Oh, I do wish Freddy and your mother could be here." Unselfishness with Miss Bartlett had entirely usurped the functions of enthusiasm. Lucy did not look at the view either. She would not enjoy anything till she was safe at Rome. "Then sit you down," said Miss Lavish. "Observe my foresight." With many a smile she produced two of those mackintosh squares that protect the frame of the tourist from damp grass or cold marble steps. She sat on one; who was to sit on the other? "Lucy; without a moment's doubt, Lucy. The ground will do for me. Really I have not had rheumatism for years. If I do feel it coming on I shall stand. Imagine your mother's feelings if I let you sit in the wet in your white linen." She sat down heavily where
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so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click. "Signorina!" said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy? "Signorina!" echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why? For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box. "Victory at last!" said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again. "It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson. "It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy." Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son. "We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul." Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character. "He was not driving us well," she said. "He jolted us." "That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now. Can you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I'd be frightened of the girl, too. It doesn't do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?" Miss Lavish bristled. "Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?" "The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'" Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. "Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the May' "would render a correct meaning." "The point is, we have warred with it. Look."<|quote|>He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees.</|quote|>"Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to admire them. Do you suppose there's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both." No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d'Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly had he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, had become equally enthusiastic. But it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in your head, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting. And the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest. The party sprang about from tuft to tuft of
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A Room With A View
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Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand.
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No speaker
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the world here all right,"<|quote|>Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand.</|quote|>"Oh, my God!" "You'll be
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apple-pie and cheese. "You've got the world here all right,"<|quote|>Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand.</|quote|>"Oh, my God!" "You'll be rich." "I hope so." After
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the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him. "Doesn't get us a table, though," Bill said. "Grand woman, though." We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese. "You've got the world here all right,"<|quote|>Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand.</|quote|>"Oh, my God!" "You'll be rich." "I hope so." After the coffee and a _fine_ we got the bill, chalked up the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of the "quaint" features, paid it, shook hands, and went out. "You never come here any more, Monsieur
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and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him. "Doesn't get us a table, though," Bill said. "Grand woman, though." We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese. "You've got the world here all right,"<|quote|>Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand.</|quote|>"Oh, my God!" "You'll be rich." "I hope so." After the coffee and a _fine_ we got the bill, chalked up the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of the "quaint" features, paid it, shook hands, and went out. "You never come here any more, Monsieur Barnes," Madame Lecomte said. "Too many compatriots." "Come at lunch-time. It's not crowded then." "Good. I'll be down soon." We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river on the Quai d'Orl ans side of the island. Across the river were the broken walls of old houses
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Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him. "Doesn't get us a table, though," Bill said. "Grand woman, though." We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese. "You've got the world here all right,"<|quote|>Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand.</|quote|>"Oh, my God!" "You'll be rich." "I hope so." After the coffee and a _fine_ we got the bill, chalked up the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of the "quaint" features, paid it, shook hands, and went out. "You never come here any more, Monsieur Barnes," Madame Lecomte said. "Too many compatriots." "Come at lunch-time. It's not crowded then." "Good. I'll be down soon." We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river on the Quai d'Orl ans side of the island. Across the river were the broken walls of old houses that were being torn down. "They're going to cut a street through." "They would," Bill said. We walked on and circled the island. The river was dark and a bateau mouche went by, all bright with lights, going fast and quiet up and out of sight under the bridge. Down the river was Notre Dame squatting against the night sky. We crossed to the left bank of the Seine by the wooden foot-bridge from the Quai de Bethune, and stopped on the bridge and looked down the river at Notre Dame. Standing on the bridge the island looked dark, the
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the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out." "Didn't you swim?" "No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. "Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there." "We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him. "Doesn't get us a table, though," Bill said. "Grand woman, though." We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese. "You've got the world here all right,"<|quote|>Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand.</|quote|>"Oh, my God!" "You'll be rich." "I hope so." After the coffee and a _fine_ we got the bill, chalked up the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of the "quaint" features, paid it, shook hands, and went out. "You never come here any more, Monsieur Barnes," Madame Lecomte said. "Too many compatriots." "Come at lunch-time. It's not crowded then." "Good. I'll be down soon." We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river on the Quai d'Orl ans side of the island. Across the river were the broken walls of old houses that were being torn down. "They're going to cut a street through." "They would," Bill said. We walked on and circled the island. The river was dark and a bateau mouche went by, all bright with lights, going fast and quiet up and out of sight under the bridge. Down the river was Notre Dame squatting against the night sky. We crossed to the left bank of the Seine by the wooden foot-bridge from the Quai de Bethune, and stopped on the bridge and looked down the river at Notre Dame. Standing on the bridge the island looked dark, the houses were high against the sky, and the trees were shadows. "It's pretty grand," Bill said. "God, I love to get back." We leaned on the wooden rail of the bridge and looked up the river to the lights of the big bridges. Below the water was smooth and black. It made no sound against the piles of the bridge. A man and a girl passed us. They were walking with their arms around each other. We crossed the bridge and walked up the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It was steep walking, and we went all the way up to the Place Contrescarpe. The arc-light shone through the leaves of the trees in the square, and underneath the trees was an S bus ready to start. Music came out of the door of the Negre Joyeux. Through the window of the Caf Aux Amateurs I saw the long zinc bar. Outside on the terrace working people were drinking. In the open kitchen of the Amateurs a girl was cooking potato-chips in oil. There was an iron pot of stew. The girl ladled some onto a plate for an old man who stood holding a bottle of red wine in one
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Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted." "You'll be daunted after about three more pernods." "Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way." "When did you see Harvey Stone?" "At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat any more. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous." "What'll we do to-night?" "Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island to eat." "Nix," I said. "We're going to have a regular meal." "Just a suggestion," said Bill. "Want to start now?" "Come on." We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful." "Ask him about Vienna." "Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out." "Didn't you swim?" "No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. "Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there." "We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him. "Doesn't get us a table, though," Bill said. "Grand woman, though." We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese. "You've got the world here all right,"<|quote|>Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand.</|quote|>"Oh, my God!" "You'll be rich." "I hope so." After the coffee and a _fine_ we got the bill, chalked up the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of the "quaint" features, paid it, shook hands, and went out. "You never come here any more, Monsieur Barnes," Madame Lecomte said. "Too many compatriots." "Come at lunch-time. It's not crowded then." "Good. I'll be down soon." We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river on the Quai d'Orl ans side of the island. Across the river were the broken walls of old houses that were being torn down. "They're going to cut a street through." "They would," Bill said. We walked on and circled the island. The river was dark and a bateau mouche went by, all bright with lights, going fast and quiet up and out of sight under the bridge. Down the river was Notre Dame squatting against the night sky. We crossed to the left bank of the Seine by the wooden foot-bridge from the Quai de Bethune, and stopped on the bridge and looked down the river at Notre Dame. Standing on the bridge the island looked dark, the houses were high against the sky, and the trees were shadows. "It's pretty grand," Bill said. "God, I love to get back." We leaned on the wooden rail of the bridge and looked up the river to the lights of the big bridges. Below the water was smooth and black. It made no sound against the piles of the bridge. A man and a girl passed us. They were walking with their arms around each other. We crossed the bridge and walked up the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It was steep walking, and we went all the way up to the Place Contrescarpe. The arc-light shone through the leaves of the trees in the square, and underneath the trees was an S bus ready to start. Music came out of the door of the Negre Joyeux. Through the window of the Caf Aux Amateurs I saw the long zinc bar. Outside on the terrace working people were drinking. In the open kitchen of the Amateurs a girl was cooking potato-chips in oil. There was an iron pot of stew. The girl ladled some onto a plate for an old man who stood holding a bottle of red wine in one hand. "Want to have a drink?" "No," said Bill. "I don't need it." We turned to the right off the Place Contrescarpe, walking along smooth narrow streets with high old houses on both sides. Some of the houses jutted out toward the street. Others were cut back. We came onto the Rue du Pot de Fer and followed it along until it brought us to the rigid north and south of the Rue Saint Jacques and then walked south, past Val de Gr ce, set back behind the courtyard and the iron fence, to the Boulevard du Port Royal. "What do you want to do?" I asked. "Go up to the caf and see Brett and Mike?" "Why not?" We walked along Port Royal until it became Montparnasse, and then on past the Lilas, Lavigne's, and all the little caf s, Damoy's, crossed the street to the Rotonde, past its lights and tables to the Select. Michael came toward us from the tables. He was tanned and healthy-looking. "Hel-lo, Jake," he said. "Hel-lo! Hel-lo! How are you, old lad?" "You look very fit, Mike." "Oh, I am. I'm frightfully fit. I've done nothing but walk. Walk all day long. One drink a day with my mother at tea." Bill had gone into the bar. He was standing talking with Brett, who was sitting on a high stool, her legs crossed. She had no stockings on. "It's good to see you, Jake," Michael said. "I'm a little tight you know. Amazing, isn't it? Did you see my nose?" There was a patch of dried blood on the bridge of his nose. "An old lady's bags did that," Mike said. "I reached up to help her with them and they fell on me." Brett gestured at him from the bar with her cigarette-holder and wrinkled the corners of her eyes. "An old lady," said Mike. "Her bags _fell_ on me. Let's go in and see Brett. I say, she is a piece." "You _are_ a lovely lady, Brett. Where did you get that hat?" "Chap bought it for me. Don't you like it?" "It's a dreadful hat. Do get a good hat." "Oh, we've so much money now," Brett said. "I say, haven't you met Bill yet? You _are_ a lovely host, Jake." She turned to Mike. "This is Bill Gorton. This drunkard is Mike Campbell. Mr. Campbell is an undischarged bankrupt."
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another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out." "Didn't you swim?" "No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. "Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there." "We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him. "Doesn't get us a table, though," Bill said. "Grand woman, though." We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese. "You've got the world here all right,"<|quote|>Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand.</|quote|>"Oh, my God!" "You'll be rich." "I hope so." After the coffee and a _fine_ we got the bill, chalked up the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of the "quaint" features, paid it, shook hands, and went out. "You never come here any more, Monsieur Barnes," Madame Lecomte said. "Too many compatriots." "Come at lunch-time. It's not crowded then." "Good. I'll be down soon." We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river on the Quai d'Orl ans side of the island. Across the river were the broken walls of old houses that were being torn down. "They're going to cut a street through." "They would," Bill said. We walked on and circled the island. The river was dark and a bateau mouche went by, all bright with lights, going fast and quiet up and out of sight under the bridge. Down the river was Notre Dame squatting against the night sky. We crossed to the left bank of the Seine by the wooden foot-bridge from the Quai de Bethune, and stopped on the bridge and looked down the river at Notre Dame. Standing on the bridge the island looked dark, the houses were high against the sky, and the trees were shadows. "It's pretty grand," Bill said. "God, I love to get back." We leaned on the wooden rail of the bridge and looked up the river to the lights of the big bridges. Below the water was smooth and black. It made no sound against the piles of the bridge. A man and a girl passed us. They were walking with their arms around each other. We crossed the bridge and walked up the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It was steep walking, and we went all the way up to the Place Contrescarpe. The arc-light shone through the leaves of the trees in the square, and underneath the trees was an S
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The Sun Also Rises
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I tell him. Müller explains that he has a flesh wound in his thigh; a good blighty. We decide to go and see him this afternoon. Kropp pulls out a letter.
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No speaker
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"He's up at St. Joseph's,"<|quote|>I tell him. Müller explains that he has a flesh wound in his thigh; a good blighty. We decide to go and see him this afternoon. Kropp pulls out a letter.</|quote|>"Kantorek sends you all his
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asks: "Anyone seen Kemmerich lately?" "He's up at St. Joseph's,"<|quote|>I tell him. Müller explains that he has a flesh wound in his thigh; a good blighty. We decide to go and see him this afternoon. Kropp pulls out a letter.</|quote|>"Kantorek sends you all his best wishes." We laugh. Müller
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it. It might easily have happened that we should not be sitting here on our boxes to-day; it came damn near to that. And so everything is new and brave, red poppies and good food, cigarettes and summer breeze. Kropp asks: "Anyone seen Kemmerich lately?" "He's up at St. Joseph's,"<|quote|>I tell him. Müller explains that he has a flesh wound in his thigh; a good blighty. We decide to go and see him this afternoon. Kropp pulls out a letter.</|quote|>"Kantorek sends you all his best wishes." We laugh. Müller throws his cigarette away and says: "I wish he was here." * * Kantorek had been our schoolmaster, an active little man in a grey tail-coat, with a face like a shrew-mouse. He was about the same size as Corporal
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the cards and look about us. One of us will say: "Well, boys...." Or "It was a near thing that time...." And for a moment we fall silent. There is in each of us a feeling of constraint. We are all sensible of it; it needs no words to communicate it. It might easily have happened that we should not be sitting here on our boxes to-day; it came damn near to that. And so everything is new and brave, red poppies and good food, cigarettes and summer breeze. Kropp asks: "Anyone seen Kemmerich lately?" "He's up at St. Joseph's,"<|quote|>I tell him. Müller explains that he has a flesh wound in his thigh; a good blighty. We decide to go and see him this afternoon. Kropp pulls out a letter.</|quote|>"Kantorek sends you all his best wishes." We laugh. Müller throws his cigarette away and says: "I wish he was here." * * Kantorek had been our schoolmaster, an active little man in a grey tail-coat, with a face like a shrew-mouse. He was about the same size as Corporal Himmelstoss, the "Terror of Klosterberg." It is very queer that the unhappiness of the world is so often brought on by small men. They are so much more energetic and uncompromising than the big fellows. I have always taken good care to keep out of sections with small company commanders.
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read letters and newspapers and smoke. We take off our caps and lay them down beside us. The wind plays with our hair; it plays with our words and thoughts. The three boxes stand in the midst of the glowing, red field-poppies. We set the lid of the margarine tub on our knees and so have a good table for a game of skat. Kropp has the cards with him. After every throw-in the loser pays into the pool. One could sit like this for ever. The notes of an accordion float across from the billets. Often we lay aside the cards and look about us. One of us will say: "Well, boys...." Or "It was a near thing that time...." And for a moment we fall silent. There is in each of us a feeling of constraint. We are all sensible of it; it needs no words to communicate it. It might easily have happened that we should not be sitting here on our boxes to-day; it came damn near to that. And so everything is new and brave, red poppies and good food, cigarettes and summer breeze. Kropp asks: "Anyone seen Kemmerich lately?" "He's up at St. Joseph's,"<|quote|>I tell him. Müller explains that he has a flesh wound in his thigh; a good blighty. We decide to go and see him this afternoon. Kropp pulls out a letter.</|quote|>"Kantorek sends you all his best wishes." We laugh. Müller throws his cigarette away and says: "I wish he was here." * * Kantorek had been our schoolmaster, an active little man in a grey tail-coat, with a face like a shrew-mouse. He was about the same size as Corporal Himmelstoss, the "Terror of Klosterberg." It is very queer that the unhappiness of the world is so often brought on by small men. They are so much more energetic and uncompromising than the big fellows. I have always taken good care to keep out of sections with small company commanders. They are mostly confounded little martinets. During drill-time Kantorek gave us long lectures until the whole of our class went under his shepherding to the District Commandant and volunteered. I can see him now, as he used to glare at us through his spectacles and say in a moving voice: "Won't you join up, Comrades." These teachers always carry their feelings ready in their waistcoat pockets, and fetch them out at any hour of the day. But we didn't think of that then. There was, indeed, one of us who hesitated and did not want to fall into line. That
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way so clearly and pithily. Our families and our teachers will be shocked when we go home, but here it is the universal language. Enforced publicity has in our eyes restored the character of complete innocence to all these things. More than that, they are so much a matter of course that their comfortable performance is fully as much enjoyed as the playing of a safe top running flush. Not for nothing was the word "latrine-rumour" invented; these places are the regimental gossip-shops and common-rooms. We feel ourselves for the time being better off than in any palatial white-tiled "convenience." _There_ it can only be hygienic; _here_ it is beautiful. These are wonderfully care-free hours. Over us is the blue sky. On the horizon float the bright yellow, sunlit observation-balloons, and the many little white clouds of the anti-aircraft shells. Often they rise in a sheaf as they follow after an airman. We hear the muffled rumble of the front only as very distant thunder, bumble-bees droning by quite drown it. Around us stretches the flowery meadow. The grasses sway their tall spears; the white butterflies flutter around and float on the soft warm wind of the late summer. We read letters and newspapers and smoke. We take off our caps and lay them down beside us. The wind plays with our hair; it plays with our words and thoughts. The three boxes stand in the midst of the glowing, red field-poppies. We set the lid of the margarine tub on our knees and so have a good table for a game of skat. Kropp has the cards with him. After every throw-in the loser pays into the pool. One could sit like this for ever. The notes of an accordion float across from the billets. Often we lay aside the cards and look about us. One of us will say: "Well, boys...." Or "It was a near thing that time...." And for a moment we fall silent. There is in each of us a feeling of constraint. We are all sensible of it; it needs no words to communicate it. It might easily have happened that we should not be sitting here on our boxes to-day; it came damn near to that. And so everything is new and brave, red poppies and good food, cigarettes and summer breeze. Kropp asks: "Anyone seen Kemmerich lately?" "He's up at St. Joseph's,"<|quote|>I tell him. Müller explains that he has a flesh wound in his thigh; a good blighty. We decide to go and see him this afternoon. Kropp pulls out a letter.</|quote|>"Kantorek sends you all his best wishes." We laugh. Müller throws his cigarette away and says: "I wish he was here." * * Kantorek had been our schoolmaster, an active little man in a grey tail-coat, with a face like a shrew-mouse. He was about the same size as Corporal Himmelstoss, the "Terror of Klosterberg." It is very queer that the unhappiness of the world is so often brought on by small men. They are so much more energetic and uncompromising than the big fellows. I have always taken good care to keep out of sections with small company commanders. They are mostly confounded little martinets. During drill-time Kantorek gave us long lectures until the whole of our class went under his shepherding to the District Commandant and volunteered. I can see him now, as he used to glare at us through his spectacles and say in a moving voice: "Won't you join up, Comrades." These teachers always carry their feelings ready in their waistcoat pockets, and fetch them out at any hour of the day. But we didn't think of that then. There was, indeed, one of us who hesitated and did not want to fall into line. That was Josef Behm, a plump, homely fellow. But he did allow himself to be persuaded, otherwise he would have been ostracized. And perhaps more of us thought as he did, but no one could very well stand out, because at that time even one's parents were ready with the word "coward" ; no one had the vaguest idea what we were in for. The wisest were just the poor and simple people. They knew the war to be a misfortune, whereas people who were better off were beside themselves with joy, though they should have been much better able to judge what the consequences would be. Katczinsky said that was a result of their upbringing. It made them stupid. And what Kat said, he had thought about. Strange to say, Behm was one of the first to fall. He got hit in the eye during an attack, and we left him lying for dead. We couldn't bring him with us, because we had to come back helter-skelter. In the afternoon suddenly we heard him call, and saw him outside creeping towards us. He had only been knocked unconscious. Because he could not see, and was mad with pain, he failed
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blubber-sticker, and don't you miscount either." "You be hanged!" spat out Ginger. When things get beyond him he throws up the sponge altogether; he just goes to pieces. And as if to show that all things were now the same to him, of his own free will he shared out half a pound of synthetic honey equally among us. To-day is wonderfully good. The mail has come, and almost every man has a couple of letters and papers. We stroll over to the meadow behind the billets. Kropp has the round lid of a margarine tub under his arm. On the right side of the meadow a large common latrine has been built, a well-planned and durable construction. But that is for recruits who as yet have not learned how to make the most of whatever comes their way. We look for something better. Scattered about everywhere there are separate, individual boxes for the same purpose. They are square, neat boxes with wooden sides all round, and have unimpeachably satisfactory seats. On the sides are hand-grips enabling one to shift them about. We move three together in a ring and sit down comfortably. For two hours we have been here without getting up. I well remember how embarrassed we were as recruits in barracks when we had to use the general latrine. There were no doors and twenty men sat side by side as in a railway carriage, so that they could be reviewed all at one glance, for soldiers must always be under supervision. Since then we have learned better than to be shy about such trifling immodesties. In time things far worse than that came easy to us. Here in the open air though, the business is entirely a pleasure. I no longer understand why we should always have shied at it before. It is, in fact, just as natural as eating and drinking. We did not properly appreciate these boxes when we first enlisted; they were new to us and did not fill such an important rôle--but now they have long been a matter of course. The soldier is on friendlier terms than other men with his stomach and intestines. Three-quarters of his vocabulary is derived from these regions, and they give an intimate flavour to expressions of his greatest joy as well as of his deepest indignation. It is impossible to express oneself in any other way so clearly and pithily. Our families and our teachers will be shocked when we go home, but here it is the universal language. Enforced publicity has in our eyes restored the character of complete innocence to all these things. More than that, they are so much a matter of course that their comfortable performance is fully as much enjoyed as the playing of a safe top running flush. Not for nothing was the word "latrine-rumour" invented; these places are the regimental gossip-shops and common-rooms. We feel ourselves for the time being better off than in any palatial white-tiled "convenience." _There_ it can only be hygienic; _here_ it is beautiful. These are wonderfully care-free hours. Over us is the blue sky. On the horizon float the bright yellow, sunlit observation-balloons, and the many little white clouds of the anti-aircraft shells. Often they rise in a sheaf as they follow after an airman. We hear the muffled rumble of the front only as very distant thunder, bumble-bees droning by quite drown it. Around us stretches the flowery meadow. The grasses sway their tall spears; the white butterflies flutter around and float on the soft warm wind of the late summer. We read letters and newspapers and smoke. We take off our caps and lay them down beside us. The wind plays with our hair; it plays with our words and thoughts. The three boxes stand in the midst of the glowing, red field-poppies. We set the lid of the margarine tub on our knees and so have a good table for a game of skat. Kropp has the cards with him. After every throw-in the loser pays into the pool. One could sit like this for ever. The notes of an accordion float across from the billets. Often we lay aside the cards and look about us. One of us will say: "Well, boys...." Or "It was a near thing that time...." And for a moment we fall silent. There is in each of us a feeling of constraint. We are all sensible of it; it needs no words to communicate it. It might easily have happened that we should not be sitting here on our boxes to-day; it came damn near to that. And so everything is new and brave, red poppies and good food, cigarettes and summer breeze. Kropp asks: "Anyone seen Kemmerich lately?" "He's up at St. Joseph's,"<|quote|>I tell him. Müller explains that he has a flesh wound in his thigh; a good blighty. We decide to go and see him this afternoon. Kropp pulls out a letter.</|quote|>"Kantorek sends you all his best wishes." We laugh. Müller throws his cigarette away and says: "I wish he was here." * * Kantorek had been our schoolmaster, an active little man in a grey tail-coat, with a face like a shrew-mouse. He was about the same size as Corporal Himmelstoss, the "Terror of Klosterberg." It is very queer that the unhappiness of the world is so often brought on by small men. They are so much more energetic and uncompromising than the big fellows. I have always taken good care to keep out of sections with small company commanders. They are mostly confounded little martinets. During drill-time Kantorek gave us long lectures until the whole of our class went under his shepherding to the District Commandant and volunteered. I can see him now, as he used to glare at us through his spectacles and say in a moving voice: "Won't you join up, Comrades." These teachers always carry their feelings ready in their waistcoat pockets, and fetch them out at any hour of the day. But we didn't think of that then. There was, indeed, one of us who hesitated and did not want to fall into line. That was Josef Behm, a plump, homely fellow. But he did allow himself to be persuaded, otherwise he would have been ostracized. And perhaps more of us thought as he did, but no one could very well stand out, because at that time even one's parents were ready with the word "coward" ; no one had the vaguest idea what we were in for. The wisest were just the poor and simple people. They knew the war to be a misfortune, whereas people who were better off were beside themselves with joy, though they should have been much better able to judge what the consequences would be. Katczinsky said that was a result of their upbringing. It made them stupid. And what Kat said, he had thought about. Strange to say, Behm was one of the first to fall. He got hit in the eye during an attack, and we left him lying for dead. We couldn't bring him with us, because we had to come back helter-skelter. In the afternoon suddenly we heard him call, and saw him outside creeping towards us. He had only been knocked unconscious. Because he could not see, and was mad with pain, he failed to keep under cover, and so was shot down before anyone could go and fetch him in. Naturally we couldn't blame Kantorek for this. Where would the world be if one brought every man to book? There were thousands of Kantoreks, all of whom were convinced that there was only one way of doing well, and that way theirs. And that is just why they let us down so badly. For us lads of eighteen they ought to have been mediators and guides to the world of maturity, the world of work, of duty, of culture, of progress--to the future. We often made fun of them and played jokes on them, but in our hearts we trusted them. The idea of authority, which they represented, was associated in our minds with a greater insight and a manlier wisdom. But the first death we saw shattered this belief. We had to recognize that our generation was more to be trusted than theirs. They surpassed us only in phrases and in cleverness. The first bombardment showed us our mistake, and under it the world as they had taught it to us broke in pieces. While they continued to write and talk, we saw the wounded and dying. While they taught that duty to one's country is the greatest thing, we already knew that death-throes are stronger. But for all that we were no mutineers, no deserters, no cowards--they were very free with all these expressions. We loved our country as much as they, we went courageously into every action; but also we distinguished the false from the true, we had suddenly learned to see. And we saw that there was nothing of their world left. We were all at once terribly alone; and alone we must see it through. * * Before going over to see Kemmerich we pack up his things: he will need them on the way back. In the dressing station there is great activity; it reeks as ever of carbolic, ether, and sweat. Most of us are accustomed to this in the billets, but here it makes one feel faint. We ask for Kemmerich. He lies in a large room and receives us with feeble expressions of joy and helpless agitation. While he was unconscious someone had stolen his watch. Müller shakes his head: "I always told you that nobody should carry as good a watch as that."
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of his deepest indignation. It is impossible to express oneself in any other way so clearly and pithily. Our families and our teachers will be shocked when we go home, but here it is the universal language. Enforced publicity has in our eyes restored the character of complete innocence to all these things. More than that, they are so much a matter of course that their comfortable performance is fully as much enjoyed as the playing of a safe top running flush. Not for nothing was the word "latrine-rumour" invented; these places are the regimental gossip-shops and common-rooms. We feel ourselves for the time being better off than in any palatial white-tiled "convenience." _There_ it can only be hygienic; _here_ it is beautiful. These are wonderfully care-free hours. Over us is the blue sky. On the horizon float the bright yellow, sunlit observation-balloons, and the many little white clouds of the anti-aircraft shells. Often they rise in a sheaf as they follow after an airman. We hear the muffled rumble of the front only as very distant thunder, bumble-bees droning by quite drown it. Around us stretches the flowery meadow. The grasses sway their tall spears; the white butterflies flutter around and float on the soft warm wind of the late summer. We read letters and newspapers and smoke. We take off our caps and lay them down beside us. The wind plays with our hair; it plays with our words and thoughts. The three boxes stand in the midst of the glowing, red field-poppies. We set the lid of the margarine tub on our knees and so have a good table for a game of skat. Kropp has the cards with him. After every throw-in the loser pays into the pool. One could sit like this for ever. The notes of an accordion float across from the billets. Often we lay aside the cards and look about us. One of us will say: "Well, boys...." Or "It was a near thing that time...." And for a moment we fall silent. There is in each of us a feeling of constraint. We are all sensible of it; it needs no words to communicate it. It might easily have happened that we should not be sitting here on our boxes to-day; it came damn near to that. And so everything is new and brave, red poppies and good food, cigarettes and summer breeze. Kropp asks: "Anyone seen Kemmerich lately?" "He's up at St. Joseph's,"<|quote|>I tell him. Müller explains that he has a flesh wound in his thigh; a good blighty. We decide to go and see him this afternoon. Kropp pulls out a letter.</|quote|>"Kantorek sends you all his best wishes." We laugh. Müller throws his cigarette away and says: "I wish he was here." * * Kantorek had been our schoolmaster, an active little man in a grey tail-coat, with a face like a shrew-mouse. He was about the same size as Corporal Himmelstoss, the "Terror of Klosterberg." It is very queer that the unhappiness of the world is so often brought on by small men. They are so much more energetic and uncompromising than the big fellows. I have always taken good care to keep out of sections with small company commanders. They are mostly confounded little martinets. During drill-time Kantorek gave us long lectures until the whole of our class went under his shepherding to the District Commandant and volunteered. I can see him now, as he used to glare at us through his spectacles and say in a moving voice: "Won't you join up, Comrades." These teachers always carry their feelings ready in their waistcoat pockets, and fetch them out at any hour of the day. But we didn't think of that then. There was, indeed, one of us who hesitated and did not want to fall into line. That was Josef Behm, a plump, homely fellow. But he did allow himself to be persuaded, otherwise he would have been ostracized. And perhaps more of us thought as he did, but no one could very well stand out, because at that time even one's parents were ready with the word "coward" ; no one had the vaguest idea what we were in for. The wisest were just the poor and simple people. They knew the war to be a misfortune, whereas people who were better off were beside themselves with joy, though they should have been much better able to judge what the consequences would be. Katczinsky said that was a result of their upbringing. It made them stupid. And what Kat said, he had thought about. Strange to say, Behm was one of the first to fall. He got hit in the eye during an attack, and we left him lying for dead. We couldn't bring him with us, because we had to come back helter-skelter. In the afternoon suddenly we heard him call, and saw him outside creeping towards us. He had only been knocked unconscious. Because he could not see, and was mad with pain, he failed to keep under cover, and so was shot down before anyone could go and fetch him in. Naturally we couldn't blame Kantorek for this. Where would the world be if one brought every man to book? There were thousands of Kantoreks, all of whom were convinced that there was only one way of doing well, and that way theirs. And that is just why they let us down so badly. For us lads of eighteen they ought to have been mediators and guides to the world of maturity, the world of work, of duty, of culture, of progress--to the future. We often made fun of them and played jokes on them, but in our hearts we trusted them. The idea of
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All Quiet on the Western Front
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The mutterings of the unhappy General died away. I verily believe that if the Grandmother had held her tongue a few seconds longer she would have had a stroke.
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No speaker
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did you, did you ?"<|quote|>The mutterings of the unhappy General died away. I verily believe that if the Grandmother had held her tongue a few seconds longer she would have had a stroke.</|quote|>"How on earth did I
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mother! But how on earth did you, did you ?"<|quote|>The mutterings of the unhappy General died away. I verily believe that if the Grandmother had held her tongue a few seconds longer she would have had a stroke.</|quote|>"How on earth did I _what?_" she exclaimed. "Why, I
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the background, and gazed calmly and decorously at the scene. "Well, here I am and instead of a telegram, too!" the Grandmother at last ejaculated, to dissipate the silence. "What? You were not expecting me?" "Antonida Vassilievna! O my dearest mother! But how on earth did you, did you ?"<|quote|>The mutterings of the unhappy General died away. I verily believe that if the Grandmother had held her tongue a few seconds longer she would have had a stroke.</|quote|>"How on earth did I _what?_" she exclaimed. "Why, I just got into the train and came here. What else is the railway meant for? But you thought that I had turned up my toes and left my property to the lot of you. Oh, I know _all_ about the
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however, she too turned as white as a sheet, and then reddened to her temples. Truly the Grandmother s arrival seemed to be a catastrophe for everybody! For my own part, I stood looking from the Grandmother to the company, and back again, while Mr. Astley, as usual, remained in the background, and gazed calmly and decorously at the scene. "Well, here I am and instead of a telegram, too!" the Grandmother at last ejaculated, to dissipate the silence. "What? You were not expecting me?" "Antonida Vassilievna! O my dearest mother! But how on earth did you, did you ?"<|quote|>The mutterings of the unhappy General died away. I verily believe that if the Grandmother had held her tongue a few seconds longer she would have had a stroke.</|quote|>"How on earth did I _what?_" she exclaimed. "Why, I just got into the train and came here. What else is the railway meant for? But you thought that I had turned up my toes and left my property to the lot of you. Oh, I know _all_ about the telegrams which you have been dispatching. They must have cost you a pretty sum, I should think, for telegrams are not sent from abroad for nothing. Well, I picked up my heels, and came here. Who is this Frenchman? Monsieur de Griers, I suppose?" "Oui, madame," assented De Griers. "Et,
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seen a basilisk. In return, the Grandmother stared at him silently and without moving though with a look of mingled challenge, triumph, and ridicule in her eyes. For ten seconds did the pair remain thus eyeing one another, amid the profound silence of the company; and even De Griers sat petrified an extraordinary look of uneasiness dawning on his face. As for Mlle. Blanche, she too stared wildly at the Grandmother, with eyebrows raised and her lips parted while the Prince and the German savant contemplated the tableau in profound amazement. Only Polina looked anything but perplexed or surprised. Presently, however, she too turned as white as a sheet, and then reddened to her temples. Truly the Grandmother s arrival seemed to be a catastrophe for everybody! For my own part, I stood looking from the Grandmother to the company, and back again, while Mr. Astley, as usual, remained in the background, and gazed calmly and decorously at the scene. "Well, here I am and instead of a telegram, too!" the Grandmother at last ejaculated, to dissipate the silence. "What? You were not expecting me?" "Antonida Vassilievna! O my dearest mother! But how on earth did you, did you ?"<|quote|>The mutterings of the unhappy General died away. I verily believe that if the Grandmother had held her tongue a few seconds longer she would have had a stroke.</|quote|>"How on earth did I _what?_" she exclaimed. "Why, I just got into the train and came here. What else is the railway meant for? But you thought that I had turned up my toes and left my property to the lot of you. Oh, I know _all_ about the telegrams which you have been dispatching. They must have cost you a pretty sum, I should think, for telegrams are not sent from abroad for nothing. Well, I picked up my heels, and came here. Who is this Frenchman? Monsieur de Griers, I suppose?" "Oui, madame," assented De Griers. "Et, croyez, je suis si enchant ! Votre sant c est un miracle vous voir ici. Une surprise charmante!" "Just so. Charmante! I happen to know you as a mountebank, and therefore trust you no more than _this_." She indicated her little finger. "And who is _that?_" she went on, turning towards Mlle. Blanche. Evidently the Frenchwoman looked so becoming in her riding-habit, with her whip in her hand, that she had made an impression upon the old lady. "Who is that woman there?" "Mlle. de Cominges," I said. "And this is her mother, Madame de Cominges. They also are staying
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others to ride on horseback, accompanied by one or two extraneous acquaintances) was being planned. The General was present, and also Polina, the children, the latter s nurses, De Griers, Mlle. Blanche (attired in a riding-habit), her mother, the young Prince, and a learned German whom I beheld for the first time. Into the midst of this assembly the lacqueys conveyed Madame in her chair, and set her down within three paces of the General! Good heavens! Never shall I forget the spectacle which ensued! Just before our entry, the General had been holding forth to the company, with De Griers in support of him. I may also mention that, for the last two or three days, Mlle. Blanche and De Griers had been making a great deal of the young Prince, under the very nose of the poor General. In short, the company, though decorous and conventional, was in a gay, familiar mood. But no sooner did the Grandmother appear than the General stopped dead in the middle of a word, and, with jaw dropping, stared hard at the old lady his eyes almost starting out of his head, and his expression as spellbound as though he had just seen a basilisk. In return, the Grandmother stared at him silently and without moving though with a look of mingled challenge, triumph, and ridicule in her eyes. For ten seconds did the pair remain thus eyeing one another, amid the profound silence of the company; and even De Griers sat petrified an extraordinary look of uneasiness dawning on his face. As for Mlle. Blanche, she too stared wildly at the Grandmother, with eyebrows raised and her lips parted while the Prince and the German savant contemplated the tableau in profound amazement. Only Polina looked anything but perplexed or surprised. Presently, however, she too turned as white as a sheet, and then reddened to her temples. Truly the Grandmother s arrival seemed to be a catastrophe for everybody! For my own part, I stood looking from the Grandmother to the company, and back again, while Mr. Astley, as usual, remained in the background, and gazed calmly and decorously at the scene. "Well, here I am and instead of a telegram, too!" the Grandmother at last ejaculated, to dissipate the silence. "What? You were not expecting me?" "Antonida Vassilievna! O my dearest mother! But how on earth did you, did you ?"<|quote|>The mutterings of the unhappy General died away. I verily believe that if the Grandmother had held her tongue a few seconds longer she would have had a stroke.</|quote|>"How on earth did I _what?_" she exclaimed. "Why, I just got into the train and came here. What else is the railway meant for? But you thought that I had turned up my toes and left my property to the lot of you. Oh, I know _all_ about the telegrams which you have been dispatching. They must have cost you a pretty sum, I should think, for telegrams are not sent from abroad for nothing. Well, I picked up my heels, and came here. Who is this Frenchman? Monsieur de Griers, I suppose?" "Oui, madame," assented De Griers. "Et, croyez, je suis si enchant ! Votre sant c est un miracle vous voir ici. Une surprise charmante!" "Just so. Charmante! I happen to know you as a mountebank, and therefore trust you no more than _this_." She indicated her little finger. "And who is _that?_" she went on, turning towards Mlle. Blanche. Evidently the Frenchwoman looked so becoming in her riding-habit, with her whip in her hand, that she had made an impression upon the old lady. "Who is that woman there?" "Mlle. de Cominges," I said. "And this is her mother, Madame de Cominges. They also are staying in the hotel." "Is the daughter married?" asked the old lady, without the least semblance of ceremony. "No," I replied as respectfully as possible, but under my breath. "Is she good company?" I failed to understand the question. "I mean, is she or is she not a bore? Can she speak Russian? When this De Griers was in Moscow he soon learnt to make himself understood." I explained to the old lady that Mlle. Blanche had never visited Russia. "Bonjour, then," said Madame, with sudden brusquerie. "Bonjour, madame," replied Mlle. Blanche with an elegant, ceremonious bow as, under cover of an unwonted modesty, she endeavoured to express, both in face and figure, her extreme surprise at such strange behaviour on the part of the Grandmother. "How the woman sticks out her eyes at me! How she mows and minces!" was the Grandmother s comment. Then she turned suddenly to the General, and continued: "I have taken up my abode here, so am going to be your next-door neighbour. Are you glad to hear that, or are you not?" "My dear mother, believe me when I say that I am sincerely delighted," returned the General, who had now, to a certain
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we encountered fine ladies and important-looking Englishmen more than one of whom hastened downstairs to inquire of the awestruck landlord who the newcomer was. To all such questions he returned the same answer namely, that the old lady was an influential foreigner, a Russian, a Countess, and a _grande dame_, and that she had taken the suite which, during the previous week, had been tenanted by the Grande Duchesse de N. Meanwhile the cause of the sensation the Grandmother was being borne aloft in her armchair. Every person whom she met she scanned with an inquisitive eye, after first of all interrogating me about him or her at the top of her voice. She was stout of figure, and, though she could not leave her chair, one felt, the moment that one first looked at her, that she was also tall of stature. Her back was as straight as a board, and never did she lean back in her seat. Also, her large grey head, with its keen, rugged features, remained always erect as she glanced about her in an imperious, challenging sort of way, with looks and gestures that clearly were unstudied. Though she had reached her seventy-sixth year, her face was still fresh, and her teeth had not decayed. Lastly, she was dressed in a black silk gown and white mobcap. "She interests me tremendously," whispered Mr. Astley as, still smoking, he walked by my side. Meanwhile I was reflecting that probably the old lady knew all about the telegrams, and even about De Griers, though little or nothing about Mlle. Blanche. I said as much to Mr. Astley. But what a frail creature is man! No sooner was my first surprise abated than I found myself rejoicing in the shock which we were about to administer to the General. So much did the thought inspire me that I marched ahead in the gayest of fashions. Our party was lodging on the third floor. Without knocking at the door, or in any way announcing our presence, I threw open the portals, and the Grandmother was borne through them in triumph. As though of set purpose, the whole party chanced at that moment to be assembled in the General s study. The time was eleven o clock, and it seemed that an outing of some sort (at which a portion of the party were to drive in carriages, and others to ride on horseback, accompanied by one or two extraneous acquaintances) was being planned. The General was present, and also Polina, the children, the latter s nurses, De Griers, Mlle. Blanche (attired in a riding-habit), her mother, the young Prince, and a learned German whom I beheld for the first time. Into the midst of this assembly the lacqueys conveyed Madame in her chair, and set her down within three paces of the General! Good heavens! Never shall I forget the spectacle which ensued! Just before our entry, the General had been holding forth to the company, with De Griers in support of him. I may also mention that, for the last two or three days, Mlle. Blanche and De Griers had been making a great deal of the young Prince, under the very nose of the poor General. In short, the company, though decorous and conventional, was in a gay, familiar mood. But no sooner did the Grandmother appear than the General stopped dead in the middle of a word, and, with jaw dropping, stared hard at the old lady his eyes almost starting out of his head, and his expression as spellbound as though he had just seen a basilisk. In return, the Grandmother stared at him silently and without moving though with a look of mingled challenge, triumph, and ridicule in her eyes. For ten seconds did the pair remain thus eyeing one another, amid the profound silence of the company; and even De Griers sat petrified an extraordinary look of uneasiness dawning on his face. As for Mlle. Blanche, she too stared wildly at the Grandmother, with eyebrows raised and her lips parted while the Prince and the German savant contemplated the tableau in profound amazement. Only Polina looked anything but perplexed or surprised. Presently, however, she too turned as white as a sheet, and then reddened to her temples. Truly the Grandmother s arrival seemed to be a catastrophe for everybody! For my own part, I stood looking from the Grandmother to the company, and back again, while Mr. Astley, as usual, remained in the background, and gazed calmly and decorously at the scene. "Well, here I am and instead of a telegram, too!" the Grandmother at last ejaculated, to dissipate the silence. "What? You were not expecting me?" "Antonida Vassilievna! O my dearest mother! But how on earth did you, did you ?"<|quote|>The mutterings of the unhappy General died away. I verily believe that if the Grandmother had held her tongue a few seconds longer she would have had a stroke.</|quote|>"How on earth did I _what?_" she exclaimed. "Why, I just got into the train and came here. What else is the railway meant for? But you thought that I had turned up my toes and left my property to the lot of you. Oh, I know _all_ about the telegrams which you have been dispatching. They must have cost you a pretty sum, I should think, for telegrams are not sent from abroad for nothing. Well, I picked up my heels, and came here. Who is this Frenchman? Monsieur de Griers, I suppose?" "Oui, madame," assented De Griers. "Et, croyez, je suis si enchant ! Votre sant c est un miracle vous voir ici. Une surprise charmante!" "Just so. Charmante! I happen to know you as a mountebank, and therefore trust you no more than _this_." She indicated her little finger. "And who is _that?_" she went on, turning towards Mlle. Blanche. Evidently the Frenchwoman looked so becoming in her riding-habit, with her whip in her hand, that she had made an impression upon the old lady. "Who is that woman there?" "Mlle. de Cominges," I said. "And this is her mother, Madame de Cominges. They also are staying in the hotel." "Is the daughter married?" asked the old lady, without the least semblance of ceremony. "No," I replied as respectfully as possible, but under my breath. "Is she good company?" I failed to understand the question. "I mean, is she or is she not a bore? Can she speak Russian? When this De Griers was in Moscow he soon learnt to make himself understood." I explained to the old lady that Mlle. Blanche had never visited Russia. "Bonjour, then," said Madame, with sudden brusquerie. "Bonjour, madame," replied Mlle. Blanche with an elegant, ceremonious bow as, under cover of an unwonted modesty, she endeavoured to express, both in face and figure, her extreme surprise at such strange behaviour on the part of the Grandmother. "How the woman sticks out her eyes at me! How she mows and minces!" was the Grandmother s comment. Then she turned suddenly to the General, and continued: "I have taken up my abode here, so am going to be your next-door neighbour. Are you glad to hear that, or are you not?" "My dear mother, believe me when I say that I am sincerely delighted," returned the General, who had now, to a certain extent, recovered his senses; and inasmuch as, when occasion arose, he could speak with fluency, gravity, and a certain effect, he set himself to be expansive in his remarks, and went on: "We have been so dismayed and upset by the news of your indisposition! We had received such hopeless telegrams about you! Then suddenly" "Fibs, fibs!" interrupted the Grandmother. "How on earth, too, did you come to decide upon the journey?" continued the General, with raised voice as he hurried to overlook the old lady s last remark. "Surely, at your age, and in your present state of health, the thing is so unexpected that our surprise is at least intelligible. However, I am glad to see you (as indeed, are we all" he said this with a dignified, yet conciliatory, smile), "and will use my best endeavours to render your stay here as pleasant as possible." "Enough! All this is empty chatter. You are talking the usual nonsense. I shall know quite well how to spend my time. How did I come to undertake the journey, you ask? Well, is there anything so very surprising about it? It was done quite simply. What is every one going into ecstasies about? How do you do, Prascovia? What are _you_ doing here?" "And how are _you_, Grandmother?" replied Polina, as she approached the old lady. "Were you long on the journey?" "The most sensible question that I have yet been asked! Well, you shall hear for yourself how it all happened. I lay and lay, and was doctored and doctored, until at last I drove the physicians from me, and called in an apothecary from Nicolai who had cured an old woman of a malady similar to my own cured her merely with a little hayseed. Well, he did me a great deal of good, for on the third day I broke into a sweat, and was able to leave my bed. Then my German doctors held another consultation, put on their spectacles, and told me that if I would go abroad, and take a course of the waters, the indisposition would finally pass away. Why should it not? I thought to myself. So I had got things ready, and on the following day, a Friday, set out for here. I occupied a special compartment in the train, and where ever I had to change I found at the station
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in support of him. I may also mention that, for the last two or three days, Mlle. Blanche and De Griers had been making a great deal of the young Prince, under the very nose of the poor General. In short, the company, though decorous and conventional, was in a gay, familiar mood. But no sooner did the Grandmother appear than the General stopped dead in the middle of a word, and, with jaw dropping, stared hard at the old lady his eyes almost starting out of his head, and his expression as spellbound as though he had just seen a basilisk. In return, the Grandmother stared at him silently and without moving though with a look of mingled challenge, triumph, and ridicule in her eyes. For ten seconds did the pair remain thus eyeing one another, amid the profound silence of the company; and even De Griers sat petrified an extraordinary look of uneasiness dawning on his face. As for Mlle. Blanche, she too stared wildly at the Grandmother, with eyebrows raised and her lips parted while the Prince and the German savant contemplated the tableau in profound amazement. Only Polina looked anything but perplexed or surprised. Presently, however, she too turned as white as a sheet, and then reddened to her temples. Truly the Grandmother s arrival seemed to be a catastrophe for everybody! For my own part, I stood looking from the Grandmother to the company, and back again, while Mr. Astley, as usual, remained in the background, and gazed calmly and decorously at the scene. "Well, here I am and instead of a telegram, too!" the Grandmother at last ejaculated, to dissipate the silence. "What? You were not expecting me?" "Antonida Vassilievna! O my dearest mother! But how on earth did you, did you ?"<|quote|>The mutterings of the unhappy General died away. I verily believe that if the Grandmother had held her tongue a few seconds longer she would have had a stroke.</|quote|>"How on earth did I _what?_" she exclaimed. "Why, I just got into the train and came here. What else is the railway meant for? But you thought that I had turned up my toes and left my property to the lot of you. Oh, I know _all_ about the telegrams which you have been dispatching. They must have cost you a pretty sum, I should think, for telegrams are not sent from abroad for nothing. Well, I picked up my heels, and came here. Who is this Frenchman? Monsieur de Griers, I suppose?" "Oui, madame," assented De Griers. "Et, croyez, je suis si enchant ! Votre sant c est un miracle vous voir ici. Une surprise charmante!" "Just so. Charmante! I happen to know you as a mountebank, and therefore trust you no more than _this_." She indicated her little finger. "And who is _that?_" she went on, turning towards Mlle. Blanche. Evidently the Frenchwoman looked so becoming in her riding-habit, with her whip in her hand, that she had made an impression upon the old lady. "Who is that woman there?" "Mlle. de Cominges," I said. "And this is her mother, Madame de Cominges. They also are staying in the hotel." "Is the daughter married?" asked the old lady, without the least semblance of ceremony. "No," I replied as respectfully as possible, but under my breath. "Is she good company?" I failed to understand the question. "I mean, is she or is she not a bore? Can she speak Russian? When this De Griers was in Moscow he soon learnt to make himself understood." I explained to the old lady that Mlle. Blanche had never visited Russia. "Bonjour, then," said Madame, with sudden brusquerie. "Bonjour, madame," replied Mlle. Blanche with an elegant, ceremonious bow as, under cover of an unwonted modesty, she endeavoured to express, both in face and figure, her extreme surprise at such strange behaviour on the part of the Grandmother. "How the woman sticks out her eyes at me! How she mows and minces!" was the Grandmother s comment. Then she turned suddenly to the General, and continued: "I have taken up my abode here, so am going to be your next-door neighbour. Are you glad to hear that, or are you not?" "My dear mother, believe me when I say that I am sincerely delighted," returned the General, who had now, to a certain extent, recovered his senses; and inasmuch as, when occasion arose, he could speak with fluency, gravity, and a certain effect, he set himself to be expansive in his remarks, and went on: "We have been so dismayed and upset by the news of your indisposition! We had received such hopeless telegrams about you! Then suddenly"
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The Gambler
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