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The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.
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No speaker
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nothing more to be said."<|quote|>The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.</|quote|>"Well, Dorian," he said at
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what I am. There is nothing more to be said."<|quote|>The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.</|quote|>"Well, Dorian," he said at length, with a sad smile,
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better than he is. You are not stronger you are too much afraid of life but you are better. And how happy we used to be together! Don t leave me, Basil, and don t quarrel with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said."<|quote|>The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.</|quote|>"Well, Dorian," he said at length, with a sad smile, "I won t speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your name won t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?" Dorian shook
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you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course, I am very fond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not stronger you are too much afraid of life but you are better. And how happy we used to be together! Don t leave me, Basil, and don t quarrel with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said."<|quote|>The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.</|quote|>"Well, Dorian," he said at length, with a sad smile, "I won t speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your name won t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?" Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word "inquest." There was something so crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. "They don t know my name," he answered. "But surely she did?" "Only my Christian name, and that I am
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could console one for all the miseries of life. I love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp there is much to be got from all these. But the artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. To become the spectator of one s own life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I was a schoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course, I am very fond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not stronger you are too much afraid of life but you are better. And how happy we used to be together! Don t leave me, Basil, and don t quarrel with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said."<|quote|>The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.</|quote|>"Well, Dorian," he said at length, with a sad smile, "I won t speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your name won t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?" Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word "inquest." There was something so crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. "They don t know my name," he answered. "But surely she did?" "Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words." "I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you must come and sit to me yourself again. I can t get on without you." "I can
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Then it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can, except sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come down here to console me. That is charming of you. You find me consoled, and you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You remind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some unjust law altered I forget exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment. He had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of _ennui_, and became a confirmed misanthrope. And besides, my dear old Basil, if you really want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic point of view. Was it not Gautier who used to write about _la consolation des arts_? I remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that delightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young man you told me of when we were down at Marlow together, the young man who used to say that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life. I love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp there is much to be got from all these. But the artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. To become the spectator of one s own life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I was a schoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course, I am very fond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not stronger you are too much afraid of life but you are better. And how happy we used to be together! Don t leave me, Basil, and don t quarrel with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said."<|quote|>The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.</|quote|>"Well, Dorian," he said at length, with a sad smile, "I won t speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your name won t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?" Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word "inquest." There was something so crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. "They don t know my name," he answered. "But surely she did?" "Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words." "I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you must come and sit to me yourself again. I can t get on without you." "I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he exclaimed, starting back. The painter stared at him. "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "Do you mean to say you don t like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room looked different as I came in." "My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don t imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait." "Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for it. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room. A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray s lips, and he rushed between the painter and the screen. "Basil," he said, looking very pale, "you must not look at it. I don t wish
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has come over you. You talk as if you had no heart, no pity in you. It is all Harry s influence. I see that." The lad flushed up and, going to the window, looked out for a few moments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. "I owe a great deal to Harry, Basil," he said at last, "more than I owe to you. You only taught me to be vain." "Well, I am punished for that, Dorian or shall be some day." "I don t know what you mean, Basil," he exclaimed, turning round. "I don t know what you want. What do you want?" "I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint," said the artist sadly. "Basil," said the lad, going over to him and putting his hand on his shoulder, "you have come too late. Yesterday, when I heard that Sibyl Vane had killed herself" "Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?" cried Hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror. "My dear Basil! Surely you don t think it was a vulgar accident? Of course she killed herself." The elder man buried his face in his hands. "How fearful," he muttered, and a shudder ran through him. "No," said Dorian Gray, "there is nothing fearful about it. It is one of the great romantic tragedies of the age. As a rule, people who act lead the most commonplace lives. They are good husbands, or faithful wives, or something tedious. You know what I mean middle-class virtue and all that kind of thing. How different Sibyl was! She lived her finest tragedy. She was always a heroine. The last night she played the night you saw her she acted badly because she had known the reality of love. When she knew its unreality, she died, as Juliet might have died. She passed again into the sphere of art. There is something of the martyr about her. Her death has all the pathetic uselessness of martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not think I have not suffered. If you had come in yesterday at a particular moment about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six you would have found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. I suffered immensely. Then it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can, except sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come down here to console me. That is charming of you. You find me consoled, and you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You remind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some unjust law altered I forget exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment. He had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of _ennui_, and became a confirmed misanthrope. And besides, my dear old Basil, if you really want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic point of view. Was it not Gautier who used to write about _la consolation des arts_? I remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that delightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young man you told me of when we were down at Marlow together, the young man who used to say that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life. I love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp there is much to be got from all these. But the artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. To become the spectator of one s own life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I was a schoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course, I am very fond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not stronger you are too much afraid of life but you are better. And how happy we used to be together! Don t leave me, Basil, and don t quarrel with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said."<|quote|>The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.</|quote|>"Well, Dorian," he said at length, with a sad smile, "I won t speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your name won t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?" Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word "inquest." There was something so crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. "They don t know my name," he answered. "But surely she did?" "Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words." "I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you must come and sit to me yourself again. I can t get on without you." "I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he exclaimed, starting back. The painter stared at him. "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "Do you mean to say you don t like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room looked different as I came in." "My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don t imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait." "Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for it. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room. A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray s lips, and he rushed between the painter and the screen. "Basil," he said, looking very pale, "you must not look at it. I don t wish you to." "Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldn t I look at it?" exclaimed Hallward, laughing. "If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don t offer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you touch this screen, everything is over between us." Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was actually pallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of his eyes were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over. "Dorian!" "Don t speak!" "But what is the matter? Of course I won t look at it if you don t want me to," he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going over towards the window. "But, really, it seems rather absurd that I shouldn t see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in Paris in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of varnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?" "To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?" exclaimed Dorian Gray, a strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to be shown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? That was impossible. Something he did not know what had to be done at once. "Yes; I don t suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is going to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de S ze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will only be away a month. I should think you could easily spare it for that time. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you keep it always behind a screen, you can t care much about it." Dorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of perspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible danger. "You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it," he cried. "Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in
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immensely. Then it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can, except sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come down here to console me. That is charming of you. You find me consoled, and you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You remind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some unjust law altered I forget exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment. He had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of _ennui_, and became a confirmed misanthrope. And besides, my dear old Basil, if you really want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic point of view. Was it not Gautier who used to write about _la consolation des arts_? I remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that delightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young man you told me of when we were down at Marlow together, the young man who used to say that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life. I love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp there is much to be got from all these. But the artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. To become the spectator of one s own life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I was a schoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course, I am very fond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not stronger you are too much afraid of life but you are better. And how happy we used to be together! Don t leave me, Basil, and don t quarrel with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said."<|quote|>The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.</|quote|>"Well, Dorian," he said at length, with a sad smile, "I won t speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your name won t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?" Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word "inquest." There was something so crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. "They don t know my name," he answered. "But surely she did?" "Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words." "I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you must come and sit to me yourself again. I can t get on without you." "I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he exclaimed, starting back. The painter stared at him. "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "Do you mean to say you don t like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room looked different as I came in." "My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don t imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait." "Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for it. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room. A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray s lips, and he rushed between the painter and the screen. "Basil," he said, looking very pale, "you must not look at it. I don t wish you to." "Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldn t I look at it?" exclaimed Hallward, laughing. "If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don t offer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember,
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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"It _is_ a long tail, certainly,"
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Alice
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turning to Alice, and sighing.<|quote|>"It _is_ a long tail, certainly,"</|quote|>said Alice, looking down with
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sad tale!" said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing.<|quote|>"It _is_ a long tail, certainly,"</|quote|>said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail;
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something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. "Mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing.<|quote|>"It _is_ a long tail, certainly,"</|quote|>said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the
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caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. "Mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing.<|quote|>"It _is_ a long tail, certainly,"</|quote|>said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll
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"Only a thimble," said Alice sadly. "Hand it over here," said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. "Mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing.<|quote|>"It _is_ a long tail, certainly,"</|quote|>said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_" cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You
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called out "The race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, "_Everybody_ has won, and all must have prizes." "But who is to give the prizes?" quite a chorus of voices asked. "Why, _she_, of course," said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, "Prizes! Prizes!" Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece, all round. "But she must have a prize herself, you know," said the Mouse. "Of course," the Dodo replied very gravely. "What else have you got in your pocket?" he went on, turning to Alice. "Only a thimble," said Alice sadly. "Hand it over here," said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. "Mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing.<|quote|>"It _is_ a long tail, certainly,"</|quote|>said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_" cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!" "I didn't mean it!" pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, "Yes, please do!" but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. "What a pity it wouldn't stay!" sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter "Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose _your_ temper!" "Hold your tongue, Ma!" said the young Crab, a little snappishly. "You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!" "I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!" said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular. "She'd soon fetch it back!" "And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?" said the Lory. Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet: "Dinah's our cat. And she's such a capital one for catching mice you can't think! And oh, I wish you could see her after
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said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!" said the Eaglet. "I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (" "the exact shape doesn't matter," it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no "One, two, three, and away," but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out "The race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, "_Everybody_ has won, and all must have prizes." "But who is to give the prizes?" quite a chorus of voices asked. "Why, _she_, of course," said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, "Prizes! Prizes!" Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece, all round. "But she must have a prize herself, you know," said the Mouse. "Of course," the Dodo replied very gravely. "What else have you got in your pocket?" he went on, turning to Alice. "Only a thimble," said Alice sadly. "Hand it over here," said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. "Mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing.<|quote|>"It _is_ a long tail, certainly,"</|quote|>said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_" cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!" "I didn't mean it!" pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, "Yes, please do!" but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. "What a pity it wouldn't stay!" sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter "Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose _your_ temper!" "Hold your tongue, Ma!" said the young Crab, a little snappishly. "You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!" "I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!" said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular. "She'd soon fetch it back!" "And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?" said the Lory. Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet: "Dinah's our cat. And she's such a capital one for catching mice you can't think! And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds! Why, she'll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!" This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. Some of the birds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began wrapping itself up very carefully, remarking, "I really must be getting home; the night-air doesn't suit my throat!" and a Canary called out in a trembling voice to its children, "Come away, my dears! It's high time you were all in bed!" On various pretexts they all moved off, and Alice was soon left alone. "I wish I hadn't mentioned Dinah!" she said to herself in a melancholy tone. "Nobody seems to like her, down here, and I'm sure she's the best cat in the world! Oh, my dear Dinah! I wonder if I shall ever see you any more!" And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt very lonely and low-spirited. In a little while, however, she again heard a little pattering of footsteps in the distance, and she looked up eagerly, half hoping that the Mouse had changed his mind, and was coming back to finish his story. CHAPTER IV. The Rabbit Sends in a Little Bill It was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking anxiously about as it went, as if it had lost something; and she heard it muttering to itself "The Duchess! The Duchess! Oh my dear paws! Oh my fur and whiskers! She'll get me executed, as sure as ferrets are ferrets! Where _can_ I have dropped them, I wonder?" Alice guessed in a moment that it was looking for the fan and the pair of white kid gloves, and she very good-naturedly began hunting about for them, but they were nowhere to be seen--everything seemed to have changed since her swim in the pool, and the great hall, with the glass table and the little door, had vanished completely. Very soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, as she went hunting about, and called out to her in an angry tone, "Why, Mary Ann, what _are_ you doing out here? Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan! Quick, now!" And Alice was so much frightened that she ran off at once in the direction it pointed to, without trying to explain the mistake it had made. "He took me for his housemaid," she said to herself as
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circle, (" "the exact shape doesn't matter," it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no "One, two, three, and away," but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out "The race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, "_Everybody_ has won, and all must have prizes." "But who is to give the prizes?" quite a chorus of voices asked. "Why, _she_, of course," said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, "Prizes! Prizes!" Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece, all round. "But she must have a prize herself, you know," said the Mouse. "Of course," the Dodo replied very gravely. "What else have you got in your pocket?" he went on, turning to Alice. "Only a thimble," said Alice sadly. "Hand it over here," said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. "Mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing.<|quote|>"It _is_ a long tail, certainly,"</|quote|>said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_" cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!" "I didn't mean it!" pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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"Jem."
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Don Lavington
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going to eat and sleep."<|quote|>"Jem."</|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going
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I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep."<|quote|>"Jem."</|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree."
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hopeless, he made up his mind to act. "It is next to impossible to climb up, Jem," he said. "Yes, Mas' Don." "And we can't get down." "No, Mas' Don. We shall have to live here for a bit, only I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep."<|quote|>"Jem."</|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if it breaks--" "Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don't like is, s'pose you break." "I shall go first, and you can try afterwards." "No, no, Mas' Don; let me
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get fast hold, they would bend and let us down." "They'd let us down," said Jem drily; "but I don't know 'bout bending." Don clung to the face of the rock, hesitating, and wondering whether by any possibility they could get down another way, and finding that it was absolutely hopeless, he made up his mind to act. "It is next to impossible to climb up, Jem," he said. "Yes, Mas' Don." "And we can't get down." "No, Mas' Don. We shall have to live here for a bit, only I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep."<|quote|>"Jem."</|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if it breaks--" "Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don't like is, s'pose you break." "I shall go first, and you can try afterwards." "No, no, Mas' Don; let me try first." Don paid no heed to his words, but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In
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I do call that stoopid," said Jem, as he stared helplessly at Don. "What are we going to do now?" "I don't know, Jem. If we had a bit of rope we could easily descend." "And if we'd got wings, Mas' Don, we might fly." "We must climb back, Jem, as--Look here, would these trees bear us?" "Not likely," said Jem, staring hard at a couple of young kauri pines, which grew up at the foot of the precipice, and whose fine pointed tops were within a few feet of where they clung. "But if we could reach them and get fast hold, they would bend and let us down." "They'd let us down," said Jem drily; "but I don't know 'bout bending." Don clung to the face of the rock, hesitating, and wondering whether by any possibility they could get down another way, and finding that it was absolutely hopeless, he made up his mind to act. "It is next to impossible to climb up, Jem," he said. "Yes, Mas' Don." "And we can't get down." "No, Mas' Don. We shall have to live here for a bit, only I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep."<|quote|>"Jem."</|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if it breaks--" "Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don't like is, s'pose you break." "I shall go first, and you can try afterwards." "No, no, Mas' Don; let me try first." Don paid no heed to his words, but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken. As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances. "Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!" As the
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don't say you are in danger." "Not I, my lad, if you don't want me to; but it is awk'ard. Stand clear," he shouted. "I'm coming down. No, I arn't," he said directly after, as he made a tremendous effort to reach a tough stem below, failed, and then dropped and caught it, and swung first by one hand and then by two. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought I was gone." "You made my heart seem to jump into my mouth." "Did I, lad? Well, it was awk'ard. I was scared lest I should knock you off. Felt just as I did when the chain broke, and you could see the link opening, and a big sugar-hogshead threatening to come down. All right now, my lad. Let's get on down. Think we're birds' nesting, Mas' Don, and it'll be all right." Don had to nerve himself once more, and they steadily lowered themselves from tuft to tuft, and from stone to stone, with more confidence, till they were about thirty feet from the foot, when farther progress became impossible, for, in place of being perpendicular, the cliff face sloped inward for some distance before becoming perpendicular once more. "Well, I do call that stoopid," said Jem, as he stared helplessly at Don. "What are we going to do now?" "I don't know, Jem. If we had a bit of rope we could easily descend." "And if we'd got wings, Mas' Don, we might fly." "We must climb back, Jem, as--Look here, would these trees bear us?" "Not likely," said Jem, staring hard at a couple of young kauri pines, which grew up at the foot of the precipice, and whose fine pointed tops were within a few feet of where they clung. "But if we could reach them and get fast hold, they would bend and let us down." "They'd let us down," said Jem drily; "but I don't know 'bout bending." Don clung to the face of the rock, hesitating, and wondering whether by any possibility they could get down another way, and finding that it was absolutely hopeless, he made up his mind to act. "It is next to impossible to climb up, Jem," he said. "Yes, Mas' Don." "And we can't get down." "No, Mas' Don. We shall have to live here for a bit, only I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep."<|quote|>"Jem."</|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if it breaks--" "Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don't like is, s'pose you break." "I shall go first, and you can try afterwards." "No, no, Mas' Don; let me try first." Don paid no heed to his words, but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken. As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances. "Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!" As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly upright, balancing himself for a few moments, and then, almost as if he were going to dive into the water, he extended his hands and sprang outward into space. Jem Wimble uttered a low groan. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. DON'S REPORT. In the case of a leap like that made by Don, there was no suspense for the looker on, for the whole affair seemed to be momentary. Jem saw him pass through the air and disappear in the mass of greenery with a loud rushing sound, which continued for a few moments, and then all was still. "He's killed; he's killed!" groaned Jem to himself; "and my Sally will say it was all my fault." He listened eagerly. "Mas' Don!" he shouted. "Hullo, Jem! I say, would you drop if you were me?" "Drop? Then you arn't killed?" "No, not yet. Would you drop?" "I don't know what you mean." "I'm hanging on to the end of that young tree, and it keeps going up and down like a spring, and it won't go any nearer than about twelve feet from the ground. Would you drop?" _Whish_! _Rush_! _Crash_! _Thud_! The young
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was curiously mottled with sallow, while his hands were trembling when at liberty, and that there was a curiously wild, set look in his eyes. "There, Mas' Don," he said cheerily, as he finished climbing sidewise till he was exactly beneath. "Now, one moment. That's it." As he spoke he drew himself up a little, taking fast hold of the stem of a bush, and of a projecting stone, while he found foot-hold in a wide crevice. "Now then, rest your foot on my shoulders. There you are. That's the way. Two heads is better than one." "Can you bear my weight, Jem?" "Can I bear your weight? Why? You may stand there for a week. Now just you rest your wristies a bit, and then go on climbing down, just as if I warn't here." The minute before Don had felt that he could bear the strain no longer. Now the despairing sensation which came over him had gone, his heart felt lighter as he stood on Jem's shoulders, and sought another hold for his hands lower down. The wild, fluttering pulsation ceased, and he grew composed. "I'm rested now, Jem," said Don. "Of course you are, my lad. Well, then, now you can climb down aside me. 'Tarn't so much farther to the bottom." "Can you reach out far enough for me to come between you and the rock?" "Just you try, Mas' Don." By this time Don had found a fresh hold for his feet; and nerving himself, he descended slowly, Jem forcing himself out, so that there was enough room for any one to pass; but as Don cleared him, and got right below, the bush to which Jem clung with one hand came slowly out of the interstices of the stones, and but for the exercise of a large amount of muscular power and rigidity of will, he would have swung round and fallen headlong. "I'm all right now, Jem!" cried Don from below. "Glad of it, my lad," muttered Jem, "because I arn't." "Come along down now." "How, Mas' Don?" said Jem grimly. "The same way as I did." "Oh! All right; but the bush I held on by is gone." "Well take hold of another." "Just you get from under me, Mas' Don." "Why? What do you mean?" "I'm too heavy to ketch like a cricket ball. That's all, my lad." "Oh, Jem, don't say you are in danger." "Not I, my lad, if you don't want me to; but it is awk'ard. Stand clear," he shouted. "I'm coming down. No, I arn't," he said directly after, as he made a tremendous effort to reach a tough stem below, failed, and then dropped and caught it, and swung first by one hand and then by two. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought I was gone." "You made my heart seem to jump into my mouth." "Did I, lad? Well, it was awk'ard. I was scared lest I should knock you off. Felt just as I did when the chain broke, and you could see the link opening, and a big sugar-hogshead threatening to come down. All right now, my lad. Let's get on down. Think we're birds' nesting, Mas' Don, and it'll be all right." Don had to nerve himself once more, and they steadily lowered themselves from tuft to tuft, and from stone to stone, with more confidence, till they were about thirty feet from the foot, when farther progress became impossible, for, in place of being perpendicular, the cliff face sloped inward for some distance before becoming perpendicular once more. "Well, I do call that stoopid," said Jem, as he stared helplessly at Don. "What are we going to do now?" "I don't know, Jem. If we had a bit of rope we could easily descend." "And if we'd got wings, Mas' Don, we might fly." "We must climb back, Jem, as--Look here, would these trees bear us?" "Not likely," said Jem, staring hard at a couple of young kauri pines, which grew up at the foot of the precipice, and whose fine pointed tops were within a few feet of where they clung. "But if we could reach them and get fast hold, they would bend and let us down." "They'd let us down," said Jem drily; "but I don't know 'bout bending." Don clung to the face of the rock, hesitating, and wondering whether by any possibility they could get down another way, and finding that it was absolutely hopeless, he made up his mind to act. "It is next to impossible to climb up, Jem," he said. "Yes, Mas' Don." "And we can't get down." "No, Mas' Don. We shall have to live here for a bit, only I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep."<|quote|>"Jem."</|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if it breaks--" "Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don't like is, s'pose you break." "I shall go first, and you can try afterwards." "No, no, Mas' Don; let me try first." Don paid no heed to his words, but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken. As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances. "Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!" As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly upright, balancing himself for a few moments, and then, almost as if he were going to dive into the water, he extended his hands and sprang outward into space. Jem Wimble uttered a low groan. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. DON'S REPORT. In the case of a leap like that made by Don, there was no suspense for the looker on, for the whole affair seemed to be momentary. Jem saw him pass through the air and disappear in the mass of greenery with a loud rushing sound, which continued for a few moments, and then all was still. "He's killed; he's killed!" groaned Jem to himself; "and my Sally will say it was all my fault." He listened eagerly. "Mas' Don!" he shouted. "Hullo, Jem! I say, would you drop if you were me?" "Drop? Then you arn't killed?" "No, not yet. Would you drop?" "I don't know what you mean." "I'm hanging on to the end of that young tree, and it keeps going up and down like a spring, and it won't go any nearer than about twelve feet from the ground. Would you drop?" _Whish_! _Rush_! _Crash_! _Thud_! The young tree sprang up again, cleaving a way for itself through the thick growth, and standing nearly erect once more, ragged and sadly deprived of its elegant proportions, just as a dull sound announced Don's arrival on _terra firma_. "All right, Jem!" he cried. "Not hurt. Look here; spread your arms out well and catch tight round the tree as you jump at it. You'll slip down some distance and scratch yourself, but you can't hurt much." "I hear, Mas' Don," said Jem, drawing a long breath full of relief. "I'm a-coming. It's like taking physic," he added to himself; "but the sooner you takes it, the sooner it's down. Here goes! Say, Mas' Don, do you ketch hold o' the tree with your hands, or your arms and legs?" "All of them. Aim straight at the stem, and leap out boldly." "Oh, yes," grumbled Jem; "it's all very well, but I was never 'prenticed to this sort o' fun.--Below!" "A good bold jump, Jem. I'm out of the way." "Below then," said Jem again. "Yes, jump away. Quick!" But Jem did not jump. He distrusted the ability of the tree to bear his weight. "Why don't you jump?" "'Cause it seems like breaking my neck, which is white, to save those of them people in the village, which is black, Mas' Don." "But you will not break your neck if you are careful." "Oh, yes! I'll be careful, Mas' Don; don't you be 'fraid of that." "Well, come along. You're not nervous, are you, Jem?" "Yes, Mas' Don, reg'lar scared; but, below, once more. Here goes! Don't tell my Sally I was afraid if I do get broke." Possibly Jem would have hesitated longer, but the stump of the bush upon which he stood gave such plain intimation of coming out by the roots, that he thought it better to leap than fall, and gathering himself up, he plunged right into the second kauri pine, and went headlong down with a tremendous crash. For he had been right in his doubts. The pine was not so able to bear his weight as its fellow had been to carry Don. He caught it tightly, and the tree bent right down, carrying him nearly to the earth, where he would have done well to have let go; but he clung to it fast, and the tree sprang up again, bent once more,
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opening, and a big sugar-hogshead threatening to come down. All right now, my lad. Let's get on down. Think we're birds' nesting, Mas' Don, and it'll be all right." Don had to nerve himself once more, and they steadily lowered themselves from tuft to tuft, and from stone to stone, with more confidence, till they were about thirty feet from the foot, when farther progress became impossible, for, in place of being perpendicular, the cliff face sloped inward for some distance before becoming perpendicular once more. "Well, I do call that stoopid," said Jem, as he stared helplessly at Don. "What are we going to do now?" "I don't know, Jem. If we had a bit of rope we could easily descend." "And if we'd got wings, Mas' Don, we might fly." "We must climb back, Jem, as--Look here, would these trees bear us?" "Not likely," said Jem, staring hard at a couple of young kauri pines, which grew up at the foot of the precipice, and whose fine pointed tops were within a few feet of where they clung. "But if we could reach them and get fast hold, they would bend and let us down." "They'd let us down," said Jem drily; "but I don't know 'bout bending." Don clung to the face of the rock, hesitating, and wondering whether by any possibility they could get down another way, and finding that it was absolutely hopeless, he made up his mind to act. "It is next to impossible to climb up, Jem," he said. "Yes, Mas' Don." "And we can't get down." "No, Mas' Don. We shall have to live here for a bit, only I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep."<|quote|>"Jem."</|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if it breaks--" "Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don't like is, s'pose you break." "I shall go first, and you can try afterwards." "No, no, Mas' Don; let me try first." Don paid no heed to his words, but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken. As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances. "Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!" As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly upright, balancing himself for a few moments, and then, almost as if he were going to dive into the water, he extended his hands and sprang outward into space. Jem Wimble uttered a low groan. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. DON'S REPORT. In the case of a leap like that made by Don, there was no suspense for the looker on, for the whole affair seemed to be momentary. Jem saw him pass through the air and disappear in the mass of greenery with a loud rushing sound, which continued for a few moments, and then all was still. "He's killed; he's killed!" groaned Jem to himself; "and my Sally will say it was all my fault." He listened eagerly. "Mas' Don!" he shouted. "Hullo, Jem! I say, would you drop if you were me?" "Drop?
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Don Lavington
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"Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right."
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Polly Cockpurse
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it going?" she asked anxiously.<|quote|>"Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right."</|quote|>"She's got the wrong chap.
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party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously.<|quote|>"Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right."</|quote|>"She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her...
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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.<|quote|>"Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right."</|quote|>"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
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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.<|quote|>"Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right."</|quote|>"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,
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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.<|quote|>"Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right."</|quote|>"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.
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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.<|quote|>"Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right."</|quote|>"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." * * * * * "Tired?" "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
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much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?" She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye on Tony. She took out a little heavily scented handkerchief and showed John the monogram. "That is my only crown... now," she said. She told him about the horses she used to have--glossy black, with arched necks; foam round their silver bits; plumes tossing on their foreheads; silver studs on the harness, crimson saddle cloths. "On the Moulay's birthday--" "What's the Moulay?" "A beautiful and a very bad man," she said gravely, "and on his birthday all his horsemen used to assemble round a great square, with all their finest clothes and trappings and jewels, with long swords in their hands. The Moulay used to sit on a throne under a great crimson canopy." "What's a canopy?" "Like a tent," she said more sharply, and then, resuming her soft voice, "and all the horsemen used to gallop across the plain, in a great cloud of dust, waving their swords, straight towards the Moulay. And everyone used to hold their breath, thinking the horsemen were bound to ride right on top of the Moulay, but when they were a few feet away, as near as I am to you, galloping at full speed, they used to rein their horses back, up on 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.<|quote|>"Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right."</|quote|>"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." * * * * * "Tired?" "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." * * *
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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.<|quote|>"Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right."</|quote|>"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." * * * * * "Tired?" "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
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A Handful Of Dust
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Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas. With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio.
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No speaker
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three lives and mar them."<|quote|>Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas. With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio.</|quote|>"Don t, Basil, don t!"
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let it come across our three lives and mar them."<|quote|>Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas. With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio.</|quote|>"Don t, Basil, don t!" he cried. "It would be
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with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them."<|quote|>Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas. With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio.</|quote|>"Don t, Basil, don t!" he cried. "It would be murder!" "I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian," said the painter coldly when he had recovered from his surprise. "I never thought you would." "Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of
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"It is the real Dorian Gray that is all." "It is not." "If it is not, what have I to do with it?" "You should have gone away when I asked you," he muttered. "I stayed when you asked me," was Lord Henry s answer. "Harry, I can t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them."<|quote|>Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas. With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio.</|quote|>"Don t, Basil, don t!" he cried. "It would be murder!" "I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian," said the painter coldly when he had recovered from his surprise. "I never thought you would." "Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I feel that." "Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself." And he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. "You will have tea, of course, Dorian? And so
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should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day mock me horribly!" The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying. "This is your doing, Harry," said the painter bitterly. Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "It is the real Dorian Gray that is all." "It is not." "If it is not, what have I to do with it?" "You should have gone away when I asked you," he muttered. "I stayed when you asked me," was Lord Henry s answer. "Harry, I can t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them."<|quote|>Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas. With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio.</|quote|>"Don t, Basil, don t!" he cried. "It would be murder!" "I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian," said the painter coldly when he had recovered from his surprise. "I never thought you would." "Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I feel that." "Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself." And he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. "You will have tea, of course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple pleasures?" "I adore simple pleasures," said Lord Henry. "They are the last refuge of the complex. But I don t like scenes, except on the stage. What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil.
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am no more to you than a green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say." The painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed and his cheeks burning. "Yes," he continued, "I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses one s good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I shall kill myself." Hallward turned pale and caught his hand. "Dorian! Dorian!" he cried, "don t talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you? you who are finer than any of them!" "I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day mock me horribly!" The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying. "This is your doing, Harry," said the painter bitterly. Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "It is the real Dorian Gray that is all." "It is not." "If it is not, what have I to do with it?" "You should have gone away when I asked you," he muttered. "I stayed when you asked me," was Lord Henry s answer. "Harry, I can t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them."<|quote|>Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas. With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio.</|quote|>"Don t, Basil, don t!" he cried. "It would be murder!" "I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian," said the painter coldly when he had recovered from his surprise. "I never thought you would." "Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I feel that." "Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself." And he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. "You will have tea, of course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple pleasures?" "I adore simple pleasures," said Lord Henry. "They are the last refuge of the complex. But I don t like scenes, except on the stage. What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn t really want it, and I really do." "If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!" cried Dorian Gray; "and I don t allow people to call me a silly boy." "You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed." "And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young." "I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry." "Ah! this morning! You have lived since then." There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was under the covers. "Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White
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forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had come Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his lips and the gold steal from his hair. The life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become dreadful, hideous, and uncouth. As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a knife and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart. "Don t you like it?" cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the lad s silence, not understanding what it meant. "Of course he likes it," said Lord Henry. "Who wouldn t like it? It is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you like to ask for it. I must have it." "It is not my property, Harry." "Whose property is it?" "Dorian s, of course," answered the painter. "He is a very lucky fellow." "How sad it is!" murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June.... If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that for that I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!" "You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil," cried Lord Henry, laughing. "It would be rather hard lines on your work." "I should object very strongly, Harry," said Hallward. Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. "I believe you would, Basil. You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say." The painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed and his cheeks burning. "Yes," he continued, "I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses one s good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I shall kill myself." Hallward turned pale and caught his hand. "Dorian! Dorian!" he cried, "don t talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you? you who are finer than any of them!" "I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day mock me horribly!" The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying. "This is your doing, Harry," said the painter bitterly. Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "It is the real Dorian Gray that is all." "It is not." "If it is not, what have I to do with it?" "You should have gone away when I asked you," he muttered. "I stayed when you asked me," was Lord Henry s answer. "Harry, I can t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them."<|quote|>Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas. With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio.</|quote|>"Don t, Basil, don t!" he cried. "It would be murder!" "I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian," said the painter coldly when he had recovered from his surprise. "I never thought you would." "Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I feel that." "Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself." And he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. "You will have tea, of course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple pleasures?" "I adore simple pleasures," said Lord Henry. "They are the last refuge of the complex. But I don t like scenes, except on the stage. What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn t really want it, and I really do." "If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!" cried Dorian Gray; "and I don t allow people to call me a silly boy." "You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed." "And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young." "I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry." "Ah! this morning! You have lived since then." There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was under the covers. "Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White s, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour." "It is such a bore putting on one s dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid." "Yes," answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life." "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry." "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?" "Before either." "I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad. "Then you shall come; and you will come, too, Basil, won t you?" "I can t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do." "Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray." "I should like that awfully." The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. "I shall stay with the real Dorian," he said, sadly. "Is it the real Dorian?" cried the original of the portrait, strolling across to him. "Am I really like that?" "Yes; you are just like that." "How wonderful, Basil!" "At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter," sighed Hallward. "That is something." "What a fuss people make about fidelity!" exclaimed Lord Henry. "Why, even in love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say." "Don t go to the theatre to-night, Dorian," said Hallward. "Stop and dine with me." "I can t, Basil." "Why?" "Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him." "He won t like you the better for keeping your promises. He always breaks his own. I beg you not to go." Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head. "I entreat you." The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them from the tea-table with an amused smile.
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a friend as you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you? you who are finer than any of them!" "I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day mock me horribly!" The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying. "This is your doing, Harry," said the painter bitterly. Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "It is the real Dorian Gray that is all." "It is not." "If it is not, what have I to do with it?" "You should have gone away when I asked you," he muttered. "I stayed when you asked me," was Lord Henry s answer. "Harry, I can t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them."<|quote|>Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas. With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio.</|quote|>"Don t, Basil, don t!" he cried. "It would be murder!" "I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian," said the painter coldly when he had recovered from his surprise. "I never thought you would." "Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I feel that." "Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself." And he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. "You will have tea, of course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple pleasures?" "I adore simple pleasures," said Lord Henry. "They are the last refuge of the complex. But I don t like scenes, except on the stage. What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn t really want it, and I really do." "If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!" cried Dorian Gray; "and I don t allow people to call me a silly boy." "You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed." "And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young." "I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry." "Ah! this morning! You have lived since then." There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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"To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?"
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Catherine Morland
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favourable idea of the abbey."<|quote|>"To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?"</|quote|>"And are you prepared to
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"You have formed a very favourable idea of the abbey."<|quote|>"To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?"</|quote|>"And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that
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sorry to leave Eleanor." "Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of the abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must be very disagreeable." He smiled, and said, "You have formed a very favourable idea of the abbey."<|quote|>"To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?"</|quote|>"And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as what one reads about may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panels and tapestry?" "Oh! yes I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there would be so many people
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not you with her?" "Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father s, and some of my time is necessarily spent there." "How sorry you must be for that!" "I am always sorry to leave Eleanor." "Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of the abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must be very disagreeable." He smiled, and said, "You have formed a very favourable idea of the abbey."<|quote|>"To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?"</|quote|>"And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as what one reads about may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panels and tapestry?" "Oh! yes I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there would be so many people in the house and besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens." "No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers
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be driven by him, next to being dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world. In addition to every other delight, she had now that of listening to her own praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister s account, for her kindness in thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real friendship, and described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he said, was uncomfortably circumstanced she had no female companion and, in the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any companion at all. "But how can that be?" said Catherine. "Are not you with her?" "Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father s, and some of my time is necessarily spent there." "How sorry you must be for that!" "I am always sorry to leave Eleanor." "Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of the abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must be very disagreeable." He smiled, and said, "You have formed a very favourable idea of the abbey."<|quote|>"To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?"</|quote|>"And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as what one reads about may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panels and tapestry?" "Oh! yes I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there would be so many people in the house and besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens." "No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire nor be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture. But you must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from the rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years before.
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of greater deference for General Tilney s judgment; he could not propose anything improper for her; and, in the course of a few minutes, she found herself with Henry in the curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short trial convinced her that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world; the chaise and four wheeled off with some grandeur, to be sure, but it was a heavy and troublesome business, and she could not easily forget its having stopped two hours at Petty France. Half the time would have been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses disposed to move, that, had not the general chosen to have his own carriage lead the way, they could have passed it with ease in half a minute. But the merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses; Henry drove so well so quietly without making any disturbance, without parading to her, or swearing at them: so different from the only gentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare him with! And then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his greatcoat looked so becomingly important! To be driven by him, next to being dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world. In addition to every other delight, she had now that of listening to her own praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister s account, for her kindness in thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real friendship, and described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he said, was uncomfortably circumstanced she had no female companion and, in the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any companion at all. "But how can that be?" said Catherine. "Are not you with her?" "Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father s, and some of my time is necessarily spent there." "How sorry you must be for that!" "I am always sorry to leave Eleanor." "Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of the abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must be very disagreeable." He smiled, and said, "You have formed a very favourable idea of the abbey."<|quote|>"To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?"</|quote|>"And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as what one reads about may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panels and tapestry?" "Oh! yes I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there would be so many people in the house and besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens." "No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire nor be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture. But you must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from the rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years before. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind misgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber too lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take in its size its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?" "Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure." "How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted,
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people to go in it, and his daughter s maid had so crowded it with parcels that Miss Morland would not have room to sit; and, so much was he influenced by this apprehension when he handed her in, that she had some difficulty in saving her own new writing-desk from being thrown out into the street. At last, however, the door was closed upon the three females, and they set off at the sober pace in which the handsome, highly fed four horses of a gentleman usually perform a journey of thirty miles: such was the distance of Northanger from Bath, to be now divided into two equal stages. Catherine s spirits revived as they drove from the door; for with Miss Tilney she felt no restraint; and, with the interest of a road entirely new to her, of an abbey before, and a curricle behind, she caught the last view of Bath without any regret, and met with every milestone before she expected it. The tediousness of a two hours wait at Petty France, in which there was nothing to be done but to eat without being hungry, and loiter about without anything to see, next followed and her admiration of the style in which they travelled, of the fashionable chaise and four postilions handsomely liveried, rising so regularly in their stirrups, and numerous outriders properly mounted, sunk a little under this consequent inconvenience. Had their party been perfectly agreeable, the delay would have been nothing; but General Tilney, though so charming a man, seemed always a check upon his children s spirits, and scarcely anything was said but by himself; the observation of which, with his discontent at whatever the inn afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters, made Catherine grow every moment more in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen the two hours into four. At last, however, the order of release was given; and much was Catherine then surprised by the general s proposal of her taking his place in his son s curricle for the rest of the journey: "the day was fine, and he was anxious for her seeing as much of the country as possible." The remembrance of Mr. Allen s opinion, respecting young men s open carriages, made her blush at the mention of such a plan, and her first thought was to decline it; but her second was of greater deference for General Tilney s judgment; he could not propose anything improper for her; and, in the course of a few minutes, she found herself with Henry in the curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short trial convinced her that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world; the chaise and four wheeled off with some grandeur, to be sure, but it was a heavy and troublesome business, and she could not easily forget its having stopped two hours at Petty France. Half the time would have been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses disposed to move, that, had not the general chosen to have his own carriage lead the way, they could have passed it with ease in half a minute. But the merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses; Henry drove so well so quietly without making any disturbance, without parading to her, or swearing at them: so different from the only gentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare him with! And then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his greatcoat looked so becomingly important! To be driven by him, next to being dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world. In addition to every other delight, she had now that of listening to her own praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister s account, for her kindness in thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real friendship, and described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he said, was uncomfortably circumstanced she had no female companion and, in the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any companion at all. "But how can that be?" said Catherine. "Are not you with her?" "Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father s, and some of my time is necessarily spent there." "How sorry you must be for that!" "I am always sorry to leave Eleanor." "Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of the abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must be very disagreeable." He smiled, and said, "You have formed a very favourable idea of the abbey."<|quote|>"To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?"</|quote|>"And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as what one reads about may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panels and tapestry?" "Oh! yes I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there would be so many people in the house and besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens." "No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire nor be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture. But you must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from the rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years before. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind misgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber too lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take in its size its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?" "Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure." "How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs you that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this parting cordial she curtsies off you listen to the sound of her receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you and when, with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover, with increased alarm, that it has no lock." "Oh! Mr. Tilney, how frightful! This is just like a book! But it cannot really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy. Well, what then?" "Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After surmounting your _unconquerable_ horror of the bed, you will retire to rest, and get a few hours unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at farthest the _third_ night after your arrival, you will probably have a violent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice to its foundation will roll round the neighbouring mountains and during the frightful gusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably think you discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of the hanging more violently agitated than the rest. Unable of course to repress your curiosity in so favourable a moment for indulging it, you will instantly arise, and throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to examine this mystery. After a very short search, you will discover a division in the tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy the minutest inspection, and on opening it, a door will immediately appear which door, being only secured by massy bars and a padlock, you will, after a few efforts, succeed in opening and, with your lamp in your hand, will pass through it into a small vaulted room." "No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any such thing." "What! Not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a secret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely two miles off? Could you shrink from so simple an adventure? No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted room, and through this into several others, without perceiving anything very remarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a dagger, in another a few drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some instrument of torture; but there being nothing in all this out of the common
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thought was to decline it; but her second was of greater deference for General Tilney s judgment; he could not propose anything improper for her; and, in the course of a few minutes, she found herself with Henry in the curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short trial convinced her that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world; the chaise and four wheeled off with some grandeur, to be sure, but it was a heavy and troublesome business, and she could not easily forget its having stopped two hours at Petty France. Half the time would have been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses disposed to move, that, had not the general chosen to have his own carriage lead the way, they could have passed it with ease in half a minute. But the merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses; Henry drove so well so quietly without making any disturbance, without parading to her, or swearing at them: so different from the only gentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare him with! And then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his greatcoat looked so becomingly important! To be driven by him, next to being dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world. In addition to every other delight, she had now that of listening to her own praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister s account, for her kindness in thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real friendship, and described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he said, was uncomfortably circumstanced she had no female companion and, in the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any companion at all. "But how can that be?" said Catherine. "Are not you with her?" "Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father s, and some of my time is necessarily spent there." "How sorry you must be for that!" "I am always sorry to leave Eleanor." "Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of the abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must be very disagreeable." He smiled, and said, "You have formed a very favourable idea of the abbey."<|quote|>"To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?"</|quote|>"And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as what one reads about may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panels and tapestry?" "Oh! yes I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there would be so many people in the house and besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens." "No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire nor be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture. But you must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from the rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years before. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind misgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber too lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take in its size its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?" "Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure." "How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs you that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this parting cordial she curtsies off you listen to the sound of her receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you and when, with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover, with increased alarm, that it has no lock." "Oh! Mr. Tilney, how frightful! This is just like a book! But it cannot really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy. Well, what then?" "Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After surmounting your _unconquerable_ horror of the bed, you will retire to rest, and get a few hours unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at farthest the _third_ night after your arrival, you will probably have a violent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice to its foundation will roll round the neighbouring mountains and during the
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Northanger Abbey
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Then Ginger stirred himself and said:
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No speaker
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a bit--yes, practically two issues."<|quote|>Then Ginger stirred himself and said:</|quote|>"That won't do." Then we
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for us! Each man gets--wait a bit--yes, practically two issues."<|quote|>Then Ginger stirred himself and said:</|quote|>"That won't do." Then we got excited and began to
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bread for one hundred and fifty men too, eh?" The sergeant-cook nodded absent-minded, and bewildered. Tjaden seized him by the tunic. "And sausage?" Ginger nodded again. Tjaden's chaps quivered. "Tobacco too?" "Yes, everything." Tjaden beamed: "What a bean-feast! That's all for us! Each man gets--wait a bit--yes, practically two issues."<|quote|>Then Ginger stirred himself and said:</|quote|>"That won't do." Then we got excited and began to crowd around. "Why won't that do, you old carrot?" demanded Katczinsky. "Eighty men can't have what is meant for a hundred and fifty." "We'll soon show you," growled Müller. "I don't care about the stew, but I can only issue
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one hundred and fifty men----" Kropp poked him in the ribs. "Then for once we'll have enough. Come on, begin!" Suddenly a vision came over Tjaden. His sharp, mousey features began to shine, his eyes grew small with cunning, his jaws twitched, and he whispered hoarsely: "Man! then you've got bread for one hundred and fifty men too, eh?" The sergeant-cook nodded absent-minded, and bewildered. Tjaden seized him by the tunic. "And sausage?" Ginger nodded again. Tjaden's chaps quivered. "Tobacco too?" "Yes, everything." Tjaden beamed: "What a bean-feast! That's all for us! Each man gets--wait a bit--yes, practically two issues."<|quote|>Then Ginger stirred himself and said:</|quote|>"That won't do." Then we got excited and began to crowd around. "Why won't that do, you old carrot?" demanded Katczinsky. "Eighty men can't have what is meant for a hundred and fifty." "We'll soon show you," growled Müller. "I don't care about the stew, but I can only issue rations for eighty men," persisted Ginger. Katczinsky got angry. "You might be generous for once. You haven't drawn food for eighty men. You've drawn it for the Second Company. Good. Let's have it then. We are the Second Company." We began to jostle the fellow. No one felt kindly toward
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were growing impatient, for the cook paid no attention to us. Finally Katczinsky called out to him: "Say, Heinrich, open up the soup-kitchen. Anyone can see the beans are done." He shook his head sleepily: "You must all be there first." Tjaden grinned: "We are all here." The sergeant-cook still took no notice. "That may do for you," he said. "But where are the others?" "They won't be fed by you to-day. They're either in the dressing-station or pushing up daisies." The cook was quite disconcerted as the facts dawned on him. He was staggered. "And I have cooked for one hundred and fifty men----" Kropp poked him in the ribs. "Then for once we'll have enough. Come on, begin!" Suddenly a vision came over Tjaden. His sharp, mousey features began to shine, his eyes grew small with cunning, his jaws twitched, and he whispered hoarsely: "Man! then you've got bread for one hundred and fifty men too, eh?" The sergeant-cook nodded absent-minded, and bewildered. Tjaden seized him by the tunic. "And sausage?" Ginger nodded again. Tjaden's chaps quivered. "Tobacco too?" "Yes, everything." Tjaden beamed: "What a bean-feast! That's all for us! Each man gets--wait a bit--yes, practically two issues."<|quote|>Then Ginger stirred himself and said:</|quote|>"That won't do." Then we got excited and began to crowd around. "Why won't that do, you old carrot?" demanded Katczinsky. "Eighty men can't have what is meant for a hundred and fifty." "We'll soon show you," growled Müller. "I don't care about the stew, but I can only issue rations for eighty men," persisted Ginger. Katczinsky got angry. "You might be generous for once. You haven't drawn food for eighty men. You've drawn it for the Second Company. Good. Let's have it then. We are the Second Company." We began to jostle the fellow. No one felt kindly toward him, for it was his fault that the food twice came up to us in the line too late and cold. Under shell-fire he wouldn't bring his kitchen up near enough, so that our soup-carriers had to go much farther than those of the other companies. Now Bulcke of the First Company is a much better fellow. He is as fat as a hamster in winter, but he trundles his pots when it comes to that right up to the very front line. We were in just the right mood, and there would certainly have been a dust-up if our
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full beard and has a preference for the girls from officers' brothels. He swears that they are obliged by an army order to wear silk chemises and to bathe before entertaining guests of the rank of major and upwards. And as the fourth, myself, Paul Bäumer. All four are nineteen years of age, and all four joined up from the same class as volunteers for the war. Close behind us were our friends: Tjaden, a skinny lock-smith of our own age, the biggest eater of the company. He sits down to eat as thin as a grasshopper and gets up as big as a bug in the family way; Haie Westhus, of the same age, a peat-digger, who can easily hold a ration-loaf in his hand and say: Guess what I've got in my fist; then Detering, a peasant, who thinks of nothing but his farm-yard and his wife; and finally Stanislaus Katczinsky, the leader of our group, shrewd, cunning, and hard-bitten, forty years of age, with a face of the soil, blue eyes, bent shoulders, and a remarkable nose for dirty weather, good food, and soft jobs. Our gang formed the head of the queue before the cook-house. We were growing impatient, for the cook paid no attention to us. Finally Katczinsky called out to him: "Say, Heinrich, open up the soup-kitchen. Anyone can see the beans are done." He shook his head sleepily: "You must all be there first." Tjaden grinned: "We are all here." The sergeant-cook still took no notice. "That may do for you," he said. "But where are the others?" "They won't be fed by you to-day. They're either in the dressing-station or pushing up daisies." The cook was quite disconcerted as the facts dawned on him. He was staggered. "And I have cooked for one hundred and fifty men----" Kropp poked him in the ribs. "Then for once we'll have enough. Come on, begin!" Suddenly a vision came over Tjaden. His sharp, mousey features began to shine, his eyes grew small with cunning, his jaws twitched, and he whispered hoarsely: "Man! then you've got bread for one hundred and fifty men too, eh?" The sergeant-cook nodded absent-minded, and bewildered. Tjaden seized him by the tunic. "And sausage?" Ginger nodded again. Tjaden's chaps quivered. "Tobacco too?" "Yes, everything." Tjaden beamed: "What a bean-feast! That's all for us! Each man gets--wait a bit--yes, practically two issues."<|quote|>Then Ginger stirred himself and said:</|quote|>"That won't do." Then we got excited and began to crowd around. "Why won't that do, you old carrot?" demanded Katczinsky. "Eighty men can't have what is meant for a hundred and fifty." "We'll soon show you," growled Müller. "I don't care about the stew, but I can only issue rations for eighty men," persisted Ginger. Katczinsky got angry. "You might be generous for once. You haven't drawn food for eighty men. You've drawn it for the Second Company. Good. Let's have it then. We are the Second Company." We began to jostle the fellow. No one felt kindly toward him, for it was his fault that the food twice came up to us in the line too late and cold. Under shell-fire he wouldn't bring his kitchen up near enough, so that our soup-carriers had to go much farther than those of the other companies. Now Bulcke of the First Company is a much better fellow. He is as fat as a hamster in winter, but he trundles his pots when it comes to that right up to the very front line. We were in just the right mood, and there would certainly have been a dust-up if our company commander had not appeared. He informed himself of the dispute, and only remarked: "Yes, we did have heavy losses yesterday." He looked in the dixie. "The beans look good." Ginger nodded. "Cooked with meat and fat." The lieutenant looked at us. He knew what we were thinking. And he knew many other things too, because he came to the company as a non-com. and was promoted from the ranks. He lifted the lid from the dixie again and sniffed. Then passing on he said: "Serve out the whole issue. We can do with it. And bring me a plate full too." Ginger looked sheepish as Tjaden danced round him. "It doesn't cost you anything! One would think the quartermaster's store belonged to him! And now get on with it, you old 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
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man in fine trim. We have not had such luck as this for a long time. The cook with his carroty head is begging us to eat; he beckons with his ladle to every one that passes, and spoons him out a great dollop. He does not see how he can empty his stew-pot in time for coffee. Tjaden and Müller have produced two wash-basins and had them filled up to the brim as a reserve. In Tjaden this is voracity, in Müller it is foresight. Where Tjaden puts it all is a mystery, for he is and always will be as thin as a rake. What's more important still is the issue of a double ration of smokes. Ten cigars, twenty cigarettes, and two quids of chew per man; now that is decent. I have exchanged my chewing tobacco with Katczinsky for his cigarettes, which means I have forty altogether. That's enough for a day. It is true we have no right to this windfall. The Prussian is not so generous. We have only a miscalculation to thank for it. Fourteen days ago we had to go up and relieve the front line. It was fairly quiet on our sector, so the quartermaster who remained in the rear had requisitioned the usual quantity of rations and provided for the full company of one hundred and fifty men. But on the last day an astonishing number of English field-guns opened up on us with high-explosive, drumming ceaselessly on our position, so that we suffered heavily and came back only eighty strong. Last night we moved back and settled down to get a good sleep for once: Katczinsky is right when he says it would not be such a bad war if only one could get a little more sleep. In the line we have had next to none, and fourteen days is a long time at one stretch. It was noon before the first of us crawled out of our quarters. Half an hour later every man had his mess-tin and we gathered at the cook-house, which smelt greasy and nourishing. At the head of the queue of course were the hungriest--little Albert Kropp, the clearest thinker among us and therefore the first to be lance-corporal; Müller, who still carries his school textbooks with him, dreams of examinations, and during a bombardment mutters propositions in physics; Leer, who wears a full beard and has a preference for the girls from officers' brothels. He swears that they are obliged by an army order to wear silk chemises and to bathe before entertaining guests of the rank of major and upwards. And as the fourth, myself, Paul Bäumer. All four are nineteen years of age, and all four joined up from the same class as volunteers for the war. Close behind us were our friends: Tjaden, a skinny lock-smith of our own age, the biggest eater of the company. He sits down to eat as thin as a grasshopper and gets up as big as a bug in the family way; Haie Westhus, of the same age, a peat-digger, who can easily hold a ration-loaf in his hand and say: Guess what I've got in my fist; then Detering, a peasant, who thinks of nothing but his farm-yard and his wife; and finally Stanislaus Katczinsky, the leader of our group, shrewd, cunning, and hard-bitten, forty years of age, with a face of the soil, blue eyes, bent shoulders, and a remarkable nose for dirty weather, good food, and soft jobs. Our gang formed the head of the queue before the cook-house. We were growing impatient, for the cook paid no attention to us. Finally Katczinsky called out to him: "Say, Heinrich, open up the soup-kitchen. Anyone can see the beans are done." He shook his head sleepily: "You must all be there first." Tjaden grinned: "We are all here." The sergeant-cook still took no notice. "That may do for you," he said. "But where are the others?" "They won't be fed by you to-day. They're either in the dressing-station or pushing up daisies." The cook was quite disconcerted as the facts dawned on him. He was staggered. "And I have cooked for one hundred and fifty men----" Kropp poked him in the ribs. "Then for once we'll have enough. Come on, begin!" Suddenly a vision came over Tjaden. His sharp, mousey features began to shine, his eyes grew small with cunning, his jaws twitched, and he whispered hoarsely: "Man! then you've got bread for one hundred and fifty men too, eh?" The sergeant-cook nodded absent-minded, and bewildered. Tjaden seized him by the tunic. "And sausage?" Ginger nodded again. Tjaden's chaps quivered. "Tobacco too?" "Yes, everything." Tjaden beamed: "What a bean-feast! That's all for us! Each man gets--wait a bit--yes, practically two issues."<|quote|>Then Ginger stirred himself and said:</|quote|>"That won't do." Then we got excited and began to crowd around. "Why won't that do, you old carrot?" demanded Katczinsky. "Eighty men can't have what is meant for a hundred and fifty." "We'll soon show you," growled Müller. "I don't care about the stew, but I can only issue rations for eighty men," persisted Ginger. Katczinsky got angry. "You might be generous for once. You haven't drawn food for eighty men. You've drawn it for the Second Company. Good. Let's have it then. We are the Second Company." We began to jostle the fellow. No one felt kindly toward him, for it was his fault that the food twice came up to us in the line too late and cold. Under shell-fire he wouldn't bring his kitchen up near enough, so that our soup-carriers had to go much farther than those of the other companies. Now Bulcke of the First Company is a much better fellow. He is as fat as a hamster in winter, but he trundles his pots when it comes to that right up to the very front line. We were in just the right mood, and there would certainly have been a dust-up if our company commander had not appeared. He informed himself of the dispute, and only remarked: "Yes, we did have heavy losses yesterday." He looked in the dixie. "The beans look good." Ginger nodded. "Cooked with meat and fat." The lieutenant looked at us. He knew what we were thinking. And he knew many other things too, because he came to the company as a non-com. and was promoted from the ranks. He lifted the lid from the dixie again and sniffed. Then passing on he said: "Serve out the whole issue. We can do with it. And bring me a plate full too." Ginger looked sheepish as Tjaden danced round him. "It doesn't cost you anything! One would think the quartermaster's store belonged to him! And now get on with it, you old 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
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we gathered at the cook-house, which smelt greasy and nourishing. At the head of the queue of course were the hungriest--little Albert Kropp, the clearest thinker among us and therefore the first to be lance-corporal; Müller, who still carries his school textbooks with him, dreams of examinations, and during a bombardment mutters propositions in physics; Leer, who wears a full beard and has a preference for the girls from officers' brothels. He swears that they are obliged by an army order to wear silk chemises and to bathe before entertaining guests of the rank of major and upwards. And as the fourth, myself, Paul Bäumer. All four are nineteen years of age, and all four joined up from the same class as volunteers for the war. Close behind us were our friends: Tjaden, a skinny lock-smith of our own age, the biggest eater of the company. He sits down to eat as thin as a grasshopper and gets up as big as a bug in the family way; Haie Westhus, of the same age, a peat-digger, who can easily hold a ration-loaf in his hand and say: Guess what I've got in my fist; then Detering, a peasant, who thinks of nothing but his farm-yard and his wife; and finally Stanislaus Katczinsky, the leader of our group, shrewd, cunning, and hard-bitten, forty years of age, with a face of the soil, blue eyes, bent shoulders, and a remarkable nose for dirty weather, good food, and soft jobs. Our gang formed the head of the queue before the cook-house. We were growing impatient, for the cook paid no attention to us. Finally Katczinsky called out to him: "Say, Heinrich, open up the soup-kitchen. Anyone can see the beans are done." He shook his head sleepily: "You must all be there first." Tjaden grinned: "We are all here." The sergeant-cook still took no notice. "That may do for you," he said. "But where are the others?" "They won't be fed by you to-day. They're either in the dressing-station or pushing up daisies." The cook was quite disconcerted as the facts dawned on him. He was staggered. "And I have cooked for one hundred and fifty men----" Kropp poked him in the ribs. "Then for once we'll have enough. Come on, begin!" Suddenly a vision came over Tjaden. His sharp, mousey features began to shine, his eyes grew small with cunning, his jaws twitched, and he whispered hoarsely: "Man! then you've got bread for one hundred and fifty men too, eh?" The sergeant-cook nodded absent-minded, and bewildered. Tjaden seized him by the tunic. "And sausage?" Ginger nodded again. Tjaden's chaps quivered. "Tobacco too?" "Yes, everything." Tjaden beamed: "What a bean-feast! That's all for us! Each man gets--wait a bit--yes, practically two issues."<|quote|>Then Ginger stirred himself and said:</|quote|>"That won't do." Then we got excited and began to crowd around. "Why won't that do, you old carrot?" demanded Katczinsky. "Eighty men can't have what is meant for a hundred and fifty." "We'll soon show you," growled Müller. "I don't care about the stew, but I can only issue rations for eighty men," persisted Ginger. Katczinsky got angry. "You might be generous for once. You haven't drawn food for eighty men. You've drawn it for the Second Company. Good. Let's have it then. We are the Second Company." We began to jostle the fellow. No one felt kindly toward him, for it was his fault that the food twice came up to us in the line too late and cold. Under shell-fire he wouldn't bring his kitchen up near enough, so that our soup-carriers had to go much farther than those of the other companies. Now Bulcke of the First Company is a much better fellow. He is as fat as a hamster in winter, but he trundles his pots when it comes to that right up to the very front line. We were in just the right mood, and there would certainly have been a dust-up if our company commander had not appeared. He informed himself of the dispute, and only remarked: "Yes, we did have heavy losses yesterday." He looked in the dixie. "The beans look good." Ginger nodded. "Cooked with meat and fat." The lieutenant looked at us. He knew what we were thinking. And he knew many other things too, because he came to the company as a non-com. and was promoted from the ranks. He lifted the lid from the dixie again and sniffed. Then passing on he said: "Serve out the whole issue. We can do with it. And bring me a plate full too." Ginger looked sheepish as Tjaden danced round him. "It doesn't cost you anything! One would think the quartermaster's store belonged to him! And now get on with it, you old 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
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All Quiet on the Western Front
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"Well now, yes. It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds. I hate the look of them."
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Matthew Cuthbert
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you a thrill?" Matthew ruminated.<|quote|>"Well now, yes. It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds. I hate the look of them."</|quote|>"Oh, I don't think that
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thrill. Do things ever give you a thrill?" Matthew ruminated.<|quote|>"Well now, yes. It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds. I hate the look of them."</|quote|>"Oh, I don't think that can be exactly the same
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that name, either. I shall call it--let me see--the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. I know because of the thrill. When I hit on a name that suits exactly it gives me a thrill. Do things ever give you a thrill?" Matthew ruminated.<|quote|>"Well now, yes. It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds. I hate the look of them."</|quote|>"Oh, I don't think that can be exactly the same kind of a thrill. Do you think it can? There doesn't seem to be much connection between grubs and lakes of shining waters, does there? But why do other people call it Barry's pond?" "I reckon because Mr. Barry lives
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came the clear, mournfully-sweet chorus of the frogs. There was a little gray house peering around a white apple orchard on a slope beyond and, although it was not yet quite dark, a light was shining from one of its windows. "That's Barry's pond," said Matthew. "Oh, I don't like that name, either. I shall call it--let me see--the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. I know because of the thrill. When I hit on a name that suits exactly it gives me a thrill. Do things ever give you a thrill?" Matthew ruminated.<|quote|>"Well now, yes. It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds. I hate the look of them."</|quote|>"Oh, I don't think that can be exactly the same kind of a thrill. Do you think it can? There doesn't seem to be much connection between grubs and lakes of shining waters, does there? But why do other people call it Barry's pond?" "I reckon because Mr. Barry lives up there in that house. Orchard Slope's the name of his place. If it wasn't for that big bush behind it you could see Green Gables from here. But we have to go over the bridge and round by the road, so it's near half a mile further." "Has Mr.
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lower end, where an amber-hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was a glory of many shifting hues--the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for which no name has ever been found. Above the bridge the pond ran up into fringing groves of fir and maple and lay all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows. Here and there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like a white-clad girl tip-toeing to her own reflection. From the marsh at the head of the pond came the clear, mournfully-sweet chorus of the frogs. There was a little gray house peering around a white apple orchard on a slope beyond and, although it was not yet quite dark, a light was shining from one of its windows. "That's Barry's pond," said Matthew. "Oh, I don't like that name, either. I shall call it--let me see--the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. I know because of the thrill. When I hit on a name that suits exactly it gives me a thrill. Do things ever give you a thrill?" Matthew ruminated.<|quote|>"Well now, yes. It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds. I hate the look of them."</|quote|>"Oh, I don't think that can be exactly the same kind of a thrill. Do you think it can? There doesn't seem to be much connection between grubs and lakes of shining waters, does there? But why do other people call it Barry's pond?" "I reckon because Mr. Barry lives up there in that house. Orchard Slope's the name of his place. If it wasn't for that big bush behind it you could see Green Gables from here. But we have to go over the bridge and round by the road, so it's near half a mile further." "Has Mr. Barry any little girls? Well, not so very little either--about my size." "He's got one about eleven. Her name is Diana." "Oh!" with a long indrawing of breath. "What a perfectly lovely name!" "Well now, I dunno. There's something dreadful heathenish about it, seems to me. I'd ruther Jane or Mary or some sensible name like that. But when Diana was born there was a schoolmaster boarding there and they gave him the naming of her and he called her Diana." "I wish there had been a schoolmaster like that around when I was born, then. Oh, here we are
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I don't like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we get home? I'm glad and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has been so pleasant and I'm always sorry when pleasant things end. Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure. And it's so often the case that it isn't pleasanter. That has been my experience anyhow. But I'm glad to think of getting home. You see, I've never had a real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home. Oh, isn't that pretty!" They had driven over the crest of a hill. Below them was a pond, looking almost like a river so long and winding was it. A bridge spanned it midway and from there to its lower end, where an amber-hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was a glory of many shifting hues--the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for which no name has ever been found. Above the bridge the pond ran up into fringing groves of fir and maple and lay all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows. Here and there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like a white-clad girl tip-toeing to her own reflection. From the marsh at the head of the pond came the clear, mournfully-sweet chorus of the frogs. There was a little gray house peering around a white apple orchard on a slope beyond and, although it was not yet quite dark, a light was shining from one of its windows. "That's Barry's pond," said Matthew. "Oh, I don't like that name, either. I shall call it--let me see--the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. I know because of the thrill. When I hit on a name that suits exactly it gives me a thrill. Do things ever give you a thrill?" Matthew ruminated.<|quote|>"Well now, yes. It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds. I hate the look of them."</|quote|>"Oh, I don't think that can be exactly the same kind of a thrill. Do you think it can? There doesn't seem to be much connection between grubs and lakes of shining waters, does there? But why do other people call it Barry's pond?" "I reckon because Mr. Barry lives up there in that house. Orchard Slope's the name of his place. If it wasn't for that big bush behind it you could see Green Gables from here. But we have to go over the bridge and round by the road, so it's near half a mile further." "Has Mr. Barry any little girls? Well, not so very little either--about my size." "He's got one about eleven. Her name is Diana." "Oh!" with a long indrawing of breath. "What a perfectly lovely name!" "Well now, I dunno. There's something dreadful heathenish about it, seems to me. I'd ruther Jane or Mary or some sensible name like that. But when Diana was born there was a schoolmaster boarding there and they gave him the naming of her and he called her Diana." "I wish there had been a schoolmaster like that around when I was born, then. Oh, here we are at the bridge. I'm going to shut my eyes tight. I'm always afraid going over bridges. I can't help imagining that perhaps just as we get to the middle, they'll crumple up like a jack-knife and nip us. So I shut my eyes. But I always have to open them for all when I think we're getting near the middle. Because, you see, if the bridge _did_ crumple up I'd want to _see_ it crumple. What a jolly rumble it makes! I always like the rumble part of it. Isn't it splendid there are so many things to like in this world? There we're over. Now I'll look back. Good night, dear Lake of Shining Waters. I always say good night to the things I love, just as I would to people. I think they like it. That water looks as if it was smiling at me." When they had driven up the further hill and around a corner Matthew said: "We're pretty near home now. That's Green Gables over--" "Oh, don't tell me," she interrupted breathlessly, catching at his partially raised arm and shutting her eyes that she might not see his gesture. "Let me guess. I'm sure I'll
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an eccentric old farmer. Overhead was one long canopy of snowy fragrant bloom. Below the boughs the air was full of a purple twilight and far ahead a glimpse of painted sunset sky shone like a great rose window at the end of a cathedral aisle. Its beauty seemed to strike the child dumb. She leaned back in the buggy, her thin hands clasped before her, her face lifted rapturously to the white splendor above. Even when they had passed out and were driving down the long slope to Newbridge she never moved or spoke. Still with rapt face she gazed afar into the sunset west, with eyes that saw visions trooping splendidly across that glowing background. Through Newbridge, a bustling little village where dogs barked at them and small boys hooted and curious faces peered from the windows, they drove, still in silence. When three more miles had dropped away behind them the child had not spoken. She could keep silence, it was evident, as energetically as she could talk. "I guess you're feeling pretty tired and hungry," Matthew ventured to say at last, accounting for her long visitation of dumbness with the only reason he could think of. "But we haven't very far to go now--only another mile." She came out of her reverie with a deep sigh and looked at him with the dreamy gaze of a soul that had been wondering afar, star-led. "Oh, Mr. Cuthbert," she whispered, "that place we came through--that white place--what was it?" "Well now, you must mean the Avenue," said Matthew after a few moments' profound reflection. "It is a kind of pretty place." "Pretty? Oh, _pretty_ doesn't seem the right word to use. Nor beautiful, either. They don't go far enough. Oh, it was wonderful--wonderful. It's the first thing I ever saw that couldn't be improved upon by imagination. It just satisfies me here" "--she put one hand on her breast--" "it made a queer funny ache and yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?" "Well now, I just can't recollect that I ever had." "I have it lots of time--whenever I see anything royally beautiful. But they shouldn't call that lovely place the Avenue. There is no meaning in a name like that. They should call it--let me see--the White Way of Delight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we get home? I'm glad and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has been so pleasant and I'm always sorry when pleasant things end. Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure. And it's so often the case that it isn't pleasanter. That has been my experience anyhow. But I'm glad to think of getting home. You see, I've never had a real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home. Oh, isn't that pretty!" They had driven over the crest of a hill. Below them was a pond, looking almost like a river so long and winding was it. A bridge spanned it midway and from there to its lower end, where an amber-hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was a glory of many shifting hues--the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for which no name has ever been found. Above the bridge the pond ran up into fringing groves of fir and maple and lay all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows. Here and there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like a white-clad girl tip-toeing to her own reflection. From the marsh at the head of the pond came the clear, mournfully-sweet chorus of the frogs. There was a little gray house peering around a white apple orchard on a slope beyond and, although it was not yet quite dark, a light was shining from one of its windows. "That's Barry's pond," said Matthew. "Oh, I don't like that name, either. I shall call it--let me see--the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. I know because of the thrill. When I hit on a name that suits exactly it gives me a thrill. Do things ever give you a thrill?" Matthew ruminated.<|quote|>"Well now, yes. It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds. I hate the look of them."</|quote|>"Oh, I don't think that can be exactly the same kind of a thrill. Do you think it can? There doesn't seem to be much connection between grubs and lakes of shining waters, does there? But why do other people call it Barry's pond?" "I reckon because Mr. Barry lives up there in that house. Orchard Slope's the name of his place. If it wasn't for that big bush behind it you could see Green Gables from here. But we have to go over the bridge and round by the road, so it's near half a mile further." "Has Mr. Barry any little girls? Well, not so very little either--about my size." "He's got one about eleven. Her name is Diana." "Oh!" with a long indrawing of breath. "What a perfectly lovely name!" "Well now, I dunno. There's something dreadful heathenish about it, seems to me. I'd ruther Jane or Mary or some sensible name like that. But when Diana was born there was a schoolmaster boarding there and they gave him the naming of her and he called her Diana." "I wish there had been a schoolmaster like that around when I was born, then. Oh, here we are at the bridge. I'm going to shut my eyes tight. I'm always afraid going over bridges. I can't help imagining that perhaps just as we get to the middle, they'll crumple up like a jack-knife and nip us. So I shut my eyes. But I always have to open them for all when I think we're getting near the middle. Because, you see, if the bridge _did_ crumple up I'd want to _see_ it crumple. What a jolly rumble it makes! I always like the rumble part of it. Isn't it splendid there are so many things to like in this world? There we're over. Now I'll look back. Good night, dear Lake of Shining Waters. I always say good night to the things I love, just as I would to people. I think they like it. That water looks as if it was smiling at me." When they had driven up the further hill and around a corner Matthew said: "We're pretty near home now. That's Green Gables over--" "Oh, don't tell me," she interrupted breathlessly, catching at his partially raised arm and shutting her eyes that she might not see his gesture. "Let me guess. I'm sure I'll guess right." She opened her eyes and looked about her. They were on the crest of a hill. The sun had set some time since, but the landscape was still clear in the mellow afterlight. To the west a dark church spire rose up against a marigold sky. Below was a little valley and beyond a long, gently-rising slope with snug farmsteads scattered along it. From one to another the child's eyes darted, eager and wistful. At last they lingered on one away to the left, far back from the road, dimly white with blossoming trees in the twilight of the surrounding woods. Over it, in the stainless southwest sky, a great crystal-white star was shining like a lamp of guidance and promise. "That's it, isn't it?" she said, pointing. Matthew slapped the reins on the sorrel's back delightedly. "Well now, you've guessed it! But I reckon Mrs. Spencer described it so's you could tell." "No, she didn't--really she didn't. All she said might just as well have been about most of those other places. I hadn't any real idea what it looked like. But just as soon as I saw it I felt it was home. Oh, it seems as if I must be in a dream. Do you know, my arm must be black and blue from the elbow up, for I've pinched myself so many times today. Every little while a horrible sickening feeling would come over me and I'd be so afraid it was all a dream. Then I'd pinch myself to see if it was real--until suddenly I remembered that even supposing it was only a dream I'd better go on dreaming as long as I could; so I stopped pinching. But it _is_ real and we're nearly home." With a sigh of rapture she relapsed into silence. Matthew stirred uneasily. He felt glad that it would be Marilla and not he who would have to tell this waif of the world that the home she longed for was not to be hers after all. They drove over Lynde's Hollow, where it was already quite dark, but not so dark that Mrs. Rachel could not see them from her window vantage, and up the hill and into the long lane of Green Gables. By the time they arrived at the house Matthew was shrinking from the approaching revelation with an energy he did not understand.
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a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we get home? I'm glad and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has been so pleasant and I'm always sorry when pleasant things end. Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure. And it's so often the case that it isn't pleasanter. That has been my experience anyhow. But I'm glad to think of getting home. You see, I've never had a real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home. Oh, isn't that pretty!" They had driven over the crest of a hill. Below them was a pond, looking almost like a river so long and winding was it. A bridge spanned it midway and from there to its lower end, where an amber-hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was a glory of many shifting hues--the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for which no name has ever been found. Above the bridge the pond ran up into fringing groves of fir and maple and lay all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows. Here and there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like a white-clad girl tip-toeing to her own reflection. From the marsh at the head of the pond came the clear, mournfully-sweet chorus of the frogs. There was a little gray house peering around a white apple orchard on a slope beyond and, although it was not yet quite dark, a light was shining from one of its windows. "That's Barry's pond," said Matthew. "Oh, I don't like that name, either. I shall call it--let me see--the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. I know because of the thrill. When I hit on a name that suits exactly it gives me a thrill. Do things ever give you a thrill?" Matthew ruminated.<|quote|>"Well now, yes. It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds. I hate the look of them."</|quote|>"Oh, I don't think that can be exactly the same kind of a thrill. Do you think it can? There doesn't seem to be much connection between grubs and lakes of shining waters, does there? But why do other people call it Barry's pond?" "I reckon because Mr. Barry lives up there in that house. Orchard Slope's the name of his place. If it wasn't for that big bush behind it you could see Green Gables from here. But we have to go over the bridge and round by the road, so it's near half a mile further." "Has Mr. Barry any little girls? Well, not so very little either--about my size." "He's got one about eleven. Her name is Diana." "Oh!" with a long indrawing of breath. "What a perfectly lovely name!" "Well now, I dunno. There's something dreadful heathenish about it, seems to me. I'd ruther Jane or Mary or some sensible name like that. But when Diana was born there was a schoolmaster boarding there and they gave him the naming of her and he called her Diana." "I wish there had been a schoolmaster like that around when I was born, then. Oh, here we are at the bridge. I'm going to shut my eyes tight. I'm always afraid going over bridges. I can't help imagining that perhaps just as we get to the middle, they'll crumple up like a jack-knife and nip us. So I shut my eyes. But I always have to open them for all when I think we're getting near the middle. Because, you see, if the bridge _did_ crumple up I'd want to _see_ it crumple. What a jolly rumble it makes! I always like the rumble part of it. Isn't it splendid there are so many things to like in this world? There we're over. Now I'll look back. Good night, dear Lake of Shining Waters. I always say good night to the things I love, just as I would to people. I think they like it. That water looks as if it was smiling at me." When they had driven up the further hill and around a corner Matthew said: "We're pretty near home now. That's Green Gables over--" "Oh, don't tell me," she interrupted breathlessly, catching at his partially raised arm and shutting her eyes that she might not see his gesture. "Let me guess. I'm sure I'll guess right." She opened her eyes and looked about her. They were on the crest of a hill. The sun had set some time since, but the landscape was still clear in the mellow afterlight. To the west a dark church spire rose up against a marigold sky. Below was a little valley and beyond a long, gently-rising slope with snug farmsteads scattered along it. From one to another the child's eyes darted, eager and wistful. At last they lingered on one away to the left, far back from the road, dimly white with blossoming trees in the twilight of the surrounding woods. Over it, in the stainless southwest sky, a great crystal-white star was
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Anne Of Green Gables
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"She would certainly be very competent,"
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Henry Otway
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I m out all day."<|quote|>"She would certainly be very competent,"</|quote|>Henry stated. "Oh, she s
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that ll satisfy her? Mind, I m out all day."<|quote|>"She would certainly be very competent,"</|quote|>Henry stated. "Oh, she s wonderfully competent," said Rodney. "But
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his pose as a man of the world, and seemed to be asking Henry to help him in a difficulty. "I don t know," Henry hesitated cautiously. "D you think children a household that sort of thing d you think that ll satisfy her? Mind, I m out all day."<|quote|>"She would certainly be very competent,"</|quote|>Henry stated. "Oh, she s wonderfully competent," said Rodney. "But I get absorbed in my poetry. Well, Katharine hasn t got that. She admires my poetry, you know, but that wouldn t be enough for her?" "No," said Henry. He paused. "I think you re right," he added, as if
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confirm this statement, but Henry remained silent. "Katharine has had a difficult life, in some ways," he continued. "I expect that marriage will be good for her. She has great powers." "Great," said Henry, with decision. "Yes but now what direction d you think they take?" Rodney had completely dropped his pose as a man of the world, and seemed to be asking Henry to help him in a difficulty. "I don t know," Henry hesitated cautiously. "D you think children a household that sort of thing d you think that ll satisfy her? Mind, I m out all day."<|quote|>"She would certainly be very competent,"</|quote|>Henry stated. "Oh, she s wonderfully competent," said Rodney. "But I get absorbed in my poetry. Well, Katharine hasn t got that. She admires my poetry, you know, but that wouldn t be enough for her?" "No," said Henry. He paused. "I think you re right," he added, as if he were summing up his thoughts. "Katharine hasn t found herself yet. Life isn t altogether real to her yet I sometimes think" "Yes?" Rodney inquired, as if he were eager for Henry to continue. "That is what I" he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sentence
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"Quite," Rodney agreed. "She is" He seemed about to describe her, and he hesitated for a long time. "She s looking very well," he stated, or rather almost inquired, in a different tone from that in which he had been speaking. Henry bent his head. "But, as a family, you re given to moods, eh?" "Not Katharine," said Henry, with decision. "Not Katharine," Rodney repeated, as if he weighed the meaning of the words. "No, perhaps you re right. But her engagement has changed her. Naturally," he added, "one would expect that to be so." He waited for Henry to confirm this statement, but Henry remained silent. "Katharine has had a difficult life, in some ways," he continued. "I expect that marriage will be good for her. She has great powers." "Great," said Henry, with decision. "Yes but now what direction d you think they take?" Rodney had completely dropped his pose as a man of the world, and seemed to be asking Henry to help him in a difficulty. "I don t know," Henry hesitated cautiously. "D you think children a household that sort of thing d you think that ll satisfy her? Mind, I m out all day."<|quote|>"She would certainly be very competent,"</|quote|>Henry stated. "Oh, she s wonderfully competent," said Rodney. "But I get absorbed in my poetry. Well, Katharine hasn t got that. She admires my poetry, you know, but that wouldn t be enough for her?" "No," said Henry. He paused. "I think you re right," he added, as if he were summing up his thoughts. "Katharine hasn t found herself yet. Life isn t altogether real to her yet I sometimes think" "Yes?" Rodney inquired, as if he were eager for Henry to continue. "That is what I" he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sentence was not finished, for the door opened, and they were interrupted by Henry s younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry s relief, for he had already said more than he liked. CHAPTER XVII When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmas week, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-up in Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retired from service under the Government of India with a pension that was not adequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly was not adequate to his ambitions. His career had
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thought to himself, with disgust. "What could any woman see in you?" His tolerance was rapidly becoming exhausted, but he could not help liking Rodney nevertheless, and this appeared to him strange, for he was fastidious, and such words in another mouth would have condemned the speaker irreparably. He began, in short, to wonder what kind of creature this man who was to marry his cousin might be. Could any one, except a rather singular character, afford to be so ridiculously vain? "I don t think I should get on in that society," he replied. "I don t think I should know what to say to Lady Rose if I met her." "I don t find any difficulty," Rodney chuckled. "You talk to them about their children, if they have any, or their accomplishments painting, gardening, poetry they re so delightfully sympathetic. Seriously, you know I think a woman s opinion of one s poetry is always worth having. Don t ask them for their reasons. Just ask them for their feelings. Katharine, for example" "Katharine," said Henry, with an emphasis upon the name, almost as if he resented Rodney s use of it, "Katharine is very unlike most women." "Quite," Rodney agreed. "She is" He seemed about to describe her, and he hesitated for a long time. "She s looking very well," he stated, or rather almost inquired, in a different tone from that in which he had been speaking. Henry bent his head. "But, as a family, you re given to moods, eh?" "Not Katharine," said Henry, with decision. "Not Katharine," Rodney repeated, as if he weighed the meaning of the words. "No, perhaps you re right. But her engagement has changed her. Naturally," he added, "one would expect that to be so." He waited for Henry to confirm this statement, but Henry remained silent. "Katharine has had a difficult life, in some ways," he continued. "I expect that marriage will be good for her. She has great powers." "Great," said Henry, with decision. "Yes but now what direction d you think they take?" Rodney had completely dropped his pose as a man of the world, and seemed to be asking Henry to help him in a difficulty. "I don t know," Henry hesitated cautiously. "D you think children a household that sort of thing d you think that ll satisfy her? Mind, I m out all day."<|quote|>"She would certainly be very competent,"</|quote|>Henry stated. "Oh, she s wonderfully competent," said Rodney. "But I get absorbed in my poetry. Well, Katharine hasn t got that. She admires my poetry, you know, but that wouldn t be enough for her?" "No," said Henry. He paused. "I think you re right," he added, as if he were summing up his thoughts. "Katharine hasn t found herself yet. Life isn t altogether real to her yet I sometimes think" "Yes?" Rodney inquired, as if he were eager for Henry to continue. "That is what I" he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sentence was not finished, for the door opened, and they were interrupted by Henry s younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry s relief, for he had already said more than he liked. CHAPTER XVII When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmas week, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-up in Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retired from service under the Government of India with a pension that was not adequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly was not adequate to his ambitions. His career had not come up to his expectations, and although he was a very fine, white-whiskered, mahogany-colored old man to look at, and had laid down a very choice cellar of good reading and good stories, you could not long remain ignorant of the fact that some thunder-storm had soured them; he had a grievance. This grievance dated back to the middle years of the last century, when, owing to some official intrigue, his merits had been passed over in a disgraceful manner in favor of another, his junior. The rights and wrongs of the story, presuming that they had some existence in fact, were no longer clearly known to his wife and children; but this disappointment had played a very large part in their lives, and had poisoned the life of Sir Francis much as a disappointment in love is said to poison the whole life of a woman. Long brooding on his failure, continual arrangement and rearrangement of his deserts and rebuffs, had made Sir Francis much of an egoist, and in his retirement his temper became increasingly difficult and exacting. His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods that she was practically useless to him. He made
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mastered his first impulse, in some way to make a fool of himself, he drew inspiration from the perfect fit of his evening dress. He chose a cigarette, tapped it on the back of his hand, displayed his exquisite pumps on the edge of the fender, and summoned his self-respect. "You ve several big estates round here, Otway," he began. "Any good hunting? Let me see, what pack would it be? Who s your great man?" "Sir William Budge, the sugar king, has the biggest estate. He bought out poor Stanham, who went bankrupt." "Which Stanham would that be? Verney or Alfred?" "Alfred.... I don t hunt myself. You re a great huntsman, aren t you? You have a great reputation as a horseman, anyhow," he added, desiring to help Rodney in his effort to recover his complacency. "Oh, I love riding," Rodney replied. "Could I get a horse down here? Stupid of me! I forgot to bring any clothes. I can t imagine, though, who told you I was anything of a rider?" To tell the truth, Henry labored under the same difficulty; he did not wish to introduce Katharine s name, and, therefore, he replied vaguely that he had always heard that Rodney was a great rider. In truth, he had heard very little about him, one way or another, accepting him as a figure often to be found in the background at his aunt s house, and inevitably, though inexplicably, engaged to his cousin. "I don t care much for shooting," Rodney continued; "but one has to do it, unless one wants to be altogether out of things. I dare say there s some very pretty country round here. I stayed once at Bolham Hall. Young Cranthorpe was up with you, wasn t he? He married old Lord Bolham s daughter. Very nice people in their way." "I don t mix in that society," Henry remarked, rather shortly. But Rodney, now started on an agreeable current of reflection, could not resist the temptation of pursuing it a little further. He appeared to himself as a man who moved easily in very good society, and knew enough about the true values of life to be himself above it. "Oh, but you should," he went on. "It s well worth staying there, anyhow, once a year. They make one very comfortable, and the women are ravishing." "The women?" Henry thought to himself, with disgust. "What could any woman see in you?" His tolerance was rapidly becoming exhausted, but he could not help liking Rodney nevertheless, and this appeared to him strange, for he was fastidious, and such words in another mouth would have condemned the speaker irreparably. He began, in short, to wonder what kind of creature this man who was to marry his cousin might be. Could any one, except a rather singular character, afford to be so ridiculously vain? "I don t think I should get on in that society," he replied. "I don t think I should know what to say to Lady Rose if I met her." "I don t find any difficulty," Rodney chuckled. "You talk to them about their children, if they have any, or their accomplishments painting, gardening, poetry they re so delightfully sympathetic. Seriously, you know I think a woman s opinion of one s poetry is always worth having. Don t ask them for their reasons. Just ask them for their feelings. Katharine, for example" "Katharine," said Henry, with an emphasis upon the name, almost as if he resented Rodney s use of it, "Katharine is very unlike most women." "Quite," Rodney agreed. "She is" He seemed about to describe her, and he hesitated for a long time. "She s looking very well," he stated, or rather almost inquired, in a different tone from that in which he had been speaking. Henry bent his head. "But, as a family, you re given to moods, eh?" "Not Katharine," said Henry, with decision. "Not Katharine," Rodney repeated, as if he weighed the meaning of the words. "No, perhaps you re right. But her engagement has changed her. Naturally," he added, "one would expect that to be so." He waited for Henry to confirm this statement, but Henry remained silent. "Katharine has had a difficult life, in some ways," he continued. "I expect that marriage will be good for her. She has great powers." "Great," said Henry, with decision. "Yes but now what direction d you think they take?" Rodney had completely dropped his pose as a man of the world, and seemed to be asking Henry to help him in a difficulty. "I don t know," Henry hesitated cautiously. "D you think children a household that sort of thing d you think that ll satisfy her? Mind, I m out all day."<|quote|>"She would certainly be very competent,"</|quote|>Henry stated. "Oh, she s wonderfully competent," said Rodney. "But I get absorbed in my poetry. Well, Katharine hasn t got that. She admires my poetry, you know, but that wouldn t be enough for her?" "No," said Henry. He paused. "I think you re right," he added, as if he were summing up his thoughts. "Katharine hasn t found herself yet. Life isn t altogether real to her yet I sometimes think" "Yes?" Rodney inquired, as if he were eager for Henry to continue. "That is what I" he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sentence was not finished, for the door opened, and they were interrupted by Henry s younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry s relief, for he had already said more than he liked. CHAPTER XVII When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmas week, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-up in Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retired from service under the Government of India with a pension that was not adequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly was not adequate to his ambitions. His career had not come up to his expectations, and although he was a very fine, white-whiskered, mahogany-colored old man to look at, and had laid down a very choice cellar of good reading and good stories, you could not long remain ignorant of the fact that some thunder-storm had soured them; he had a grievance. This grievance dated back to the middle years of the last century, when, owing to some official intrigue, his merits had been passed over in a disgraceful manner in favor of another, his junior. The rights and wrongs of the story, presuming that they had some existence in fact, were no longer clearly known to his wife and children; but this disappointment had played a very large part in their lives, and had poisoned the life of Sir Francis much as a disappointment in love is said to poison the whole life of a woman. Long brooding on his failure, continual arrangement and rearrangement of his deserts and rebuffs, had made Sir Francis much of an egoist, and in his retirement his temper became increasingly difficult and exacting. His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods that she was practically useless to him. He made his daughter Eleanor into his chief confidante, and the prime of her life was being rapidly consumed by her father. To her he dictated the memoirs which were to avenge his memory, and she had to assure him constantly that his treatment had been a disgrace. Already, at the age of thirty-five, her cheeks were whitening as her mother s had whitened, but for her there would be no memories of Indian suns and Indian rivers, and clamor of children in a nursery; she would have very little of substance to think about when she sat, as Lady Otway now sat, knitting white wool, with her eyes fixed almost perpetually upon the same embroidered bird upon the same fire-screen. But then Lady Otway was one of the people for whom the great make-believe game of English social life has been invented; she spent most of her time in pretending to herself and her neighbors that she was a dignified, important, much-occupied person, of considerable social standing and sufficient wealth. In view of the actual state of things this game needed a great deal of skill; and, perhaps, at the age she had reached she was over sixty she played far more to deceive herself than to deceive any one else. Moreover, the armor was wearing thin; she forgot to keep up appearances more and more. The worn patches in the carpets, and the pallor of the drawing-room, where no chair or cover had been renewed for some years, were due not only to the miserable pension, but to the wear and tear of twelve children, eight of whom were sons. As often happens in these large families, a distinct dividing-line could be traced, about half-way in the succession, where the money for educational purposes had run short, and the six younger children had grown up far more economically than the elder. If the boys were clever, they won scholarships, and went to school; if they were not clever, they took what the family connection had to offer them. The girls accepted situations occasionally, but there were always one or two at home, nursing sick animals, tending silkworms, or playing the flute in their bedrooms. The distinction between the elder children and the younger corresponded almost to the distinction between a higher class and a lower one, for with only a haphazard education and insufficient allowances, the younger children had picked
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use of it, "Katharine is very unlike most women." "Quite," Rodney agreed. "She is" He seemed about to describe her, and he hesitated for a long time. "She s looking very well," he stated, or rather almost inquired, in a different tone from that in which he had been speaking. Henry bent his head. "But, as a family, you re given to moods, eh?" "Not Katharine," said Henry, with decision. "Not Katharine," Rodney repeated, as if he weighed the meaning of the words. "No, perhaps you re right. But her engagement has changed her. Naturally," he added, "one would expect that to be so." He waited for Henry to confirm this statement, but Henry remained silent. "Katharine has had a difficult life, in some ways," he continued. "I expect that marriage will be good for her. She has great powers." "Great," said Henry, with decision. "Yes but now what direction d you think they take?" Rodney had completely dropped his pose as a man of the world, and seemed to be asking Henry to help him in a difficulty. "I don t know," Henry hesitated cautiously. "D you think children a household that sort of thing d you think that ll satisfy her? Mind, I m out all day."<|quote|>"She would certainly be very competent,"</|quote|>Henry stated. "Oh, she s wonderfully competent," said Rodney. "But I get absorbed in my poetry. Well, Katharine hasn t got that. She admires my poetry, you know, but that wouldn t be enough for her?" "No," said Henry. He paused. "I think you re right," he added, as if he were summing up his thoughts. "Katharine hasn t found herself yet. Life isn t altogether real to her yet I sometimes think" "Yes?" Rodney inquired, as if he were eager for Henry to continue. "That is what I" he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sentence was not finished, for the door opened, and they were interrupted by Henry s younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry s relief, for he had already said more than he liked. CHAPTER XVII When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmas week, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-up in Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retired from service under the Government of India with a pension that was not adequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly was not adequate to his ambitions. His career had not come up to his expectations, and although he was a very fine, white-whiskered, mahogany-colored old man to look at, and had laid down a very choice cellar of good reading and good stories, you could not long remain ignorant of the fact that some thunder-storm had soured them; he had a grievance. This grievance dated back to the middle years of the last century, when, owing to some official intrigue, his merits had been passed over in a disgraceful manner in favor of another, his junior. The rights and wrongs of the story, presuming that they had some existence in fact, were no longer clearly known to his wife and children; but this disappointment had played a very large part in their lives, and had poisoned the life of Sir Francis much as a disappointment in love is said to poison the whole life of a woman. Long brooding on his failure, continual arrangement and rearrangement of his deserts and rebuffs, had made Sir Francis much of an egoist, and in his retirement his temper became increasingly difficult and exacting. His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods that she was practically useless to him. He made his daughter Eleanor into his chief confidante, and the prime of her life was being rapidly consumed by her father. To her he dictated the memoirs which were to avenge his memory, and she had to assure him constantly that his treatment had been a disgrace. Already, at the age of thirty-five, her cheeks were whitening as her mother s had whitened, but for her there would be no memories of Indian suns and Indian rivers, and clamor of children in a nursery; she would have very little of substance to think about when she sat, as Lady Otway now sat, knitting white wool, with her eyes fixed almost perpetually upon the same embroidered bird upon the same fire-screen. But then Lady Otway was one of the people for whom the great make-believe game of English social life has been invented; she
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Night And Day
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“I’ll stay three minutes.”
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Grace
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said Lady Grace at once.<|quote|>“I’ll stay three minutes.”</|quote|>Hugh turned with her, alertly,
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Bender!” “Ah then I go,” said Lady Grace at once.<|quote|>“I’ll stay three minutes.”</|quote|>Hugh turned with her, alertly, to the easier issue, signalling
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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.<|quote|>“I’ll stay three minutes.”</|quote|>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
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first,” she added, “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.<|quote|>“I’ll stay three minutes.”</|quote|>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
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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,” she added, “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.<|quote|>“I’ll stay three minutes.”</|quote|>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,
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“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,” she added, “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.<|quote|>“I’ll stay three minutes.”</|quote|>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
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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,” she added, “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.<|quote|>“I’ll stay three minutes.”</|quote|>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 appears to take you here for everything--after my beginning to talk. Why, they knew I was talking _that_ time ago on the other side.” “Oh, they know things in the States,” Hugh cheerfully agreed, “so independently of their happening! But you must have talked loud.” “Well, I haven’t so much talked as raved,” Mr. Bender conceded-- “for I’m afraid that when I do want a thing I rave till I get it. You heard me at Ded-borough, and your enterprising daily press has at last caught the echo.” “Then they’ll make up for lost time! But have you done it,” Hugh
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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,” she added, “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.<|quote|>“I’ll stay three minutes.”</|quote|>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
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The Outcry
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"I am not in the habit of listening to private conversations."
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Mary Cavendish
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colour came into her cheek.<|quote|>"I am not in the habit of listening to private conversations."</|quote|>The Coroner persisted. "And you
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said." A faint spot of colour came into her cheek.<|quote|>"I am not in the habit of listening to private conversations."</|quote|>The Coroner persisted. "And you remember nothing at all? _Nothing_,
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you repeat to us what you overheard of the quarrel?" "I really do not remember hearing anything." "Do you mean to say you did not hear voices?" "Oh, yes, I heard the voices, but I did not hear what they said." A faint spot of colour came into her cheek.<|quote|>"I am not in the habit of listening to private conversations."</|quote|>The Coroner persisted. "And you remember nothing at all? _Nothing_, Mrs. Cavendish? Not one stray word or phrase to make you realize that it _was_ a private conversation?" She paused, and seemed to reflect, still outwardly as calm as ever. "Yes; I remember. Mrs. Inglethorp said something I do not
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window was open, was it not?" Surely her face grew a little paler as she answered: "Yes." "Then you cannot have failed to hear the voices inside, especially as they were raised in anger. In fact, they would be more audible where you were than in the hall." "Possibly." "Will you repeat to us what you overheard of the quarrel?" "I really do not remember hearing anything." "Do you mean to say you did not hear voices?" "Oh, yes, I heard the voices, but I did not hear what they said." A faint spot of colour came into her cheek.<|quote|>"I am not in the habit of listening to private conversations."</|quote|>The Coroner persisted. "And you remember nothing at all? _Nothing_, Mrs. Cavendish? Not one stray word or phrase to make you realize that it _was_ a private conversation?" She paused, and seemed to reflect, still outwardly as calm as ever. "Yes; I remember. Mrs. Inglethorp said something I do not remember exactly what about causing scandal between husband and wife." "Ah!" the Coroner leant back satisfied. "That corresponds with what Dorcas heard. But excuse me, Mrs. Cavendish, although you realized it was a private conversation, you did not move away? You remained where you were?" I caught the momentary gleam
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adjusted the ruffle of lace at her neck, turning her head a little as she did so. And quite spontaneously the thought flashed across my mind: "She is gaining time!" "Yes. I understand," continued the Coroner deliberately, "that you were sitting reading on the bench just outside the long window of the boudoir. That is so, is it not?" This was news to me and glancing sideways at Poirot, I fancied that it was news to him as well. There was the faintest pause, the mere hesitation of a moment, before she answered: "Yes, that is so." "And the boudoir window was open, was it not?" Surely her face grew a little paler as she answered: "Yes." "Then you cannot have failed to hear the voices inside, especially as they were raised in anger. In fact, they would be more audible where you were than in the hall." "Possibly." "Will you repeat to us what you overheard of the quarrel?" "I really do not remember hearing anything." "Do you mean to say you did not hear voices?" "Oh, yes, I heard the voices, but I did not hear what they said." A faint spot of colour came into her cheek.<|quote|>"I am not in the habit of listening to private conversations."</|quote|>The Coroner persisted. "And you remember nothing at all? _Nothing_, Mrs. Cavendish? Not one stray word or phrase to make you realize that it _was_ a private conversation?" She paused, and seemed to reflect, still outwardly as calm as ever. "Yes; I remember. Mrs. Inglethorp said something I do not remember exactly what about causing scandal between husband and wife." "Ah!" the Coroner leant back satisfied. "That corresponds with what Dorcas heard. But excuse me, Mrs. Cavendish, although you realized it was a private conversation, you did not move away? You remained where you were?" I caught the momentary gleam of her tawny eyes as she raised them. I felt certain that at that moment she would willingly have torn the little lawyer, with his insinuations, into pieces, but she replied quietly enough: "No. I was very comfortable where I was. I fixed my mind on my book." "And that is all you can tell us?" "That is all." The examination was over, though I doubted if the Coroner was entirely satisfied with it. I think he suspected that Mary Cavendish could tell more if she chose. Amy Hill, shop assistant, was next called, and deposed to having sold a
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had subsequently roused the household, he passed to the subject of the quarrel on the preceding afternoon. Dorcas's evidence on this point was substantially what Poirot and I had already heard, so I will not repeat it here. The next witness was Mary Cavendish. She stood very upright, and spoke in a low, clear, and perfectly composed voice. In answer to the Coroner's question, she told how, her alarm clock having aroused her at four-thirty as usual, she was dressing, when she was startled by the sound of something heavy falling. "That would have been the table by the bed?" commented the Coroner. "I opened my door," continued Mary, "and listened. In a few minutes a bell rang violently. Dorcas came running down and woke my husband, and we all went to my mother-in-law's room, but it was locked" The Coroner interrupted her. "I really do not think we need trouble you further on that point. We know all that can be known of the subsequent happenings. But I should be obliged if you would tell us all you overheard of the quarrel the day before." "I?" There was a faint insolence in her voice. She raised her hand and adjusted the ruffle of lace at her neck, turning her head a little as she did so. And quite spontaneously the thought flashed across my mind: "She is gaining time!" "Yes. I understand," continued the Coroner deliberately, "that you were sitting reading on the bench just outside the long window of the boudoir. That is so, is it not?" This was news to me and glancing sideways at Poirot, I fancied that it was news to him as well. There was the faintest pause, the mere hesitation of a moment, before she answered: "Yes, that is so." "And the boudoir window was open, was it not?" Surely her face grew a little paler as she answered: "Yes." "Then you cannot have failed to hear the voices inside, especially as they were raised in anger. In fact, they would be more audible where you were than in the hall." "Possibly." "Will you repeat to us what you overheard of the quarrel?" "I really do not remember hearing anything." "Do you mean to say you did not hear voices?" "Oh, yes, I heard the voices, but I did not hear what they said." A faint spot of colour came into her cheek.<|quote|>"I am not in the habit of listening to private conversations."</|quote|>The Coroner persisted. "And you remember nothing at all? _Nothing_, Mrs. Cavendish? Not one stray word or phrase to make you realize that it _was_ a private conversation?" She paused, and seemed to reflect, still outwardly as calm as ever. "Yes; I remember. Mrs. Inglethorp said something I do not remember exactly what about causing scandal between husband and wife." "Ah!" the Coroner leant back satisfied. "That corresponds with what Dorcas heard. But excuse me, Mrs. Cavendish, although you realized it was a private conversation, you did not move away? You remained where you were?" I caught the momentary gleam of her tawny eyes as she raised them. I felt certain that at that moment she would willingly have torn the little lawyer, with his insinuations, into pieces, but she replied quietly enough: "No. I was very comfortable where I was. I fixed my mind on my book." "And that is all you can tell us?" "That is all." The examination was over, though I doubted if the Coroner was entirely satisfied with it. I think he suspected that Mary Cavendish could tell more if she chose. Amy Hill, shop assistant, was next called, and deposed to having sold a will form on the afternoon of the 17th to William Earl, under-gardener at Styles. William Earl and Manning succeeded her, and testified to witnessing a document. Manning fixed the time at about four-thirty, William was of the opinion that it was rather earlier. Cynthia Murdoch came next. She had, however, little to tell. She had known nothing of the tragedy, until awakened by Mrs. Cavendish. "You did not hear the table fall?" "No. I was fast asleep." The Coroner smiled. "A good conscience makes a sound sleeper," he observed. "Thank you, Miss Murdoch, that is all." "Miss Howard." Miss Howard produced the letter written to her by Mrs. Inglethorp on the evening of the 17th. Poirot and I had, of course already seen it. It added nothing to our knowledge of the tragedy. The following is a facsimile: STYLES COURT ESSEX hand written note: July 17th My dear Evelyn Can we not bury the hachet? I have found it hard to forgive the things you said against my dear husband but I am an old woman & very fond of you Yours affectionately, Emily Inglethorpe It was handed to the jury who scrutinized it attentively. "I fear it does not
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mine," explained Lawrence. "Of course I may be quite wrong, but it still seems to me that my mother's death might be accounted for by natural means." "How do you make that out, Mr. Cavendish?" "My mother, at the time of her death, and for some time before it, was taking a tonic containing strychnine." "Ah!" said the Coroner. The jury looked up, interested. "I believe," continued Lawrence, "that there have been cases where the cumulative effect of a drug, administered for some time, has ended by causing death. Also, is it not possible that she may have taken an overdose of her medicine by accident?" "This is the first we have heard of the deceased taking strychnine at the time of her death. We are much obliged to you, Mr. Cavendish." Dr. Wilkins was recalled and ridiculed the idea. "What Mr. Cavendish suggests is quite impossible. Any doctor would tell you the same. Strychnine is, in a certain sense, a cumulative poison, but it would be quite impossible for it to result in sudden death in this way. There would have to be a long period of chronic symptoms which would at once have attracted my attention. The whole thing is absurd." "And the second suggestion? That Mrs. Inglethorp may have inadvertently taken an overdose?" "Three, or even four doses, would not have resulted in death. Mrs. Inglethorp always had an extra large amount of medicine made up at a time, as she dealt with Coot's, the Cash Chemists in Tadminster. She would have had to take very nearly the whole bottle to account for the amount of strychnine found at the post-mortem." "Then you consider that we may dismiss the tonic as not being in any way instrumental in causing her death?" "Certainly. The supposition is ridiculous." The same juryman who had interrupted before here suggested that the chemist who made up the medicine might have committed an error. "That, of course, is always possible," replied the doctor. But Dorcas, who was the next witness called, dispelled even that possibility. The medicine had not been newly made up. On the contrary, Mrs. Inglethorp had taken the last dose on the day of her death. So the question of the tonic was finally abandoned, and the Coroner proceeded with his task. Having elicited from Dorcas how she had been awakened by the violent ringing of her mistress's bell, and had subsequently roused the household, he passed to the subject of the quarrel on the preceding afternoon. Dorcas's evidence on this point was substantially what Poirot and I had already heard, so I will not repeat it here. The next witness was Mary Cavendish. She stood very upright, and spoke in a low, clear, and perfectly composed voice. In answer to the Coroner's question, she told how, her alarm clock having aroused her at four-thirty as usual, she was dressing, when she was startled by the sound of something heavy falling. "That would have been the table by the bed?" commented the Coroner. "I opened my door," continued Mary, "and listened. In a few minutes a bell rang violently. Dorcas came running down and woke my husband, and we all went to my mother-in-law's room, but it was locked" The Coroner interrupted her. "I really do not think we need trouble you further on that point. We know all that can be known of the subsequent happenings. But I should be obliged if you would tell us all you overheard of the quarrel the day before." "I?" There was a faint insolence in her voice. She raised her hand and adjusted the ruffle of lace at her neck, turning her head a little as she did so. And quite spontaneously the thought flashed across my mind: "She is gaining time!" "Yes. I understand," continued the Coroner deliberately, "that you were sitting reading on the bench just outside the long window of the boudoir. That is so, is it not?" This was news to me and glancing sideways at Poirot, I fancied that it was news to him as well. There was the faintest pause, the mere hesitation of a moment, before she answered: "Yes, that is so." "And the boudoir window was open, was it not?" Surely her face grew a little paler as she answered: "Yes." "Then you cannot have failed to hear the voices inside, especially as they were raised in anger. In fact, they would be more audible where you were than in the hall." "Possibly." "Will you repeat to us what you overheard of the quarrel?" "I really do not remember hearing anything." "Do you mean to say you did not hear voices?" "Oh, yes, I heard the voices, but I did not hear what they said." A faint spot of colour came into her cheek.<|quote|>"I am not in the habit of listening to private conversations."</|quote|>The Coroner persisted. "And you remember nothing at all? _Nothing_, Mrs. Cavendish? Not one stray word or phrase to make you realize that it _was_ a private conversation?" She paused, and seemed to reflect, still outwardly as calm as ever. "Yes; I remember. Mrs. Inglethorp said something I do not remember exactly what about causing scandal between husband and wife." "Ah!" the Coroner leant back satisfied. "That corresponds with what Dorcas heard. But excuse me, Mrs. Cavendish, although you realized it was a private conversation, you did not move away? You remained where you were?" I caught the momentary gleam of her tawny eyes as she raised them. I felt certain that at that moment she would willingly have torn the little lawyer, with his insinuations, into pieces, but she replied quietly enough: "No. I was very comfortable where I was. I fixed my mind on my book." "And that is all you can tell us?" "That is all." The examination was over, though I doubted if the Coroner was entirely satisfied with it. I think he suspected that Mary Cavendish could tell more if she chose. Amy Hill, shop assistant, was next called, and deposed to having sold a will form on the afternoon of the 17th to William Earl, under-gardener at Styles. William Earl and Manning succeeded her, and testified to witnessing a document. Manning fixed the time at about four-thirty, William was of the opinion that it was rather earlier. Cynthia Murdoch came next. She had, however, little to tell. She had known nothing of the tragedy, until awakened by Mrs. Cavendish. "You did not hear the table fall?" "No. I was fast asleep." The Coroner smiled. "A good conscience makes a sound sleeper," he observed. "Thank you, Miss Murdoch, that is all." "Miss Howard." Miss Howard produced the letter written to her by Mrs. Inglethorp on the evening of the 17th. Poirot and I had, of course already seen it. It added nothing to our knowledge of the tragedy. The following is a facsimile: STYLES COURT ESSEX hand written note: July 17th My dear Evelyn Can we not bury the hachet? I have found it hard to forgive the things you said against my dear husband but I am an old woman & very fond of you Yours affectionately, Emily Inglethorpe It was handed to the jury who scrutinized it attentively. "I fear it does not help us much," said the Coroner, with a sigh. "There is no mention of any of the events of that afternoon." "Plain as a pikestaff to me," said Miss Howard shortly. "It shows clearly enough that my poor old friend had just found out she'd been made a fool of!" "It says nothing of the kind in the letter," the Coroner pointed out. "No, because Emily never could bear to put herself in the wrong. But _I_ know her. She wanted me back. But she wasn't going to own that I'd been right. She went round about. Most people do. Don't believe in it myself." Mr. Wells smiled faintly. So, I noticed, did several of the jury. Miss Howard was obviously quite a public character. "Anyway, all this tomfoolery is a great waste of time," continued the lady, glancing up and down the jury disparagingly. "Talk talk talk! When all the time we know perfectly well" The Coroner interrupted her in an agony of apprehension: "Thank you, Miss Howard, that is all." I fancy he breathed a sigh of relief when she complied. Then came the sensation of the day. The Coroner called Albert Mace, chemist's assistant. It was our agitated young man of the pale face. In answer to the Coroner's questions, he explained that he was a qualified pharmacist, but had only recently come to this particular shop, as the assistant formerly there had just been called up for the army. These preliminaries completed, the Coroner proceeded to business. "Mr. Mace, have you lately sold strychnine to any unauthorized person?" "Yes, sir." "When was this?" "Last Monday night." "Monday? Not Tuesday?" "No, sir, Monday, the 16th." "Will you tell us to whom you sold it?" You could have heard a pin drop. "Yes, sir. It was to Mr. Inglethorp." Every eye turned simultaneously to where Alfred Inglethorp was sitting, impassive and wooden. He started slightly, as the damning words fell from the young man's lips. I half thought he was going to rise from his chair, but he remained seated, although a remarkably well acted expression of astonishment rose on his face. "You are sure of what you say?" asked the Coroner sternly. "Quite sure, sir." "Are you in the habit of selling strychnine indiscriminately over the counter?" The wretched young man wilted visibly under the Coroner's frown. "Oh, no, sir of course not. But, seeing it was
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upright, and spoke in a low, clear, and perfectly composed voice. In answer to the Coroner's question, she told how, her alarm clock having aroused her at four-thirty as usual, she was dressing, when she was startled by the sound of something heavy falling. "That would have been the table by the bed?" commented the Coroner. "I opened my door," continued Mary, "and listened. In a few minutes a bell rang violently. Dorcas came running down and woke my husband, and we all went to my mother-in-law's room, but it was locked" The Coroner interrupted her. "I really do not think we need trouble you further on that point. We know all that can be known of the subsequent happenings. But I should be obliged if you would tell us all you overheard of the quarrel the day before." "I?" There was a faint insolence in her voice. She raised her hand and adjusted the ruffle of lace at her neck, turning her head a little as she did so. And quite spontaneously the thought flashed across my mind: "She is gaining time!" "Yes. I understand," continued the Coroner deliberately, "that you were sitting reading on the bench just outside the long window of the boudoir. That is so, is it not?" This was news to me and glancing sideways at Poirot, I fancied that it was news to him as well. There was the faintest pause, the mere hesitation of a moment, before she answered: "Yes, that is so." "And the boudoir window was open, was it not?" Surely her face grew a little paler as she answered: "Yes." "Then you cannot have failed to hear the voices inside, especially as they were raised in anger. In fact, they would be more audible where you were than in the hall." "Possibly." "Will you repeat to us what you overheard of the quarrel?" "I really do not remember hearing anything." "Do you mean to say you did not hear voices?" "Oh, yes, I heard the voices, but I did not hear what they said." A faint spot of colour came into her cheek.<|quote|>"I am not in the habit of listening to private conversations."</|quote|>The Coroner persisted. "And you remember nothing at all? _Nothing_, Mrs. Cavendish? Not one stray word or phrase to make you realize that it _was_ a private conversation?" She paused, and seemed to reflect, still outwardly as calm as ever. "Yes; I remember. Mrs. Inglethorp said something I do not remember exactly what about causing scandal between husband and wife." "Ah!" the Coroner leant back satisfied. "That corresponds with what Dorcas heard. But excuse me, Mrs. Cavendish, although you realized it was a private conversation, you did not move away? You remained where you were?" I caught the momentary gleam of her tawny eyes as she raised them. I felt certain that at that moment she would willingly have torn the little lawyer, with his insinuations, into pieces, but she replied quietly enough: "No. I was very comfortable where I was. I fixed my mind on my book." "And that is all you can tell us?" "That is all." The examination was over, though I doubted if the Coroner was entirely satisfied with it. I think he suspected that Mary Cavendish could tell more if she chose. Amy Hill, shop assistant, was next called, and deposed to having sold a will form on the afternoon of the 17th to William Earl, under-gardener at Styles. William Earl and Manning succeeded her, and testified to witnessing a document. Manning fixed the time at about four-thirty, William was of the opinion that it was rather earlier. Cynthia Murdoch came next. She had, however, little to tell. She had
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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"Katharine Hilbery,"
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Ralph Denham
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had seen her or not.<|quote|>"Katharine Hilbery,"</|quote|>he repeated. "But she s
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from his manner whether he had seen her or not.<|quote|>"Katharine Hilbery,"</|quote|>he repeated. "But she s gone now." "Katharine Hilbery!" Mary
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think whether he had seen her or merely imagined her. He sat down at once, and said, briefly and strangely, rather to himself than to Mary: "That was Katharine Hilbery." "Katharine Hilbery? What do you mean?" she asked, hardly understanding from his manner whether he had seen her or not.<|quote|>"Katharine Hilbery,"</|quote|>he repeated. "But she s gone now." "Katharine Hilbery!" Mary thought, in an instant of blinding revelation; "I ve always known it was Katharine Hilbery!" She knew it all now. After a moment of downcast stupor, she raised her eyes, looked steadily at Ralph, and caught his fixed and dreamy
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her so intensely that his mind had formed the shape of her, rather than that he had seen her in the flesh outside in the street. And yet he had not been thinking of her at all. The impression was so intense that he could not dismiss it, nor even think whether he had seen her or merely imagined her. He sat down at once, and said, briefly and strangely, rather to himself than to Mary: "That was Katharine Hilbery." "Katharine Hilbery? What do you mean?" she asked, hardly understanding from his manner whether he had seen her or not.<|quote|>"Katharine Hilbery,"</|quote|>he repeated. "But she s gone now." "Katharine Hilbery!" Mary thought, in an instant of blinding revelation; "I ve always known it was Katharine Hilbery!" She knew it all now. After a moment of downcast stupor, she raised her eyes, looked steadily at Ralph, and caught his fixed and dreamy gaze leveled at a point far beyond their surroundings, a point that she had never reached in all the time that she had known him. She noticed the lips just parted, the fingers loosely clenched, the whole attitude of rapt contemplation, which fell like a veil between them. She noticed
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detached from her surroundings. She held her gloves in her left hand, and the left hand was bare. All this Ralph noticed and enumerated and recognized before he put a name to the whole Katharine Hilbery. She seemed to be looking for somebody. Her eyes, in fact, scanned both sides of the street, and for one second were raised directly to the bow window in which Ralph stood; but she looked away again instantly without giving any sign that she had seen him. This sudden apparition had an extraordinary effect upon him. It was as if he had thought of her so intensely that his mind had formed the shape of her, rather than that he had seen her in the flesh outside in the street. And yet he had not been thinking of her at all. The impression was so intense that he could not dismiss it, nor even think whether he had seen her or merely imagined her. He sat down at once, and said, briefly and strangely, rather to himself than to Mary: "That was Katharine Hilbery." "Katharine Hilbery? What do you mean?" she asked, hardly understanding from his manner whether he had seen her or not.<|quote|>"Katharine Hilbery,"</|quote|>he repeated. "But she s gone now." "Katharine Hilbery!" Mary thought, in an instant of blinding revelation; "I ve always known it was Katharine Hilbery!" She knew it all now. After a moment of downcast stupor, she raised her eyes, looked steadily at Ralph, and caught his fixed and dreamy gaze leveled at a point far beyond their surroundings, a point that she had never reached in all the time that she had known him. She noticed the lips just parted, the fingers loosely clenched, the whole attitude of rapt contemplation, which fell like a veil between them. She noticed everything about him; if there had been other signs of his utter alienation she would have sought them out, too, for she felt that it was only by heaping one truth upon another that she could keep herself sitting there, upright. The truth seemed to support her; it struck her, even as she looked at his face, that the light of truth was shining far away beyond him; the light of truth, she seemed to frame the words as she rose to go, shines on a world not to be shaken by our personal calamities. Ralph handed her her coat
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looked out of the window. The people in the street seemed to him only a dissolving and combining pattern of black particles; which, for the moment, represented very well the involuntary procession of feelings and thoughts which formed and dissolved in rapid succession in his own mind. At one moment he exulted in the thought that Mary loved him; at the next, it seemed that he was without feeling for her; her love was repulsive to him. Now he felt urged to marry her at once; now to disappear and never see her again. In order to control this disorderly race of thought he forced himself to read the name on the chemist s shop directly opposite him; then to examine the objects in the shop windows, and then to focus his eyes exactly upon a little group of women looking in at the great windows of a large draper s shop. This discipline having given him at least a superficial control of himself, he was about to turn and ask the waiter to bring the bill, when his eye was caught by a tall figure walking quickly along the opposite pavement a tall figure, upright, dark, and commanding, much detached from her surroundings. She held her gloves in her left hand, and the left hand was bare. All this Ralph noticed and enumerated and recognized before he put a name to the whole Katharine Hilbery. She seemed to be looking for somebody. Her eyes, in fact, scanned both sides of the street, and for one second were raised directly to the bow window in which Ralph stood; but she looked away again instantly without giving any sign that she had seen him. This sudden apparition had an extraordinary effect upon him. It was as if he had thought of her so intensely that his mind had formed the shape of her, rather than that he had seen her in the flesh outside in the street. And yet he had not been thinking of her at all. The impression was so intense that he could not dismiss it, nor even think whether he had seen her or merely imagined her. He sat down at once, and said, briefly and strangely, rather to himself than to Mary: "That was Katharine Hilbery." "Katharine Hilbery? What do you mean?" she asked, hardly understanding from his manner whether he had seen her or not.<|quote|>"Katharine Hilbery,"</|quote|>he repeated. "But she s gone now." "Katharine Hilbery!" Mary thought, in an instant of blinding revelation; "I ve always known it was Katharine Hilbery!" She knew it all now. After a moment of downcast stupor, she raised her eyes, looked steadily at Ralph, and caught his fixed and dreamy gaze leveled at a point far beyond their surroundings, a point that she had never reached in all the time that she had known him. She noticed the lips just parted, the fingers loosely clenched, the whole attitude of rapt contemplation, which fell like a veil between them. She noticed everything about him; if there had been other signs of his utter alienation she would have sought them out, too, for she felt that it was only by heaping one truth upon another that she could keep herself sitting there, upright. The truth seemed to support her; it struck her, even as she looked at his face, that the light of truth was shining far away beyond him; the light of truth, she seemed to frame the words as she rose to go, shines on a world not to be shaken by our personal calamities. Ralph handed her her coat and her stick. She took them, fastened the coat securely, grasped the stick firmly. The ivy spray was still twisted about the handle; this one sacrifice, she thought, she might make to sentimentality and personality, and she picked two leaves from the ivy and put them in her pocket before she disencumbered her stick of the rest of it. She grasped the stick in the middle, and settled her fur cap closely upon her head, as if she must be in trim for a long and stormy walk. Next, standing in the middle of the road, she took a slip of paper from her purse, and read out loud a list of commissions entrusted to her fruit, butter, string, and so on; and all the time she never spoke directly to Ralph or looked at him. Ralph heard her giving orders to attentive, rosy-checked men in white aprons, and in spite of his own preoccupation, he commented upon the determination with which she made her wishes known. Once more he began, automatically, to take stock of her characteristics. Standing thus, superficially observant and stirring the sawdust on the floor meditatively with the toe of his boot, he was roused by
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the room, "for, of course, in an ideal state of things, in a decent community even, there s no doubt you shouldn t have anything to do with me seriously, that is." "You forget that I m not an ideal character, either," said Mary, in the same low and very earnest tones, which, in spite of being almost inaudible, surrounded their table with an atmosphere of concentration which was quite perceptible to the other diners, who glanced at them now and then with a queer mixture of kindness, amusement, and curiosity. "I m much more selfish than I let on, and I m worldly a little more than you think, anyhow. I like bossing things perhaps that s my greatest fault. I ve none of your passion for" here she hesitated, and glanced at him, as if to ascertain what his passion was for "for the truth," she added, as if she had found what she sought indisputably. "I ve told you I m a liar," Ralph repeated obstinately. "Oh, in little things, I dare say," she said impatiently. "But not in real ones, and that s what matters. I dare say I m more truthful than you are in small ways. But I could never care" she was surprised to find herself speaking the word, and had to force herself to speak it out "for any one who was a liar in that way. I love the truth a certain amount a considerable amount but not in the way you love it." Her voice sank, became inaudible, and wavered as if she could scarcely keep herself from tears. "Good heavens!" Ralph exclaimed to himself. "She loves me! Why did I never see it before? She s going to cry; no, but she can t speak." The certainty overwhelmed him so that he scarcely knew what he was doing; the blood rushed to his cheeks, and although he had quite made up his mind to ask her to marry him, the certainty that she loved him seemed to change the situation so completely that he could not do it. He did not dare to look at her. If she cried, he did not know what he should do. It seemed to him that something of a terrible and devastating nature had happened. The waiter changed their plates once more. In his agitation Ralph rose, turned his back upon Mary, and looked out of the window. The people in the street seemed to him only a dissolving and combining pattern of black particles; which, for the moment, represented very well the involuntary procession of feelings and thoughts which formed and dissolved in rapid succession in his own mind. At one moment he exulted in the thought that Mary loved him; at the next, it seemed that he was without feeling for her; her love was repulsive to him. Now he felt urged to marry her at once; now to disappear and never see her again. In order to control this disorderly race of thought he forced himself to read the name on the chemist s shop directly opposite him; then to examine the objects in the shop windows, and then to focus his eyes exactly upon a little group of women looking in at the great windows of a large draper s shop. This discipline having given him at least a superficial control of himself, he was about to turn and ask the waiter to bring the bill, when his eye was caught by a tall figure walking quickly along the opposite pavement a tall figure, upright, dark, and commanding, much detached from her surroundings. She held her gloves in her left hand, and the left hand was bare. All this Ralph noticed and enumerated and recognized before he put a name to the whole Katharine Hilbery. She seemed to be looking for somebody. Her eyes, in fact, scanned both sides of the street, and for one second were raised directly to the bow window in which Ralph stood; but she looked away again instantly without giving any sign that she had seen him. This sudden apparition had an extraordinary effect upon him. It was as if he had thought of her so intensely that his mind had formed the shape of her, rather than that he had seen her in the flesh outside in the street. And yet he had not been thinking of her at all. The impression was so intense that he could not dismiss it, nor even think whether he had seen her or merely imagined her. He sat down at once, and said, briefly and strangely, rather to himself than to Mary: "That was Katharine Hilbery." "Katharine Hilbery? What do you mean?" she asked, hardly understanding from his manner whether he had seen her or not.<|quote|>"Katharine Hilbery,"</|quote|>he repeated. "But she s gone now." "Katharine Hilbery!" Mary thought, in an instant of blinding revelation; "I ve always known it was Katharine Hilbery!" She knew it all now. After a moment of downcast stupor, she raised her eyes, looked steadily at Ralph, and caught his fixed and dreamy gaze leveled at a point far beyond their surroundings, a point that she had never reached in all the time that she had known him. She noticed the lips just parted, the fingers loosely clenched, the whole attitude of rapt contemplation, which fell like a veil between them. She noticed everything about him; if there had been other signs of his utter alienation she would have sought them out, too, for she felt that it was only by heaping one truth upon another that she could keep herself sitting there, upright. The truth seemed to support her; it struck her, even as she looked at his face, that the light of truth was shining far away beyond him; the light of truth, she seemed to frame the words as she rose to go, shines on a world not to be shaken by our personal calamities. Ralph handed her her coat and her stick. She took them, fastened the coat securely, grasped the stick firmly. The ivy spray was still twisted about the handle; this one sacrifice, she thought, she might make to sentimentality and personality, and she picked two leaves from the ivy and put them in her pocket before she disencumbered her stick of the rest of it. She grasped the stick in the middle, and settled her fur cap closely upon her head, as if she must be in trim for a long and stormy walk. Next, standing in the middle of the road, she took a slip of paper from her purse, and read out loud a list of commissions entrusted to her fruit, butter, string, and so on; and all the time she never spoke directly to Ralph or looked at him. Ralph heard her giving orders to attentive, rosy-checked men in white aprons, and in spite of his own preoccupation, he commented upon the determination with which she made her wishes known. Once more he began, automatically, to take stock of her characteristics. Standing thus, superficially observant and stirring the sawdust on the floor meditatively with the toe of his boot, he was roused by a musical and familiar voice behind him, accompanied by a light touch upon his shoulder. "I m not mistaken? Surely Mr. Denham? I caught a glimpse of your coat through the window, and I felt sure that I knew your coat. Have you seen Katharine or William? I m wandering about Lincoln looking for the ruins." It was Mrs. Hilbery; her entrance created some stir in the shop; many people looked at her. "First of all, tell me where I am," she demanded, but, catching sight of the attentive shopman, she appealed to him. "The ruins my party is waiting for me at the ruins. The Roman ruins or Greek, Mr. Denham? Your town has a great many beautiful things in it, but I wish it hadn t so many ruins. I never saw such delightful little pots of honey in my life are they made by your own bees? Please give me one of those little pots, and tell me how I shall find my way to the ruins." "And now," she continued, having received the information and the pot of honey, having been introduced to Mary, and having insisted that they should accompany her back to the ruins, since in a town with so many turnings, such prospects, such delightful little half-naked boys dabbling in pools, such Venetian canals, such old blue china in the curiosity shops, it was impossible for one person all alone to find her way to the ruins. "Now," she exclaimed, "please tell me what you re doing here, Mr. Denham for you _are_ Mr. Denham, aren t you?" she inquired, gazing at him with a sudden suspicion of her own accuracy. "The brilliant young man who writes for the Review, I mean? Only yesterday my husband was telling me he thought you one of the cleverest young men he knew. Certainly, you ve been the messenger of Providence to me, for unless I d seen you I m sure I should never have found the ruins at all." They had reached the Roman arch when Mrs. Hilbery caught sight of her own party, standing like sentinels facing up and down the road so as to intercept her if, as they expected, she had got lodged in some shop. "I ve found something much better than ruins!" she exclaimed. "I ve found two friends who told me how to find you, which I could
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him. Now he felt urged to marry her at once; now to disappear and never see her again. In order to control this disorderly race of thought he forced himself to read the name on the chemist s shop directly opposite him; then to examine the objects in the shop windows, and then to focus his eyes exactly upon a little group of women looking in at the great windows of a large draper s shop. This discipline having given him at least a superficial control of himself, he was about to turn and ask the waiter to bring the bill, when his eye was caught by a tall figure walking quickly along the opposite pavement a tall figure, upright, dark, and commanding, much detached from her surroundings. She held her gloves in her left hand, and the left hand was bare. All this Ralph noticed and enumerated and recognized before he put a name to the whole Katharine Hilbery. She seemed to be looking for somebody. Her eyes, in fact, scanned both sides of the street, and for one second were raised directly to the bow window in which Ralph stood; but she looked away again instantly without giving any sign that she had seen him. This sudden apparition had an extraordinary effect upon him. It was as if he had thought of her so intensely that his mind had formed the shape of her, rather than that he had seen her in the flesh outside in the street. And yet he had not been thinking of her at all. The impression was so intense that he could not dismiss it, nor even think whether he had seen her or merely imagined her. He sat down at once, and said, briefly and strangely, rather to himself than to Mary: "That was Katharine Hilbery." "Katharine Hilbery? What do you mean?" she asked, hardly understanding from his manner whether he had seen her or not.<|quote|>"Katharine Hilbery,"</|quote|>he repeated. "But she s gone now." "Katharine Hilbery!" Mary thought, in an instant of blinding revelation; "I ve always known it was Katharine Hilbery!" She knew it all now. After a moment of downcast stupor, she raised her eyes, looked steadily at Ralph, and caught his fixed and dreamy gaze leveled at a point far beyond their surroundings, a point that she had never reached in all the time that she had known him. She noticed the lips just parted, the fingers loosely clenched, the whole attitude of rapt contemplation, which fell like a veil between them. She noticed everything about him; if there had been other signs of his utter alienation she would have sought them out, too, for she felt that it was only by heaping one truth upon another that she could keep herself sitting there, upright. The truth seemed to support her; it struck her, even as she looked at his face, that the light of truth was shining far away beyond him; the light of truth, she seemed to frame the words as she rose to go, shines on a world not to be shaken by our personal calamities. Ralph handed her her coat and her stick. She took them, fastened the coat securely, grasped the stick firmly. The ivy spray was still twisted about the handle; this one sacrifice, she thought, she might make to sentimentality and personality, and she picked two leaves from the ivy and put them in her pocket before she disencumbered her stick of the rest of it. She grasped the stick in the middle, and settled her fur cap closely upon her head, as if she must be in trim for a long and stormy walk. Next, standing in the middle of the road, she took a slip of paper from her purse, and read out loud a list of commissions entrusted to her fruit, butter, string, and so on; and all the time she never
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Night And Day
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"That a burnt child loves the fire."
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Lord Henry
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in my diary to-night." "What?"<|quote|>"That a burnt child loves the fire."</|quote|>"I am not even singed.
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_riposte_. "I shall write it in my diary to-night." "What?"<|quote|>"That a burnt child loves the fire."</|quote|>"I am not even singed. My wings are untouched." "You
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battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?" "I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." "They were defeated." "There are worse things than capture," she answered. "You gallop with a loose rein." "Pace gives life," was the _riposte_. "I shall write it in my diary to-night." "What?"<|quote|>"That a burnt child loves the fire."</|quote|>"I am not even singed. My wings are untouched." "You use them for everything, except flight." "Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us." "You have a rival." "Who?" He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores him." "You fill me with apprehension.
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none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory. "You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?" "I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." "They were defeated." "There are worse things than capture," she answered. "You gallop with a loose rein." "Pace gives life," was the _riposte_. "I shall write it in my diary to-night." "What?"<|quote|>"That a burnt child loves the fire."</|quote|>"I am not even singed. My wings are untouched." "You use them for everything, except flight." "Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us." "You have a rival." "Who?" He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores him." "You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists." "Romanticists! You have all the methods of science." "Men have educated us." "But not explained you." "Describe us as a sex," was her challenge. "Sphinxes without secrets." She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said.
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looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don t go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory. "You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?" "I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." "They were defeated." "There are worse things than capture," she answered. "You gallop with a loose rein." "Pace gives life," was the _riposte_. "I shall write it in my diary to-night." "What?"<|quote|>"That a burnt child loves the fire."</|quote|>"I am not even singed. My wings are untouched." "You use them for everything, except flight." "Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us." "You have a rival." "Who?" He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores him." "You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists." "Romanticists! You have all the methods of science." "Men have educated us." "But not explained you." "Describe us as a sex," was her challenge. "Sphinxes without secrets." She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said. "Let us go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock." "Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys." "That would be a premature surrender." "Romantic art begins with its climax." "I must keep an opportunity for retreat." "In the Parthian manner?" "They found safety in the desert. I could not do that." "Women are not always allowed a choice," he answered, but hardly had he finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody started
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good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity." "Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule the world. I assure you we can t bear mediocrities. We women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all." "It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian. "Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with mock sadness. "My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after a pause. "Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry. The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don t go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory. "You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?" "I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." "They were defeated." "There are worse things than capture," she answered. "You gallop with a loose rein." "Pace gives life," was the _riposte_. "I shall write it in my diary to-night." "What?"<|quote|>"That a burnt child loves the fire."</|quote|>"I am not even singed. My wings are untouched." "You use them for everything, except flight." "Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us." "You have a rival." "Who?" He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores him." "You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists." "Romanticists! You have all the methods of science." "Men have educated us." "But not explained you." "Describe us as a sex," was her challenge. "Sphinxes without secrets." She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said. "Let us go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock." "Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys." "That would be a premature surrender." "Romantic art begins with its climax." "I must keep an opportunity for retreat." "In the Parthian manner?" "They found safety in the desert. I could not do that." "Women are not always allowed a choice," he answered, but hardly had he finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody started up. The duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in his eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian Gray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon. He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one of the sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked round with a dazed expression. "What has happened?" he asked. "Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?" He began to tremble. "My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, "you merely fainted. That was all. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down to dinner. I will take your place." "No, I will come down," he said, struggling to his feet. "I would rather come down. I must not be alone." He went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of gaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of terror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the window of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the face of James Vane watching him. CHAPTER XVIII. The next day he did not
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don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head. "I believe in the race," she cried. "It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "Well, I hope he won t stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?" "For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight." "How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning." "I daren t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the one I wore at Lady Hilstone s garden-party? You don t, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All good hats are made out of nothing." "Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity." "Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule the world. I assure you we can t bear mediocrities. We women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all." "It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian. "Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with mock sadness. "My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after a pause. "Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry. The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don t go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory. "You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?" "I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." "They were defeated." "There are worse things than capture," she answered. "You gallop with a loose rein." "Pace gives life," was the _riposte_. "I shall write it in my diary to-night." "What?"<|quote|>"That a burnt child loves the fire."</|quote|>"I am not even singed. My wings are untouched." "You use them for everything, except flight." "Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us." "You have a rival." "Who?" He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores him." "You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists." "Romanticists! You have all the methods of science." "Men have educated us." "But not explained you." "Describe us as a sex," was her challenge. "Sphinxes without secrets." She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said. "Let us go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock." "Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys." "That would be a premature surrender." "Romantic art begins with its climax." "I must keep an opportunity for retreat." "In the Parthian manner?" "They found safety in the desert. I could not do that." "Women are not always allowed a choice," he answered, but hardly had he finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody started up. The duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in his eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian Gray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon. He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one of the sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked round with a dazed expression. "What has happened?" he asked. "Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?" He began to tremble. "My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, "you merely fainted. That was all. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down to dinner. I will take your place." "No, I will come down," he said, struggling to his feet. "I would rather come down. I must not be alone." He went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of gaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of terror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the window of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the face of James Vane watching him. CHAPTER XVIII. The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared, tracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but tremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against the leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild regrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor s face peering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to lay its hand upon his heart. But perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of the night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actual life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the imagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet of sin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen brood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor the good rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrust upon the weak. That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowling round the house, he would have been seen by the servants or the keepers. Had any foot-marks been found on the flower-beds, the gardeners would have reported it. Yes, it had been merely fancy. Sibyl Vane s brother had not come back to kill him. He had sailed away in his ship to founder in some winter sea. From him, at any rate, he was safe. Why, the man did not know who he was, could not know who he was. The mask of youth had saved him. And yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to think that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them visible form, and make them move before one! What sort of life would his be if, day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him from silent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear as he sat at the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep! As the thought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror, and the air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder. Oh! in what a wild hour of
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if you ever love at all." "It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian. "Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with mock sadness. "My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after a pause. "Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry. The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don t go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory. "You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?" "I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." "They were defeated." "There are worse things than capture," she answered. "You gallop with a loose rein." "Pace gives life," was the _riposte_. "I shall write it in my diary to-night." "What?"<|quote|>"That a burnt child loves the fire."</|quote|>"I am not even singed. My wings are untouched." "You use them for everything, except flight." "Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us." "You have a rival." "Who?" He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores him." "You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists." "Romanticists! You have all the methods of science." "Men have educated us." "But not explained you." "Describe us as a sex," was her challenge. "Sphinxes without secrets." She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said. "Let us go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock." "Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys." "That would be a premature surrender." "Romantic art begins with its climax." "I must keep an opportunity for retreat." "In the Parthian manner?" "They found safety in the desert. I could not do that." "Women are not always allowed a choice," he answered, but hardly had he finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody started up. The duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in his eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian Gray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon. He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one of the sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked round with a dazed expression. "What has happened?" he asked. "Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?" He began to tremble. "My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, "you merely fainted. That was all. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down to dinner. I will take your place." "No, I will come down," he said, struggling to his feet. "I would rather come down. I must not be alone." He went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of gaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of terror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the window of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the face of James Vane watching him. CHAPTER XVIII. The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself. The consciousness of
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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"Yes, Jem, I think I shall."
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Don Lavington
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nay, you won't, my lad."<|quote|>"Yes, Jem, I think I shall."</|quote|>"Ah, that's better! Think about
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like; I shall go." "Nay, nay, you won't, my lad."<|quote|>"Yes, Jem, I think I shall."</|quote|>"Ah, that's better! Think about it." "I should have thought
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Don, wantin' to leave such a mother as you've got, and asking me to leave my wife. Why, what would they do?" "I don't know," said Don, sadly. "They care very little for us now. You can do as you like; I shall go." "Nay, nay, you won't, my lad."<|quote|>"Yes, Jem, I think I shall."</|quote|>"Ah, that's better! Think about it." "I should have thought that you'd be glad to come with me, Jem." "So I should, my lad; but there's a some'at as they calls dooty as allus seems to have hold on me tight. You wait a bit, and see how things turn
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has told me of dozens of places that must be glorious." "Then we won't go," said Jem, decidedly. "If Mike Bannock says they're fine spots, don't you believe him; they're bad 'uns." "Then let's go and select a place for ourselves," cried Don. "Lor! I do wonder at you, Mas' Don, wantin' to leave such a mother as you've got, and asking me to leave my wife. Why, what would they do?" "I don't know," said Don, sadly. "They care very little for us now. You can do as you like; I shall go." "Nay, nay, you won't, my lad."<|quote|>"Yes, Jem, I think I shall."</|quote|>"Ah, that's better! Think about it." "I should have thought that you'd be glad to come with me, Jem." "So I should, my lad; but there's a some'at as they calls dooty as allus seems to have hold on me tight. You wait a bit, and see how things turn out." "But I shall have to appear before the magistrates, and be called a thief." "Ah, well, that won't be pleasant, my lad, of course; but wait." "Then you wouldn't go with me, Jem?" "Don't tempt a man, Mas' Don, because I should like to go with you, and course
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marry her." "You ought to be ashamed to talk like that, Jem." "So ought you, Mas' Don. I've often felt as if I should like to do as you say and run right off, but I don't do it." "You have felt like that, Jem?" cried Don, eagerly. "Yes, often, my lad." "Then let's go, Jem. Nobody cares for us here. Let's go right away to one of the beautiful foreign countries Mike told me about, and begin a new life." "Shall us, Mas' Don?" "Yes; why not? Get a passage in some ship, and stop where we like. He has told me of dozens of places that must be glorious." "Then we won't go," said Jem, decidedly. "If Mike Bannock says they're fine spots, don't you believe him; they're bad 'uns." "Then let's go and select a place for ourselves," cried Don. "Lor! I do wonder at you, Mas' Don, wantin' to leave such a mother as you've got, and asking me to leave my wife. Why, what would they do?" "I don't know," said Don, sadly. "They care very little for us now. You can do as you like; I shall go." "Nay, nay, you won't, my lad."<|quote|>"Yes, Jem, I think I shall."</|quote|>"Ah, that's better! Think about it." "I should have thought that you'd be glad to come with me, Jem." "So I should, my lad; but there's a some'at as they calls dooty as allus seems to have hold on me tight. You wait a bit, and see how things turn out." "But I shall have to appear before the magistrates, and be called a thief." "Ah, well, that won't be pleasant, my lad, of course; but wait." "Then you wouldn't go with me, Jem?" "Don't tempt a man, Mas' Don, because I should like to go with you, and course I shouldn't like to go with you, because I shouldn't like you to go. There, I must get on with my work." At that very moment came the call of a shrill voice-- "Jem!" "There I told you so. She see me come in here, and she's after me because I haven't got on with my casks. Oh, how sharp she is!" Jem gave Don an intelligent nod of the head, and moved out, while the lad stood gazing at the opposite window and listened to the sharp voice addressing the foreman of the yard. "Poor Jem! He isn't happy
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ever believe him i' preference to you?" "My uncle--my mother--my cousin." "Not they, my boy. They don't believe it. They only think they do. They're sore just now, while it's all fresh. To-morrow by this time they will be a-hanging o' themselves round about your neck, and a-askin' of your pardon, and kissin' of you." "No, Jem, no." "Well, I don't mean as your uncle will be kissin' of you, of course; but he'll be sorry too, and a-shaking of your hand." Don shook his head. "There, don't get wagging your head like a Chinee figger, my lad. Take it like a man." "It seems that the only thing for me to do, Jem, is to tie up a bundle and take a stick, and go and try my luck somewhere else." "And you free and independent! Why, what would you say if you was me, tied up and married, and allus getting into trouble at home." "Not such trouble as this, Jem." "Not such trouble as this, my lad? Worser ever so much, for you don't deserve it, and I do, leastwise, my Sally says I do, and I suppose I do for being such a fool as to marry her." "You ought to be ashamed to talk like that, Jem." "So ought you, Mas' Don. I've often felt as if I should like to do as you say and run right off, but I don't do it." "You have felt like that, Jem?" cried Don, eagerly. "Yes, often, my lad." "Then let's go, Jem. Nobody cares for us here. Let's go right away to one of the beautiful foreign countries Mike told me about, and begin a new life." "Shall us, Mas' Don?" "Yes; why not? Get a passage in some ship, and stop where we like. He has told me of dozens of places that must be glorious." "Then we won't go," said Jem, decidedly. "If Mike Bannock says they're fine spots, don't you believe him; they're bad 'uns." "Then let's go and select a place for ourselves," cried Don. "Lor! I do wonder at you, Mas' Don, wantin' to leave such a mother as you've got, and asking me to leave my wife. Why, what would they do?" "I don't know," said Don, sadly. "They care very little for us now. You can do as you like; I shall go." "Nay, nay, you won't, my lad."<|quote|>"Yes, Jem, I think I shall."</|quote|>"Ah, that's better! Think about it." "I should have thought that you'd be glad to come with me, Jem." "So I should, my lad; but there's a some'at as they calls dooty as allus seems to have hold on me tight. You wait a bit, and see how things turn out." "But I shall have to appear before the magistrates, and be called a thief." "Ah, well, that won't be pleasant, my lad, of course; but wait." "Then you wouldn't go with me, Jem?" "Don't tempt a man, Mas' Don, because I should like to go with you, and course I shouldn't like to go with you, because I shouldn't like you to go. There, I must get on with my work." At that very moment came the call of a shrill voice-- "Jem!" "There I told you so. She see me come in here, and she's after me because I haven't got on with my casks. Oh, how sharp she is!" Jem gave Don an intelligent nod of the head, and moved out, while the lad stood gazing at the opposite window and listened to the sharp voice addressing the foreman of the yard. "Poor Jem! He isn't happy either!" said Don, sadly, as the voices died away. "We might go right off abroad, and they'd be sorry then and think better of us. I wish I was ten thousand miles away." He seated himself slowly on his stool, and rested his arms upon the desk, folding them across his chest; and then, looking straight before him at the door, his mental gaze went right through the panels, and he saw silver rivers flowing over golden sands, while trees of the most glorious foliage drooped their branches, and dipped the ends in the glancing water. The bright sun shone overhead; the tendrils and waving grass were gay with blossoms; birds of lovely plumage sang sweetly; and in the distance, on the one hand, fading away into nothingness, were the glorious blue mountains, and away to his right a shimmering sea. Don Lavington had a fertile brain, and on the canvas of his imagination he painted panorama after panorama, all bright and beautiful. There were no clouds, no storms, no noxious creatures, no trials and dangers. All was as he thought it ought to be, and about as different from the reality as could be supposed. But Don did not
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"I don't, and as for them, they've all got dust in their eyes, that's what's the matter with them, and they can't see clear. But didn't you tell 'em as you didn't?" "Yes, Jem," said Don, despondently; "at first." "Then why didn't you at last, too? Here, cheer up, my lad; it'll all blow over and be forgotten, same as the row was about that sugar-hogshead as I let them take away. I don't say shake hands 'cause you're like master and me only man, but I shakes hands with you in my 'art, my lad, and I says, don't be down over it." "You couldn't shake hands with a thief, you mean, Jem," said Don, bitterly. "Look here, Mas' Don, I can't punch your head because, as aforesaid, you're young master, and I'm only man; but for that there same what you said just now I hits you in my 'art. Thief indeed! But ah, my lad, it was a pity as you ever let Mike come into the office to tell you his lies about furren parts." "Yes, Jem, it was." "When you might ha' got all he told you out o' books, and the stories wouldn't ha' been quite so black." "Ah, well, it's all over now." "What's all over?" "My life here, Jem. I shall go right away." "Go? What?" "Right away. Abroad, I think." "And what'll your mother do?" "Forget me, I hope. I always was an unlucky fellow Jem." "What d'yer mean? Run away?" "Yes, I shall go away." "Well, that's clever, that is. Why, that's just the way to make 'em think you did it. Tshah! You stop like a man and face it out." "When everybody believes me guilty?" "Don't be so precious aggrawatin', my lad," cried Jem, plaintively. "Don't I keep on a-telling you that I don't believe you guilty. Why, I'd just as soon believe that I stole our sugar and sold bundles of tobacco-leaves to the marine store shops." Don shook his head. "Well, of all the aggrawatin' chaps I ever did see, you're 'bout the worst, Mas' Don. Don't I tell you it'll be all right?" "No, Jem, it will not be all right. I shall have to go before the magistrates." "Well, what of that?" "What of that?" cried Don, passionately. "Why, that scoundrel Mike will keep to his story." "Let him!" cried Jem, contemptuously. "Why, who'd ever believe him i' preference to you?" "My uncle--my mother--my cousin." "Not they, my boy. They don't believe it. They only think they do. They're sore just now, while it's all fresh. To-morrow by this time they will be a-hanging o' themselves round about your neck, and a-askin' of your pardon, and kissin' of you." "No, Jem, no." "Well, I don't mean as your uncle will be kissin' of you, of course; but he'll be sorry too, and a-shaking of your hand." Don shook his head. "There, don't get wagging your head like a Chinee figger, my lad. Take it like a man." "It seems that the only thing for me to do, Jem, is to tie up a bundle and take a stick, and go and try my luck somewhere else." "And you free and independent! Why, what would you say if you was me, tied up and married, and allus getting into trouble at home." "Not such trouble as this, Jem." "Not such trouble as this, my lad? Worser ever so much, for you don't deserve it, and I do, leastwise, my Sally says I do, and I suppose I do for being such a fool as to marry her." "You ought to be ashamed to talk like that, Jem." "So ought you, Mas' Don. I've often felt as if I should like to do as you say and run right off, but I don't do it." "You have felt like that, Jem?" cried Don, eagerly. "Yes, often, my lad." "Then let's go, Jem. Nobody cares for us here. Let's go right away to one of the beautiful foreign countries Mike told me about, and begin a new life." "Shall us, Mas' Don?" "Yes; why not? Get a passage in some ship, and stop where we like. He has told me of dozens of places that must be glorious." "Then we won't go," said Jem, decidedly. "If Mike Bannock says they're fine spots, don't you believe him; they're bad 'uns." "Then let's go and select a place for ourselves," cried Don. "Lor! I do wonder at you, Mas' Don, wantin' to leave such a mother as you've got, and asking me to leave my wife. Why, what would they do?" "I don't know," said Don, sadly. "They care very little for us now. You can do as you like; I shall go." "Nay, nay, you won't, my lad."<|quote|>"Yes, Jem, I think I shall."</|quote|>"Ah, that's better! Think about it." "I should have thought that you'd be glad to come with me, Jem." "So I should, my lad; but there's a some'at as they calls dooty as allus seems to have hold on me tight. You wait a bit, and see how things turn out." "But I shall have to appear before the magistrates, and be called a thief." "Ah, well, that won't be pleasant, my lad, of course; but wait." "Then you wouldn't go with me, Jem?" "Don't tempt a man, Mas' Don, because I should like to go with you, and course I shouldn't like to go with you, because I shouldn't like you to go. There, I must get on with my work." At that very moment came the call of a shrill voice-- "Jem!" "There I told you so. She see me come in here, and she's after me because I haven't got on with my casks. Oh, how sharp she is!" Jem gave Don an intelligent nod of the head, and moved out, while the lad stood gazing at the opposite window and listened to the sharp voice addressing the foreman of the yard. "Poor Jem! He isn't happy either!" said Don, sadly, as the voices died away. "We might go right off abroad, and they'd be sorry then and think better of us. I wish I was ten thousand miles away." He seated himself slowly on his stool, and rested his arms upon the desk, folding them across his chest; and then, looking straight before him at the door, his mental gaze went right through the panels, and he saw silver rivers flowing over golden sands, while trees of the most glorious foliage drooped their branches, and dipped the ends in the glancing water. The bright sun shone overhead; the tendrils and waving grass were gay with blossoms; birds of lovely plumage sang sweetly; and in the distance, on the one hand, fading away into nothingness, were the glorious blue mountains, and away to his right a shimmering sea. Don Lavington had a fertile brain, and on the canvas of his imagination he painted panorama after panorama, all bright and beautiful. There were no clouds, no storms, no noxious creatures, no trials and dangers. All was as he thought it ought to be, and about as different from the reality as could be supposed. But Don did not know that in his youthful ignorance, and as he sat and gazed before him, he asked himself whether he had not better make up his mind to go right away. "Yes, I will go!" he said, excitedly, as he started up in his seat. "No," he said directly after, as in imagination now he seemed to be gazing into his mother's reproachful eyes, "it would be too cowardly; I could not go." CHAPTER SEVEN. DON AND JEM GO HOME TO TEA. It required no little effort on Don's part to go home that afternoon to the customary meat tea which was the main meal of the day at his uncle's home. He felt how it would be--that his uncle would not speak to him beyond saying a few distant words, such as were absolutely necessary. Kitty would avert her eyes, and his mother keep giving him reproachful looks, every one of which was a silent prayer to him to speak. The afternoon had worn away, and he had done little work for thinking. His uncle had not been back, and at last Jem's footstep was heard outside, and he passed the window to tap lightly on the door and then open it. "Come, Mas' Don," he said, cheerily, "going to work all night?" "No, Jem, no. I was just thinking of going." "That's right, my lad, because it's past shutting-up time. Feel better now, don't you?" "No, Jem, I feel worse." "Are you going to keep the yard open all the evening, Jem?" cried a shrill voice. "Why don't you lock-up and come in to tea?" "There! Hear that!" said Jem, anxiously. "Do go, Mas' Don, or I sha'n't get to the end on it. 'Nuff to make a man talk as you do." "Jem!" "Here, I'm a-coming, arn't I?" he cried, giving the door a thump with his fist. "Don't shout the ware'us down!" "Jem!" "Now did you ever hear such a aggrawatin' woman?" cried Jem. "She's such a little un that I could pick her up, same as you do a kitten, Mas' Don--nothing on her as you may say; but the works as is inside her is that strong that I'm 'fraid of her." "Jem!" He opened the door with a rush. "Ya-a-a-as!" he roared; "don't you know as Mas' Don arn't gone?" Little Mrs Wimble, who was coming fiercely up, flounced round, and the wind of
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contemptuously. "Why, who'd ever believe him i' preference to you?" "My uncle--my mother--my cousin." "Not they, my boy. They don't believe it. They only think they do. They're sore just now, while it's all fresh. To-morrow by this time they will be a-hanging o' themselves round about your neck, and a-askin' of your pardon, and kissin' of you." "No, Jem, no." "Well, I don't mean as your uncle will be kissin' of you, of course; but he'll be sorry too, and a-shaking of your hand." Don shook his head. "There, don't get wagging your head like a Chinee figger, my lad. Take it like a man." "It seems that the only thing for me to do, Jem, is to tie up a bundle and take a stick, and go and try my luck somewhere else." "And you free and independent! Why, what would you say if you was me, tied up and married, and allus getting into trouble at home." "Not such trouble as this, Jem." "Not such trouble as this, my lad? Worser ever so much, for you don't deserve it, and I do, leastwise, my Sally says I do, and I suppose I do for being such a fool as to marry her." "You ought to be ashamed to talk like that, Jem." "So ought you, Mas' Don. I've often felt as if I should like to do as you say and run right off, but I don't do it." "You have felt like that, Jem?" cried Don, eagerly. "Yes, often, my lad." "Then let's go, Jem. Nobody cares for us here. Let's go right away to one of the beautiful foreign countries Mike told me about, and begin a new life." "Shall us, Mas' Don?" "Yes; why not? Get a passage in some ship, and stop where we like. He has told me of dozens of places that must be glorious." "Then we won't go," said Jem, decidedly. "If Mike Bannock says they're fine spots, don't you believe him; they're bad 'uns." "Then let's go and select a place for ourselves," cried Don. "Lor! I do wonder at you, Mas' Don, wantin' to leave such a mother as you've got, and asking me to leave my wife. Why, what would they do?" "I don't know," said Don, sadly. "They care very little for us now. You can do as you like; I shall go." "Nay, nay, you won't, my lad."<|quote|>"Yes, Jem, I think I shall."</|quote|>"Ah, that's better! Think about it." "I should have thought that you'd be glad to come with me, Jem." "So I should, my lad; but there's a some'at as they calls dooty as allus seems to have hold on me tight. You wait a bit, and see how things turn out." "But I shall have to appear before the magistrates, and be called a thief." "Ah, well, that won't be pleasant, my lad, of course; but wait." "Then you wouldn't go with me, Jem?" "Don't tempt a man, Mas' Don, because I should like to go with you, and course I shouldn't like to go with you, because I shouldn't like you to go. There, I must get on with my work." At that very moment came the call of a shrill voice-- "Jem!" "There I told you so. She see me come in here, and she's after me because I haven't got on with my casks. Oh, how sharp she is!" Jem gave Don an intelligent nod of the head, and moved out, while the lad stood gazing at the opposite window and listened to the sharp voice addressing the foreman of the yard. "Poor Jem! He isn't happy either!" said Don, sadly, as the voices died away. "We might go right off abroad, and they'd be sorry then and think better of us. I wish I was ten thousand miles away." He seated himself slowly on his stool, and rested his arms upon the desk, folding them across his chest; and then, looking straight before him at the door, his mental gaze went right through the panels, and he saw silver rivers flowing over golden sands, while trees of the most glorious foliage drooped their branches, and dipped the ends in the glancing water. The bright sun shone overhead; the tendrils and waving grass were gay with blossoms; birds of lovely plumage sang sweetly; and in the distance, on the one hand, fading away into nothingness, were the glorious blue mountains, and away to his right a shimmering sea. Don Lavington had a fertile brain, and on the canvas of his imagination he painted panorama after panorama, all bright and beautiful. There were no clouds, no storms, no noxious creatures, no trials and dangers. All was as he thought it ought to be, and about as different from the reality as could be supposed. But Don did not know that in his youthful ignorance, and as he sat and gazed before him, he asked himself whether he had not better make up his mind to go right away. "Yes, I will go!" he said, excitedly, as he started up in his seat. "No," he said directly after, as in imagination now he seemed to be gazing into his mother's reproachful eyes, "it would be too cowardly; I could not go." CHAPTER SEVEN. DON AND JEM GO HOME TO TEA. It required no little effort on Don's part to go home that afternoon to the customary meat tea which was the main meal of the day at his uncle's home. He felt how it would be--that his uncle would not speak to him beyond saying a few distant words, such as were absolutely necessary. Kitty would avert her eyes, and his mother keep giving him reproachful looks, every one of which was a silent
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Don Lavington
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"In fact, my feelings towards you seem to be utterly and damnably bad,"
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Ralph Denham
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looking fixedly at the table-cloth.<|quote|>"In fact, my feelings towards you seem to be utterly and damnably bad,"</|quote|>he said energetically, although forced
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go to America," he said, looking fixedly at the table-cloth.<|quote|>"In fact, my feelings towards you seem to be utterly and damnably bad,"</|quote|>he said energetically, although forced to keep his voice low.
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walk. I am a liar, Mary. Did you know that? Do you think you do know me?" "I think I do," she said. At this point the waiter changed their plates. "It s true I don t want you to go to America," he said, looking fixedly at the table-cloth.<|quote|>"In fact, my feelings towards you seem to be utterly and damnably bad,"</|quote|>he said energetically, although forced to keep his voice low. "If I weren t a selfish beast I should tell you to have nothing more to do with me. And yet, Mary, in spite of the fact that I believe what I m saying, I also believe that it s
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urged him to commit himself irrevocably, and to prevent the moment of intimacy from passing. "I think I ve treated you very badly. That is, I ve told you lies. Did you guess that I was lying to you? Once in Lincoln s Inn Fields and again to-day on our walk. I am a liar, Mary. Did you know that? Do you think you do know me?" "I think I do," she said. At this point the waiter changed their plates. "It s true I don t want you to go to America," he said, looking fixedly at the table-cloth.<|quote|>"In fact, my feelings towards you seem to be utterly and damnably bad,"</|quote|>he said energetically, although forced to keep his voice low. "If I weren t a selfish beast I should tell you to have nothing more to do with me. And yet, Mary, in spite of the fact that I believe what I m saying, I also believe that it s good we should know each other the world being what it is, you see" and by a nod of his head he indicated the other occupants of the room, "for, of course, in an ideal state of things, in a decent community even, there s no doubt you shouldn t
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way to America. "Mary," he said, "I want to talk to you. Haven t we nearly done? Why don t they take away these plates?" Mary felt his agitation without looking at him; she felt convinced that she knew what it was that he wished to say to her. "They ll come all in good time," she said; and felt it necessary to display her extreme calmness by lifting a salt-cellar and sweeping up a little heap of bread-crumbs. "I want to apologize," Ralph continued, not quite knowing what he was about to say, but feeling some curious instinct which urged him to commit himself irrevocably, and to prevent the moment of intimacy from passing. "I think I ve treated you very badly. That is, I ve told you lies. Did you guess that I was lying to you? Once in Lincoln s Inn Fields and again to-day on our walk. I am a liar, Mary. Did you know that? Do you think you do know me?" "I think I do," she said. At this point the waiter changed their plates. "It s true I don t want you to go to America," he said, looking fixedly at the table-cloth.<|quote|>"In fact, my feelings towards you seem to be utterly and damnably bad,"</|quote|>he said energetically, although forced to keep his voice low. "If I weren t a selfish beast I should tell you to have nothing more to do with me. And yet, Mary, in spite of the fact that I believe what I m saying, I also believe that it s good we should know each other the world being what it is, you see" and by a nod of his head he indicated the other occupants of the room, "for, of course, in an ideal state of things, in a decent community even, there s no doubt you shouldn t have anything to do with me seriously, that is." "You forget that I m not an ideal character, either," said Mary, in the same low and very earnest tones, which, in spite of being almost inaudible, surrounded their table with an atmosphere of concentration which was quite perceptible to the other diners, who glanced at them now and then with a queer mixture of kindness, amusement, and curiosity. "I m much more selfish than I let on, and I m worldly a little more than you think, anyhow. I like bossing things perhaps that s my greatest fault. I ve
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"Well, Mary ?" As it presented itself to him at first, the idea was so new and interesting that he was half inclined to address it, without more ado, to Mary herself. His natural instinct to divide his thoughts carefully into two different classes before he expressed them to her prevailed. But as he watched her looking out of the window and describing the old lady, the woman with the perambulator, the bailiff and the dissenting minister, his eyes filled involuntarily with tears. He would have liked to lay his head on her shoulder and sob, while she parted his hair with her fingers and soothed him and said: "There, there. Don t cry! Tell me why you re crying "; and they would clasp each other tight, and her arms would hold him like his mother s. He felt that he was very lonely, and that he was afraid of the other people in the room. "How damnable this all is!" he exclaimed abruptly. "What are you talking about?" she replied, rather vaguely, still looking out of the window. He resented this divided attention more than, perhaps, he knew, and he thought how Mary would soon be on her way to America. "Mary," he said, "I want to talk to you. Haven t we nearly done? Why don t they take away these plates?" Mary felt his agitation without looking at him; she felt convinced that she knew what it was that he wished to say to her. "They ll come all in good time," she said; and felt it necessary to display her extreme calmness by lifting a salt-cellar and sweeping up a little heap of bread-crumbs. "I want to apologize," Ralph continued, not quite knowing what he was about to say, but feeling some curious instinct which urged him to commit himself irrevocably, and to prevent the moment of intimacy from passing. "I think I ve treated you very badly. That is, I ve told you lies. Did you guess that I was lying to you? Once in Lincoln s Inn Fields and again to-day on our walk. I am a liar, Mary. Did you know that? Do you think you do know me?" "I think I do," she said. At this point the waiter changed their plates. "It s true I don t want you to go to America," he said, looking fixedly at the table-cloth.<|quote|>"In fact, my feelings towards you seem to be utterly and damnably bad,"</|quote|>he said energetically, although forced to keep his voice low. "If I weren t a selfish beast I should tell you to have nothing more to do with me. And yet, Mary, in spite of the fact that I believe what I m saying, I also believe that it s good we should know each other the world being what it is, you see" and by a nod of his head he indicated the other occupants of the room, "for, of course, in an ideal state of things, in a decent community even, there s no doubt you shouldn t have anything to do with me seriously, that is." "You forget that I m not an ideal character, either," said Mary, in the same low and very earnest tones, which, in spite of being almost inaudible, surrounded their table with an atmosphere of concentration which was quite perceptible to the other diners, who glanced at them now and then with a queer mixture of kindness, amusement, and curiosity. "I m much more selfish than I let on, and I m worldly a little more than you think, anyhow. I like bossing things perhaps that s my greatest fault. I ve none of your passion for" here she hesitated, and glanced at him, as if to ascertain what his passion was for "for the truth," she added, as if she had found what she sought indisputably. "I ve told you I m a liar," Ralph repeated obstinately. "Oh, in little things, I dare say," she said impatiently. "But not in real ones, and that s what matters. I dare say I m more truthful than you are in small ways. But I could never care" she was surprised to find herself speaking the word, and had to force herself to speak it out "for any one who was a liar in that way. I love the truth a certain amount a considerable amount but not in the way you love it." Her voice sank, became inaudible, and wavered as if she could scarcely keep herself from tears. "Good heavens!" Ralph exclaimed to himself. "She loves me! Why did I never see it before? She s going to cry; no, but she can t speak." The certainty overwhelmed him so that he scarcely knew what he was doing; the blood rushed to his cheeks, and although he had quite made up his
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which scarcely needed embodiment in words. How silent he was! leaning his forehead on his hand, now and then, and again looking steadily and gravely at the backs of the two men at the next table, with so little self-consciousness that she could almost watch his mind placing one thought solidly upon the top of another; she thought that she could feel him thinking, through the shade of her fingers, and she could anticipate the exact moment when he would put an end to his thought and turn a little in his chair and say: "Well, Mary ?" inviting her to take up the thread of thought where he had dropped it. And at that very moment he turned just so, and said: "Well, Mary?" with the curious touch of diffidence which she loved in him. She laughed, and she explained her laugh on the spur of the moment by the look of the people in the street below. There was a motor-car with an old lady swathed in blue veils, and a lady s maid on the seat opposite, holding a King Charles s spaniel; there was a country-woman wheeling a perambulator full of sticks down the middle of the road; there was a bailiff in gaiters discussing the state of the cattle market with a dissenting minister so she defined them. She ran over this list without any fear that her companion would think her trivial. Indeed, whether it was due to the warmth of the room or to the good roast beef, or whether Ralph had achieved the process which is called making up one s mind, certainly he had given up testing the good sense, the independent character, the intelligence shown in her remarks. He had been building one of those piles of thought, as ramshackle and fantastic as a Chinese pagoda, half from words let fall by gentlemen in gaiters, half from the litter in his own mind, about duck shooting and legal history, about the Roman occupation of Lincoln and the relations of country gentlemen with their wives, when, from all this disconnected rambling, there suddenly formed itself in his mind the idea that he would ask Mary to marry him. The idea was so spontaneous that it seemed to shape itself of its own accord before his eyes. It was then that he turned round and made use of his old, instinctive phrase: "Well, Mary ?" As it presented itself to him at first, the idea was so new and interesting that he was half inclined to address it, without more ado, to Mary herself. His natural instinct to divide his thoughts carefully into two different classes before he expressed them to her prevailed. But as he watched her looking out of the window and describing the old lady, the woman with the perambulator, the bailiff and the dissenting minister, his eyes filled involuntarily with tears. He would have liked to lay his head on her shoulder and sob, while she parted his hair with her fingers and soothed him and said: "There, there. Don t cry! Tell me why you re crying "; and they would clasp each other tight, and her arms would hold him like his mother s. He felt that he was very lonely, and that he was afraid of the other people in the room. "How damnable this all is!" he exclaimed abruptly. "What are you talking about?" she replied, rather vaguely, still looking out of the window. He resented this divided attention more than, perhaps, he knew, and he thought how Mary would soon be on her way to America. "Mary," he said, "I want to talk to you. Haven t we nearly done? Why don t they take away these plates?" Mary felt his agitation without looking at him; she felt convinced that she knew what it was that he wished to say to her. "They ll come all in good time," she said; and felt it necessary to display her extreme calmness by lifting a salt-cellar and sweeping up a little heap of bread-crumbs. "I want to apologize," Ralph continued, not quite knowing what he was about to say, but feeling some curious instinct which urged him to commit himself irrevocably, and to prevent the moment of intimacy from passing. "I think I ve treated you very badly. That is, I ve told you lies. Did you guess that I was lying to you? Once in Lincoln s Inn Fields and again to-day on our walk. I am a liar, Mary. Did you know that? Do you think you do know me?" "I think I do," she said. At this point the waiter changed their plates. "It s true I don t want you to go to America," he said, looking fixedly at the table-cloth.<|quote|>"In fact, my feelings towards you seem to be utterly and damnably bad,"</|quote|>he said energetically, although forced to keep his voice low. "If I weren t a selfish beast I should tell you to have nothing more to do with me. And yet, Mary, in spite of the fact that I believe what I m saying, I also believe that it s good we should know each other the world being what it is, you see" and by a nod of his head he indicated the other occupants of the room, "for, of course, in an ideal state of things, in a decent community even, there s no doubt you shouldn t have anything to do with me seriously, that is." "You forget that I m not an ideal character, either," said Mary, in the same low and very earnest tones, which, in spite of being almost inaudible, surrounded their table with an atmosphere of concentration which was quite perceptible to the other diners, who glanced at them now and then with a queer mixture of kindness, amusement, and curiosity. "I m much more selfish than I let on, and I m worldly a little more than you think, anyhow. I like bossing things perhaps that s my greatest fault. I ve none of your passion for" here she hesitated, and glanced at him, as if to ascertain what his passion was for "for the truth," she added, as if she had found what she sought indisputably. "I ve told you I m a liar," Ralph repeated obstinately. "Oh, in little things, I dare say," she said impatiently. "But not in real ones, and that s what matters. I dare say I m more truthful than you are in small ways. But I could never care" she was surprised to find herself speaking the word, and had to force herself to speak it out "for any one who was a liar in that way. I love the truth a certain amount a considerable amount but not in the way you love it." Her voice sank, became inaudible, and wavered as if she could scarcely keep herself from tears. "Good heavens!" Ralph exclaimed to himself. "She loves me! Why did I never see it before? She s going to cry; no, but she can t speak." The certainty overwhelmed him so that he scarcely knew what he was doing; the blood rushed to his cheeks, and although he had quite made up his mind to ask her to marry him, the certainty that she loved him seemed to change the situation so completely that he could not do it. He did not dare to look at her. If she cried, he did not know what he should do. It seemed to him that something of a terrible and devastating nature had happened. The waiter changed their plates once more. In his agitation Ralph rose, turned his back upon Mary, and looked out of the window. The people in the street seemed to him only a dissolving and combining pattern of black particles; which, for the moment, represented very well the involuntary procession of feelings and thoughts which formed and dissolved in rapid succession in his own mind. At one moment he exulted in the thought that Mary loved him; at the next, it seemed that he was without feeling for her; her love was repulsive to him. Now he felt urged to marry her at once; now to disappear and never see her again. In order to control this disorderly race of thought he forced himself to read the name on the chemist s shop directly opposite him; then to examine the objects in the shop windows, and then to focus his eyes exactly upon a little group of women looking in at the great windows of a large draper s shop. This discipline having given him at least a superficial control of himself, he was about to turn and ask the waiter to bring the bill, when his eye was caught by a tall figure walking quickly along the opposite pavement a tall figure, upright, dark, and commanding, much detached from her surroundings. She held her gloves in her left hand, and the left hand was bare. All this Ralph noticed and enumerated and recognized before he put a name to the whole Katharine Hilbery. She seemed to be looking for somebody. Her eyes, in fact, scanned both sides of the street, and for one second were raised directly to the bow window in which Ralph stood; but she looked away again instantly without giving any sign that she had seen him. This sudden apparition had an extraordinary effect upon him. It was as if he had thought of her so intensely that his mind had formed the shape of her, rather than that he had seen her in the flesh outside
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damnable this all is!" he exclaimed abruptly. "What are you talking about?" she replied, rather vaguely, still looking out of the window. He resented this divided attention more than, perhaps, he knew, and he thought how Mary would soon be on her way to America. "Mary," he said, "I want to talk to you. Haven t we nearly done? Why don t they take away these plates?" Mary felt his agitation without looking at him; she felt convinced that she knew what it was that he wished to say to her. "They ll come all in good time," she said; and felt it necessary to display her extreme calmness by lifting a salt-cellar and sweeping up a little heap of bread-crumbs. "I want to apologize," Ralph continued, not quite knowing what he was about to say, but feeling some curious instinct which urged him to commit himself irrevocably, and to prevent the moment of intimacy from passing. "I think I ve treated you very badly. That is, I ve told you lies. Did you guess that I was lying to you? Once in Lincoln s Inn Fields and again to-day on our walk. I am a liar, Mary. Did you know that? Do you think you do know me?" "I think I do," she said. At this point the waiter changed their plates. "It s true I don t want you to go to America," he said, looking fixedly at the table-cloth.<|quote|>"In fact, my feelings towards you seem to be utterly and damnably bad,"</|quote|>he said energetically, although forced to keep his voice low. "If I weren t a selfish beast I should tell you to have nothing more to do with me. And yet, Mary, in spite of the fact that I believe what I m saying, I also believe that it s good we should know each other the world being what it is, you see" and by a nod of his head he indicated the other occupants of the room, "for, of course, in an ideal state of things, in a decent community even, there s no doubt you shouldn t have anything to do with me seriously, that is." "You forget that I m not an ideal character, either," said Mary, in the same low and very earnest tones, which, in spite of being almost inaudible, surrounded their table with an atmosphere of concentration which was quite perceptible to the other diners, who glanced at them now and then with a queer mixture of kindness, amusement, and curiosity. "I m much more selfish than I let on, and I m worldly a little more than you think, anyhow. I like bossing things perhaps that s my greatest fault. I ve none of your passion for" here she hesitated, and glanced at him, as if to ascertain what his passion was for "for the truth," she added, as if she had found what she sought indisputably. "I ve told you I m a liar," Ralph repeated obstinately. "Oh, in little things, I dare say," she said impatiently. "But not in real ones, and that s what matters. I dare say I m more truthful than you are in small ways. But I could never care" she was surprised to find herself speaking the word, and had to force herself to speak it out "for any one who was a liar in that way. I love the truth a certain amount a considerable amount but not in the way you love it." Her voice sank, became inaudible, and wavered as if she could scarcely keep herself from tears. "Good heavens!" Ralph exclaimed to himself. "She loves me! Why did I never see it before? She s going to cry; no, but she can t speak." The certainty overwhelmed him so that he scarcely knew what he was doing; the blood rushed to his cheeks, and although he had quite made up his mind to ask her to marry him, the certainty that she loved him seemed to change the situation so completely that he could not do it. He did not dare to look at her. If she cried, he did not know what he should do. It seemed to him that something of a terrible and devastating nature had happened. The waiter changed their plates once more. In his agitation Ralph rose, turned his back upon Mary, and looked out of the window. The people in the street seemed to him only a dissolving and combining pattern of black particles; which, for the moment, represented very well the involuntary procession of feelings and thoughts which formed and dissolved in rapid succession in his own mind. At one moment he exulted in the thought that Mary loved him; at the
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Night And Day
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"Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!"
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Hercule Poirot
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it was of any importance."<|quote|>"Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!"</|quote|>I had never seen him
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interest you. I didn't know it was of any importance."<|quote|>"Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!"</|quote|>I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold
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shoulders. "Was Dr. Bauerstein here on Tuesday evening? Here? And you never told me? Why did you not tell me? Why? Why?" He appeared to be in an absolute frenzy. "My dear Poirot," I expostulated, "I never thought it would interest you. I didn't know it was of any importance."<|quote|>"Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!"</|quote|>I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything everything." Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision. "_Allons!_" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?" John was
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such a spectacle!" And I described the doctor's adventure. "He looked a regular scarecrow! Plastered with mud from head to foot." "You saw him, then?" "Yes. Of course, he didn't want to come in it was just after dinner but Mr. Inglethorp insisted." "What?" Poirot caught me violently by the shoulders. "Was Dr. Bauerstein here on Tuesday evening? Here? And you never told me? Why did you not tell me? Why? Why?" He appeared to be in an absolute frenzy. "My dear Poirot," I expostulated, "I never thought it would interest you. I didn't know it was of any importance."<|quote|>"Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!"</|quote|>I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything everything." Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision. "_Allons!_" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?" John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him. "Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?" "Why, of course. Do you mean at once?" "If you please." John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes, we
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Raikes than we thought, to make him hold his tongue so persistently. What are you going to do now? Where are the Scotland Yard fellows?" "Gone down to interview the servants. I showed them all our exhibits. I am disappointed in Japp. He has no method!" "Hullo!" I said, looking out of the window. "Here's Dr. Bauerstein. I believe you're right about that man, Poirot. I don't like him." "He is clever," observed Poirot meditatively. "Oh, clever as the devil! I must say I was overjoyed to see him in the plight he was in on Tuesday. You never saw such a spectacle!" And I described the doctor's adventure. "He looked a regular scarecrow! Plastered with mud from head to foot." "You saw him, then?" "Yes. Of course, he didn't want to come in it was just after dinner but Mr. Inglethorp insisted." "What?" Poirot caught me violently by the shoulders. "Was Dr. Bauerstein here on Tuesday evening? Here? And you never told me? Why did you not tell me? Why? Why?" He appeared to be in an absolute frenzy. "My dear Poirot," I expostulated, "I never thought it would interest you. I didn't know it was of any importance."<|quote|>"Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!"</|quote|>I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything everything." Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision. "_Allons!_" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?" John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him. "Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?" "Why, of course. Do you mean at once?" "If you please." John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes, we were racing down the park and along the high road to Tadminster. "Now, Poirot," I remarked resignedly, "perhaps you will tell me what all this is about?" "Well, _mon ami_, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household,
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Why was I to stand in this particular spot on guard? I looked thoughtfully down the corridor in front of me. An idea struck me. With the exception of Cynthia Murdoch's, everyone's room was in this left wing. Had that anything to do with it? Was I to report who came or went? I stood faithfully at my post. The minutes passed. Nobody came. Nothing happened. It must have been quite twenty minutes before Poirot rejoined me. "You have not stirred?" "No, I've stuck here like a rock. Nothing's happened." "Ah!" Was he pleased, or disappointed? "You've seen nothing at all?" "No." "But you have probably heard something? A big bump eh, _mon ami?_" "No." "Is it possible? Ah, but I am vexed with myself! I am not usually clumsy. I made but a slight gesture" I know Poirot's gestures "with the left hand, and over went the table by the bed!" He looked so childishly vexed and crest-fallen that I hastened to console him. "Never mind, old chap. What does it matter? Your triumph downstairs excited you. I can tell you, that was a surprise to us all. There must be more in this affair of Inglethorp's with Mrs. Raikes than we thought, to make him hold his tongue so persistently. What are you going to do now? Where are the Scotland Yard fellows?" "Gone down to interview the servants. I showed them all our exhibits. I am disappointed in Japp. He has no method!" "Hullo!" I said, looking out of the window. "Here's Dr. Bauerstein. I believe you're right about that man, Poirot. I don't like him." "He is clever," observed Poirot meditatively. "Oh, clever as the devil! I must say I was overjoyed to see him in the plight he was in on Tuesday. You never saw such a spectacle!" And I described the doctor's adventure. "He looked a regular scarecrow! Plastered with mud from head to foot." "You saw him, then?" "Yes. Of course, he didn't want to come in it was just after dinner but Mr. Inglethorp insisted." "What?" Poirot caught me violently by the shoulders. "Was Dr. Bauerstein here on Tuesday evening? Here? And you never told me? Why did you not tell me? Why? Why?" He appeared to be in an absolute frenzy. "My dear Poirot," I expostulated, "I never thought it would interest you. I didn't know it was of any importance."<|quote|>"Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!"</|quote|>I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything everything." Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision. "_Allons!_" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?" John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him. "Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?" "Why, of course. Do you mean at once?" "If you please." John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes, we were racing down the park and along the high road to Tadminster. "Now, Poirot," I remarked resignedly, "perhaps you will tell me what all this is about?" "Well, _mon ami_, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?" I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or
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least two and a half miles distant from the village. There is absolutely no question as to the alibi!" CHAPTER VIII. FRESH SUSPICIONS There was a moment's stupefied silence. Japp, who was the least surprised of any of us, was the first to speak. "My word," he cried, "you're the goods! And no mistake, Mr. Poirot! These witnesses of yours are all right, I suppose?" "_Voil !_ I have prepared a list of them names and addresses. You must see them, of course. But you will find it all right." "I'm sure of that." Japp lowered his voice. "I'm much obliged to you. A pretty mare's nest arresting him would have been." He turned to Inglethorp. "But, if you'll excuse me, sir, why couldn't you say all this at the inquest?" "I will tell you why," interrupted Poirot. "There was a certain rumour" "A most malicious and utterly untrue one," interrupted Alfred Inglethorp in an agitated voice. "And Mr. Inglethorp was anxious to have no scandal revived just at present. Am I right?" "Quite right." Inglethorp nodded. "With my poor Emily not yet buried, can you wonder I was anxious that no more lying rumours should be started." "Between you and me, sir," remarked Japp, "I'd sooner have any amount of rumours than be arrested for murder. And I venture to think your poor lady would have felt the same. And, if it hadn't been for Mr. Poirot here, arrested you would have been, as sure as eggs is eggs!" "I was foolish, no doubt," murmured Inglethorp. "But you do not know, inspector, how I have been persecuted and maligned." And he shot a baleful glance at Evelyn Howard. "Now, sir," said Japp, turning briskly to John, "I should like to see the lady's bedroom, please, and after that I'll have a little chat with the servants. Don't you bother about anything. Mr. Poirot, here, will show me the way." As they all went out of the room, Poirot turned and made me a sign to follow him upstairs. There he caught me by the arm, and drew me aside. "Quick, go to the other wing. Stand there just this side of the baize door. Do not move till I come." Then, turning rapidly, he rejoined the two detectives. I followed his instructions, taking up my position by the baize door, and wondering what on earth lay behind the request. Why was I to stand in this particular spot on guard? I looked thoughtfully down the corridor in front of me. An idea struck me. With the exception of Cynthia Murdoch's, everyone's room was in this left wing. Had that anything to do with it? Was I to report who came or went? I stood faithfully at my post. The minutes passed. Nobody came. Nothing happened. It must have been quite twenty minutes before Poirot rejoined me. "You have not stirred?" "No, I've stuck here like a rock. Nothing's happened." "Ah!" Was he pleased, or disappointed? "You've seen nothing at all?" "No." "But you have probably heard something? A big bump eh, _mon ami?_" "No." "Is it possible? Ah, but I am vexed with myself! I am not usually clumsy. I made but a slight gesture" I know Poirot's gestures "with the left hand, and over went the table by the bed!" He looked so childishly vexed and crest-fallen that I hastened to console him. "Never mind, old chap. What does it matter? Your triumph downstairs excited you. I can tell you, that was a surprise to us all. There must be more in this affair of Inglethorp's with Mrs. Raikes than we thought, to make him hold his tongue so persistently. What are you going to do now? Where are the Scotland Yard fellows?" "Gone down to interview the servants. I showed them all our exhibits. I am disappointed in Japp. He has no method!" "Hullo!" I said, looking out of the window. "Here's Dr. Bauerstein. I believe you're right about that man, Poirot. I don't like him." "He is clever," observed Poirot meditatively. "Oh, clever as the devil! I must say I was overjoyed to see him in the plight he was in on Tuesday. You never saw such a spectacle!" And I described the doctor's adventure. "He looked a regular scarecrow! Plastered with mud from head to foot." "You saw him, then?" "Yes. Of course, he didn't want to come in it was just after dinner but Mr. Inglethorp insisted." "What?" Poirot caught me violently by the shoulders. "Was Dr. Bauerstein here on Tuesday evening? Here? And you never told me? Why did you not tell me? Why? Why?" He appeared to be in an absolute frenzy. "My dear Poirot," I expostulated, "I never thought it would interest you. I didn't know it was of any importance."<|quote|>"Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!"</|quote|>I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything everything." Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision. "_Allons!_" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?" John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him. "Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?" "Why, of course. Do you mean at once?" "If you please." John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes, we were racing down the park and along the high road to Tadminster. "Now, Poirot," I remarked resignedly, "perhaps you will tell me what all this is about?" "Well, _mon ami_, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?" I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted. "You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working." "Well?" "Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that a convoy coming in unexpectedly she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that." "Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can't help feeling she'd do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him." "You consider her vehemence unnatural?" "Y es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is quite sane on that point." Poirot shook his head energetically. "No, no, you are on a wrong tack there. There is nothing weak-minded or degenerate about Miss Howard. She is an excellent specimen of well-balanced English beef and brawn. She is sanity itself." "Yet her hatred of Inglethorp seems almost a mania. My idea was a very ridiculous one, no doubt that she had intended to poison him and that, in some way, Mrs. Inglethorp got hold of it by mistake. But I don't at all see how it could have been done. The whole thing is absurd and ridiculous to the last degree." "Still you are right in one thing. It
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do not know, inspector, how I have been persecuted and maligned." And he shot a baleful glance at Evelyn Howard. "Now, sir," said Japp, turning briskly to John, "I should like to see the lady's bedroom, please, and after that I'll have a little chat with the servants. Don't you bother about anything. Mr. Poirot, here, will show me the way." As they all went out of the room, Poirot turned and made me a sign to follow him upstairs. There he caught me by the arm, and drew me aside. "Quick, go to the other wing. Stand there just this side of the baize door. Do not move till I come." Then, turning rapidly, he rejoined the two detectives. I followed his instructions, taking up my position by the baize door, and wondering what on earth lay behind the request. Why was I to stand in this particular spot on guard? I looked thoughtfully down the corridor in front of me. An idea struck me. With the exception of Cynthia Murdoch's, everyone's room was in this left wing. Had that anything to do with it? Was I to report who came or went? I stood faithfully at my post. The minutes passed. Nobody came. Nothing happened. It must have been quite twenty minutes before Poirot rejoined me. "You have not stirred?" "No, I've stuck here like a rock. Nothing's happened." "Ah!" Was he pleased, or disappointed? "You've seen nothing at all?" "No." "But you have probably heard something? A big bump eh, _mon ami?_" "No." "Is it possible? Ah, but I am vexed with myself! I am not usually clumsy. I made but a slight gesture" I know Poirot's gestures "with the left hand, and over went the table by the bed!" He looked so childishly vexed and crest-fallen that I hastened to console him. "Never mind, old chap. What does it matter? Your triumph downstairs excited you. I can tell you, that was a surprise to us all. There must be more in this affair of Inglethorp's with Mrs. Raikes than we thought, to make him hold his tongue so persistently. What are you going to do now? Where are the Scotland Yard fellows?" "Gone down to interview the servants. I showed them all our exhibits. I am disappointed in Japp. He has no method!" "Hullo!" I said, looking out of the window. "Here's Dr. Bauerstein. I believe you're right about that man, Poirot. I don't like him." "He is clever," observed Poirot meditatively. "Oh, clever as the devil! I must say I was overjoyed to see him in the plight he was in on Tuesday. You never saw such a spectacle!" And I described the doctor's adventure. "He looked a regular scarecrow! Plastered with mud from head to foot." "You saw him, then?" "Yes. Of course, he didn't want to come in it was just after dinner but Mr. Inglethorp insisted." "What?" Poirot caught me violently by the shoulders. "Was Dr. Bauerstein here on Tuesday evening? Here? And you never told me? Why did you not tell me? Why? Why?" He appeared to be in an absolute frenzy. "My dear Poirot," I expostulated, "I never thought it would interest you. I didn't know it was of any importance."<|quote|>"Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!"</|quote|>I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything everything." Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision. "_Allons!_" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?" John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him. "Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?" "Why, of course. Do you mean at once?" "If you please." John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes, we were racing down the park and along the high road to Tadminster. "Now, Poirot," I remarked resignedly, "perhaps you will tell me what all this is about?" "Well, _mon ami_, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?" I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted. "You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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she would say. I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I contracted a slight attack of influenza, and in poking around the kitchen, doing one of the things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a servant-girl tipped a pot of boiling pot-liquor over my right foot, scalding it rather severely. Aunt Helen and grannie put me to bed, where I yelled with pain for hours like a mad Red Indian, despite their applying every alleviative possible. The combined forces of the burn and influenza made me a trifle dicky, so a decree went forth that I was to stay in bed until recovered from both complaints. This effectually prevented me from running in the way of any looking-glasses. I was not sufficiently ill to be miserable, and being a pampered invalid was therefore fine fun. Aunt Helen was a wonderful nurse. She dressed my foot splendidly every morning, and put it in a comfortable position many times throughout the day. Grannie brought me every dainty in the house, and sent special messengers to Gool-Gool for more. Had I been a professional glutton I would have been in paradise. Even Mr Hawden condescended so far as to express his regret concerning the accident, and favoured me with visits throughout each day; and one Sunday his gallantry carried him to a gully where he plucked a bouquet of maidenhair fern—the first of the season—and put them in a bowl beside my bed. My uncle Julius, the only other member of the family besides the servants, was away
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No speaker
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you will do very well,”<|quote|>she would say. I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I contracted a slight attack of influenza, and in poking around the kitchen, doing one of the things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a servant-girl tipped a pot of boiling pot-liquor over my right foot, scalding it rather severely. Aunt Helen and grannie put me to bed, where I yelled with pain for hours like a mad Red Indian, despite their applying every alleviative possible. The combined forces of the burn and influenza made me a trifle dicky, so a decree went forth that I was to stay in bed until recovered from both complaints. This effectually prevented me from running in the way of any looking-glasses. I was not sufficiently ill to be miserable, and being a pampered invalid was therefore fine fun. Aunt Helen was a wonderful nurse. She dressed my foot splendidly every morning, and put it in a comfortable position many times throughout the day. Grannie brought me every dainty in the house, and sent special messengers to Gool-Gool for more. Had I been a professional glutton I would have been in paradise. Even Mr Hawden condescended so far as to express his regret concerning the accident, and favoured me with visits throughout each day; and one Sunday his gallantry carried him to a gully where he plucked a bouquet of maidenhair fern—the first of the season—and put them in a bowl beside my bed. My uncle Julius, the only other member of the family besides the servants, was away</|quote|>“up the country” on some
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more healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,”<|quote|>she would say. I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I contracted a slight attack of influenza, and in poking around the kitchen, doing one of the things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a servant-girl tipped a pot of boiling pot-liquor over my right foot, scalding it rather severely. Aunt Helen and grannie put me to bed, where I yelled with pain for hours like a mad Red Indian, despite their applying every alleviative possible. The combined forces of the burn and influenza made me a trifle dicky, so a decree went forth that I was to stay in bed until recovered from both complaints. This effectually prevented me from running in the way of any looking-glasses. I was not sufficiently ill to be miserable, and being a pampered invalid was therefore fine fun. Aunt Helen was a wonderful nurse. She dressed my foot splendidly every morning, and put it in a comfortable position many times throughout the day. Grannie brought me every dainty in the house, and sent special messengers to Gool-Gool for more. Had I been a professional glutton I would have been in paradise. Even Mr Hawden condescended so far as to express his regret concerning the accident, and favoured me with visits throughout each day; and one Sunday his gallantry carried him to a gully where he plucked a bouquet of maidenhair fern—the first of the season—and put them in a bowl beside my bed. My uncle Julius, the only other member of the family besides the servants, was away</|quote|>“up the country” on some business or another, and was
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went outside; and she insisted upon me spending a proper time over my toilet, and would not allow me to encroach upon it with the contents of my bookshelf. “Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,”<|quote|>she would say. I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I contracted a slight attack of influenza, and in poking around the kitchen, doing one of the things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a servant-girl tipped a pot of boiling pot-liquor over my right foot, scalding it rather severely. Aunt Helen and grannie put me to bed, where I yelled with pain for hours like a mad Red Indian, despite their applying every alleviative possible. The combined forces of the burn and influenza made me a trifle dicky, so a decree went forth that I was to stay in bed until recovered from both complaints. This effectually prevented me from running in the way of any looking-glasses. I was not sufficiently ill to be miserable, and being a pampered invalid was therefore fine fun. Aunt Helen was a wonderful nurse. She dressed my foot splendidly every morning, and put it in a comfortable position many times throughout the day. Grannie brought me every dainty in the house, and sent special messengers to Gool-Gool for more. Had I been a professional glutton I would have been in paradise. Even Mr Hawden condescended so far as to express his regret concerning the accident, and favoured me with visits throughout each day; and one Sunday his gallantry carried him to a gully where he plucked a bouquet of maidenhair fern—the first of the season—and put them in a bowl beside my bed. My uncle Julius, the only other member of the family besides the servants, was away</|quote|>“up the country” on some business or another, and was not expected home for a month or so. The Bossiers and Beechams were leaders of swelldom among the squattocracy up the country, and firm and intimate friends. The Beechams resided at Five-Bob Downs, twelve miles from Caddagat, and were a
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until brought to my senses by the breakfast-bell. I made great pace, scrambled into my clothes helter-skelter, and appeared at table when the others had been seated and unfolded their serviettes. Aunt Helen’s treatment for making me presentable was the wearing of gloves and a shady hat every time I went outside; and she insisted upon me spending a proper time over my toilet, and would not allow me to encroach upon it with the contents of my bookshelf. “Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,”<|quote|>she would say. I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I contracted a slight attack of influenza, and in poking around the kitchen, doing one of the things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a servant-girl tipped a pot of boiling pot-liquor over my right foot, scalding it rather severely. Aunt Helen and grannie put me to bed, where I yelled with pain for hours like a mad Red Indian, despite their applying every alleviative possible. The combined forces of the burn and influenza made me a trifle dicky, so a decree went forth that I was to stay in bed until recovered from both complaints. This effectually prevented me from running in the way of any looking-glasses. I was not sufficiently ill to be miserable, and being a pampered invalid was therefore fine fun. Aunt Helen was a wonderful nurse. She dressed my foot splendidly every morning, and put it in a comfortable position many times throughout the day. Grannie brought me every dainty in the house, and sent special messengers to Gool-Gool for more. Had I been a professional glutton I would have been in paradise. Even Mr Hawden condescended so far as to express his regret concerning the accident, and favoured me with visits throughout each day; and one Sunday his gallantry carried him to a gully where he plucked a bouquet of maidenhair fern—the first of the season—and put them in a bowl beside my bed. My uncle Julius, the only other member of the family besides the servants, was away</|quote|>“up the country” on some business or another, and was not expected home for a month or so. The Bossiers and Beechams were leaders of swelldom among the squattocracy up the country, and firm and intimate friends. The Beechams resided at Five-Bob Downs, twelve miles from Caddagat, and were a family composed of two maiden ladies and their nephew, Harold. One of these ladies was aunt Helen’s particular friend, and the other had stood in the same capacity to my mother in days gone by, but of late years, on account of her poverty, mother had been too proud to
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plain, foreign note, pens, ink, and a generous supply of stamps. I felt like writing a dozen letters there and then, and was on the point of giving way to my inclination, when my attention was arrested by what I considered the gem of the whole turn-out. I refer to a nice little bookcase containing copies of all our Australian poets, and two or three dozen novels which I had often longed to read. I read the first chapters of four of them, and then lost myself in Gordon, and sat on my dressing-table in my nightgown, regardless of cold, until brought to my senses by the breakfast-bell. I made great pace, scrambled into my clothes helter-skelter, and appeared at table when the others had been seated and unfolded their serviettes. Aunt Helen’s treatment for making me presentable was the wearing of gloves and a shady hat every time I went outside; and she insisted upon me spending a proper time over my toilet, and would not allow me to encroach upon it with the contents of my bookshelf. “Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,”<|quote|>she would say. I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I contracted a slight attack of influenza, and in poking around the kitchen, doing one of the things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a servant-girl tipped a pot of boiling pot-liquor over my right foot, scalding it rather severely. Aunt Helen and grannie put me to bed, where I yelled with pain for hours like a mad Red Indian, despite their applying every alleviative possible. The combined forces of the burn and influenza made me a trifle dicky, so a decree went forth that I was to stay in bed until recovered from both complaints. This effectually prevented me from running in the way of any looking-glasses. I was not sufficiently ill to be miserable, and being a pampered invalid was therefore fine fun. Aunt Helen was a wonderful nurse. She dressed my foot splendidly every morning, and put it in a comfortable position many times throughout the day. Grannie brought me every dainty in the house, and sent special messengers to Gool-Gool for more. Had I been a professional glutton I would have been in paradise. Even Mr Hawden condescended so far as to express his regret concerning the accident, and favoured me with visits throughout each day; and one Sunday his gallantry carried him to a gully where he plucked a bouquet of maidenhair fern—the first of the season—and put them in a bowl beside my bed. My uncle Julius, the only other member of the family besides the servants, was away</|quote|>“up the country” on some business or another, and was not expected home for a month or so. The Bossiers and Beechams were leaders of swelldom among the squattocracy up the country, and firm and intimate friends. The Beechams resided at Five-Bob Downs, twelve miles from Caddagat, and were a family composed of two maiden ladies and their nephew, Harold. One of these ladies was aunt Helen’s particular friend, and the other had stood in the same capacity to my mother in days gone by, but of late years, on account of her poverty, mother had been too proud to keep up communication with her. As for Harold Beecham, he was nearly as much at home at Caddagat as at Five-Bob Downs. He came and went with that pleasant familiarity practised between congenial spirits among squatterdom. The Bossiers and Beechams were congenial spirits in every way—they lived in the one sphere and held the one set of ideas, the only difference between them, and that an unnoticeable one, being that the Bossiers, though in comfortable circumstances, were not at all rich, while Harold Beecham was immensely wealthy. When my installation in the role of invalid took place, one Miss Beecham
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in very fine spirits, and slithering out of my bed with alacrity, revelled—literally wallowed—in the appointments of my room. My poor old room at Possum Gully was lacking in barest necessaries. We could not afford even a wash-hand basin and jug; Gertie, the boys, and myself had to perform our morning ablutions in a leaky tin dish on a stool outside the kitchen door, which on cold frosty mornings was a pretty peppery performance: but this room contained everything dear to the heart of girlhood. A lovely bed, pretty slippers, dainty white China-matting and many soft skins on the floor, and in one corner a most artistic toilet set, and a wash-stand liberally supplied with a great variety of soap—some of it so exquisitely perfumed that I felt tempted to taste it. There were pretty pictures on the walls, and on a commodious dressing-table a big mirror and large hand-glasses, with their faces to the wall at present. Hairpins, fancy combs, ribbons galore, and a pretty work-basket greeted my sight, and with delight I swooped down upon the most excruciatingly lovely little writing-desk. It was stuffed full with all kinds of paper of good quality—fancy, all colours, sizes, and shapes, plain, foreign note, pens, ink, and a generous supply of stamps. I felt like writing a dozen letters there and then, and was on the point of giving way to my inclination, when my attention was arrested by what I considered the gem of the whole turn-out. I refer to a nice little bookcase containing copies of all our Australian poets, and two or three dozen novels which I had often longed to read. I read the first chapters of four of them, and then lost myself in Gordon, and sat on my dressing-table in my nightgown, regardless of cold, until brought to my senses by the breakfast-bell. I made great pace, scrambled into my clothes helter-skelter, and appeared at table when the others had been seated and unfolded their serviettes. Aunt Helen’s treatment for making me presentable was the wearing of gloves and a shady hat every time I went outside; and she insisted upon me spending a proper time over my toilet, and would not allow me to encroach upon it with the contents of my bookshelf. “Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,”<|quote|>she would say. I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I contracted a slight attack of influenza, and in poking around the kitchen, doing one of the things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a servant-girl tipped a pot of boiling pot-liquor over my right foot, scalding it rather severely. Aunt Helen and grannie put me to bed, where I yelled with pain for hours like a mad Red Indian, despite their applying every alleviative possible. The combined forces of the burn and influenza made me a trifle dicky, so a decree went forth that I was to stay in bed until recovered from both complaints. This effectually prevented me from running in the way of any looking-glasses. I was not sufficiently ill to be miserable, and being a pampered invalid was therefore fine fun. Aunt Helen was a wonderful nurse. She dressed my foot splendidly every morning, and put it in a comfortable position many times throughout the day. Grannie brought me every dainty in the house, and sent special messengers to Gool-Gool for more. Had I been a professional glutton I would have been in paradise. Even Mr Hawden condescended so far as to express his regret concerning the accident, and favoured me with visits throughout each day; and one Sunday his gallantry carried him to a gully where he plucked a bouquet of maidenhair fern—the first of the season—and put them in a bowl beside my bed. My uncle Julius, the only other member of the family besides the servants, was away</|quote|>“up the country” on some business or another, and was not expected home for a month or so. The Bossiers and Beechams were leaders of swelldom among the squattocracy up the country, and firm and intimate friends. The Beechams resided at Five-Bob Downs, twelve miles from Caddagat, and were a family composed of two maiden ladies and their nephew, Harold. One of these ladies was aunt Helen’s particular friend, and the other had stood in the same capacity to my mother in days gone by, but of late years, on account of her poverty, mother had been too proud to keep up communication with her. As for Harold Beecham, he was nearly as much at home at Caddagat as at Five-Bob Downs. He came and went with that pleasant familiarity practised between congenial spirits among squatterdom. The Bossiers and Beechams were congenial spirits in every way—they lived in the one sphere and held the one set of ideas, the only difference between them, and that an unnoticeable one, being that the Bossiers, though in comfortable circumstances, were not at all rich, while Harold Beecham was immensely wealthy. When my installation in the role of invalid took place, one Miss Beecham was away in Melbourne, and the other not well enough to come and see me, but Harold came regularly to inquire how I was progressing. He always brought me a number of beautiful apples. This kindness was because the Caddagat orchard had been too infested with codlin moth for grannie to save any last season. Aunt Helen used to mischievously tease me about this attention. “Here comes Harry Beecham with some more apples,” she would say. “No doubt he is far more calculating and artful than I thought he was capable of being. He is taking time by the forelock and wooing you ere he sees you, and so will take the lead. Young ladies are in the minority up this way, and every one is snapped up as soon as she arrives.” “You’d better tell him how ugly I am, auntie, so that he will carry apples twelve miles on his own responsibility, and when he sees me won’t be vexed that all his work has been for nothing. Perhaps, though, it would be better not to describe me, or I will get no more apples,” I would reply. Aunt Helen was a clever needlewoman. She made all grannie’s
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On account of his wife’s spotless character he was unable to do this; he therefore deserted her and openly lived with the other woman as his mistress. This forced aunt Helen to return to Caddagat, and her mother had induced her to sue for a judicial separation, which was easily obtained. When a woman is separated from her husband it is the religion of the world at large to cast the whole blame on the wife. By reason of her youth and purity Mrs Bell had not as much to suffer in this way as some others. But, comparatively speaking, her life was wrecked. She had been humiliated and outraged in the cruellest way by the man whom she loved and trusted. He had turned her adrift, neither a wife, widow, nor maid, and here she was, one of the most estimably lovable and noble women I have ever met. “Come, Sybylla,” she said, starting up brightly, “I have a plan—will you agree to it? Come and take one good long look at yourself in the glass, then I will turn it to the wall, and you must promise me that for three or four weeks you will not look in a mirror. I will put as many as I can out of your way, and you must avoid the remainder. During this time I will take you in hand, and you must follow my directions implicitly. Will you agree? You will be surprised what a nice-looking little girl I will make of you.” Of course I agreed. I took a long and critical survey of myself in the glass. There was reflected a pair of hands, red and coarsened with rough work, a round face, shiny and swollen with crying, and a small round figure enshrouded in masses of hair falling in thick waves to within an inch or two of the knees. A very ugly spectacle, I thought. Aunt Helen turned the face of the large mirror flat against the wall, while I remarked despondently, “you can make me only middling ugly, you must be a magician.” “Come now, part of my recipe is that you must not think of yourself at all. I’ll take you in hand in the morning. I hope you will like your room; I have arranged it on purpose to suit you. And now good night, and happy dreams.” I awoke next morning in very fine spirits, and slithering out of my bed with alacrity, revelled—literally wallowed—in the appointments of my room. My poor old room at Possum Gully was lacking in barest necessaries. We could not afford even a wash-hand basin and jug; Gertie, the boys, and myself had to perform our morning ablutions in a leaky tin dish on a stool outside the kitchen door, which on cold frosty mornings was a pretty peppery performance: but this room contained everything dear to the heart of girlhood. A lovely bed, pretty slippers, dainty white China-matting and many soft skins on the floor, and in one corner a most artistic toilet set, and a wash-stand liberally supplied with a great variety of soap—some of it so exquisitely perfumed that I felt tempted to taste it. There were pretty pictures on the walls, and on a commodious dressing-table a big mirror and large hand-glasses, with their faces to the wall at present. Hairpins, fancy combs, ribbons galore, and a pretty work-basket greeted my sight, and with delight I swooped down upon the most excruciatingly lovely little writing-desk. It was stuffed full with all kinds of paper of good quality—fancy, all colours, sizes, and shapes, plain, foreign note, pens, ink, and a generous supply of stamps. I felt like writing a dozen letters there and then, and was on the point of giving way to my inclination, when my attention was arrested by what I considered the gem of the whole turn-out. I refer to a nice little bookcase containing copies of all our Australian poets, and two or three dozen novels which I had often longed to read. I read the first chapters of four of them, and then lost myself in Gordon, and sat on my dressing-table in my nightgown, regardless of cold, until brought to my senses by the breakfast-bell. I made great pace, scrambled into my clothes helter-skelter, and appeared at table when the others had been seated and unfolded their serviettes. Aunt Helen’s treatment for making me presentable was the wearing of gloves and a shady hat every time I went outside; and she insisted upon me spending a proper time over my toilet, and would not allow me to encroach upon it with the contents of my bookshelf. “Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,”<|quote|>she would say. I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I contracted a slight attack of influenza, and in poking around the kitchen, doing one of the things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a servant-girl tipped a pot of boiling pot-liquor over my right foot, scalding it rather severely. Aunt Helen and grannie put me to bed, where I yelled with pain for hours like a mad Red Indian, despite their applying every alleviative possible. The combined forces of the burn and influenza made me a trifle dicky, so a decree went forth that I was to stay in bed until recovered from both complaints. This effectually prevented me from running in the way of any looking-glasses. I was not sufficiently ill to be miserable, and being a pampered invalid was therefore fine fun. Aunt Helen was a wonderful nurse. She dressed my foot splendidly every morning, and put it in a comfortable position many times throughout the day. Grannie brought me every dainty in the house, and sent special messengers to Gool-Gool for more. Had I been a professional glutton I would have been in paradise. Even Mr Hawden condescended so far as to express his regret concerning the accident, and favoured me with visits throughout each day; and one Sunday his gallantry carried him to a gully where he plucked a bouquet of maidenhair fern—the first of the season—and put them in a bowl beside my bed. My uncle Julius, the only other member of the family besides the servants, was away</|quote|>“up the country” on some business or another, and was not expected home for a month or so. The Bossiers and Beechams were leaders of swelldom among the squattocracy up the country, and firm and intimate friends. The Beechams resided at Five-Bob Downs, twelve miles from Caddagat, and were a family composed of two maiden ladies and their nephew, Harold. One of these ladies was aunt Helen’s particular friend, and the other had stood in the same capacity to my mother in days gone by, but of late years, on account of her poverty, mother had been too proud to keep up communication with her. As for Harold Beecham, he was nearly as much at home at Caddagat as at Five-Bob Downs. He came and went with that pleasant familiarity practised between congenial spirits among squatterdom. The Bossiers and Beechams were congenial spirits in every way—they lived in the one sphere and held the one set of ideas, the only difference between them, and that an unnoticeable one, being that the Bossiers, though in comfortable circumstances, were not at all rich, while Harold Beecham was immensely wealthy. When my installation in the role of invalid took place, one Miss Beecham was away in Melbourne, and the other not well enough to come and see me, but Harold came regularly to inquire how I was progressing. He always brought me a number of beautiful apples. This kindness was because the Caddagat orchard had been too infested with codlin moth for grannie to save any last season. Aunt Helen used to mischievously tease me about this attention. “Here comes Harry Beecham with some more apples,” she would say. “No doubt he is far more calculating and artful than I thought he was capable of being. He is taking time by the forelock and wooing you ere he sees you, and so will take the lead. Young ladies are in the minority up this way, and every one is snapped up as soon as she arrives.” “You’d better tell him how ugly I am, auntie, so that he will carry apples twelve miles on his own responsibility, and when he sees me won’t be vexed that all his work has been for nothing. Perhaps, though, it would be better not to describe me, or I will get no more apples,” I would reply. Aunt Helen was a clever needlewoman. She made all grannie’s dresses and her own. Now she was making some for me, which, however, I was not to see until I wore them. Aunt Helen had this as a pleasant surprise, and went to the trouble of blindfolding me while I was being fitted. While in bed, grannie and auntie being busy, I was often left hours alone, and during that time devoured the contents of my bookshelf. The pleasure, so exquisite as to be almost pain, which I derived from the books, and especially the Australian poets, is beyond description. In the narrow peasant life of Possum Gully I had been deprived of companionship with people of refinement and education who would talk of the things I loved; but, at last here was congeniality, here was companionship. The weird witchery of mighty bush, the breath of wide sunlit plains, the sound of camp-bells and jingle of hobble chains, floating on the soft twilight breezes, had come to these men and had written a tale on their hearts as had been written on mine. The glory of the starlit heavens, the mighty wonder of the sea, and the majesty of thunder had come home to them, and the breathless fulness of the sunset hour had whispered of something more than the humour of tomorrow’s weather. The wind and rain had a voice which spoke to Kendall, and he too had endured the misery of lack of companionship. Gordon, with his sad, sad humanism and bitter disappointment, held out his hand and took me with him. The regret of it all was I could never meet them—Byron, Thackeray, Dickens, Longfellow, Gordon, Kendall, the men I loved, all were dead; but, blissful thought! Caine, Paterson, and Lawson were still living, breathing human beings—two of them actually countrymen, fellow Australians! I pored with renewed zeal over the terse realism and pathos of Lawson, and enjoyed Paterson’s redolence of the rollicking side of the wholesome life beneath these sunny skies, which he depicted with grand touches of power flashing here and there. I learnt them by heart, and in that gloriously blue receptacle, by and by, where many pleasant youthful dreams are stowed, I put the hope that one day I would clasp hands with them, and feel and know the unspeakable comfort and heart-rest of congenial companionship. CHAPTER TEN Everard Grey Uncle Julius had taken a run down to Sydney before returning to Caddagat,
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the glass. There was reflected a pair of hands, red and coarsened with rough work, a round face, shiny and swollen with crying, and a small round figure enshrouded in masses of hair falling in thick waves to within an inch or two of the knees. A very ugly spectacle, I thought. Aunt Helen turned the face of the large mirror flat against the wall, while I remarked despondently, “you can make me only middling ugly, you must be a magician.” “Come now, part of my recipe is that you must not think of yourself at all. I’ll take you in hand in the morning. I hope you will like your room; I have arranged it on purpose to suit you. And now good night, and happy dreams.” I awoke next morning in very fine spirits, and slithering out of my bed with alacrity, revelled—literally wallowed—in the appointments of my room. My poor old room at Possum Gully was lacking in barest necessaries. We could not afford even a wash-hand basin and jug; Gertie, the boys, and myself had to perform our morning ablutions in a leaky tin dish on a stool outside the kitchen door, which on cold frosty mornings was a pretty peppery performance: but this room contained everything dear to the heart of girlhood. A lovely bed, pretty slippers, dainty white China-matting and many soft skins on the floor, and in one corner a most artistic toilet set, and a wash-stand liberally supplied with a great variety of soap—some of it so exquisitely perfumed that I felt tempted to taste it. There were pretty pictures on the walls, and on a commodious dressing-table a big mirror and large hand-glasses, with their faces to the wall at present. Hairpins, fancy combs, ribbons galore, and a pretty work-basket greeted my sight, and with delight I swooped down upon the most excruciatingly lovely little writing-desk. It was stuffed full with all kinds of paper of good quality—fancy, all colours, sizes, and shapes, plain, foreign note, pens, ink, and a generous supply of stamps. I felt like writing a dozen letters there and then, and was on the point of giving way to my inclination, when my attention was arrested by what I considered the gem of the whole turn-out. I refer to a nice little bookcase containing copies of all our Australian poets, and two or three dozen novels which I had often longed to read. I read the first chapters of four of them, and then lost myself in Gordon, and sat on my dressing-table in my nightgown, regardless of cold, until brought to my senses by the breakfast-bell. I made great pace, scrambled into my clothes helter-skelter, and appeared at table when the others had been seated and unfolded their serviettes. Aunt Helen’s treatment for making me presentable was the wearing of gloves and a shady hat every time I went outside; and she insisted upon me spending a proper time over my toilet, and would not allow me to encroach upon it with the contents of my bookshelf. “Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,”<|quote|>she would say. I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I contracted a slight attack of influenza, and in poking around the kitchen, doing one of the things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a servant-girl tipped a pot of boiling pot-liquor over my right foot, scalding it rather severely. Aunt Helen and grannie put me to bed, where I yelled with pain for hours like a mad Red Indian, despite their applying every alleviative possible. The combined forces of the burn and influenza made me a trifle dicky, so a decree went forth that I was to stay in bed until recovered from both complaints. This effectually prevented me from running in the way of any looking-glasses. I was not sufficiently ill to be miserable, and being a pampered invalid was therefore fine fun. Aunt Helen was a wonderful nurse. She dressed my foot splendidly every morning, and put it in a comfortable position many times throughout the day. Grannie brought me every dainty in the house, and sent special messengers to Gool-Gool for more. Had I been a professional glutton I would have been in paradise. Even Mr Hawden condescended so far as to express his regret concerning the accident, and favoured me with visits throughout each day; and one Sunday his gallantry carried him to a gully where he plucked a bouquet of maidenhair fern—the first of the season—and put them in a bowl beside my bed. My uncle Julius, the only other member of the family besides the servants, was away</|quote|>“up the country” on some business or another, and was not expected home for a month or so. The Bossiers and Beechams were leaders of swelldom among the squattocracy up the country, and firm and intimate friends. The Beechams resided at Five-Bob Downs, twelve miles from Caddagat, and were a family composed of two maiden ladies and their nephew, Harold. One of these ladies was aunt Helen’s particular friend, and the other had stood in the same capacity to my mother in days gone by, but of late years, on account of her poverty, mother had been too proud to keep up communication with her. As for Harold Beecham, he was nearly as much at home at Caddagat as at Five-Bob Downs. He came and went with that pleasant familiarity practised between congenial spirits among squatterdom. The Bossiers and Beechams were congenial spirits in every way—they lived in the one sphere and held the one set of ideas, the only difference between them, and that an unnoticeable one, being that the Bossiers, though in comfortable circumstances, were not at all rich, while Harold Beecham was immensely wealthy. When my installation in the role of invalid took place, one Miss Beecham was away in Melbourne, and the other not well enough to come and see me, but Harold came regularly to inquire how I was progressing. He always brought me a number of beautiful apples. This kindness was because the Caddagat orchard had been too infested with codlin moth for grannie to save any last season. Aunt Helen used to mischievously tease me about this attention. “Here comes Harry Beecham with some more apples,” she would say. “No doubt he is far more calculating and artful than I thought he was capable of being. He is taking time by the forelock and wooing you ere he sees you, and so will take the lead. Young ladies are in the minority up this way, and every one is snapped up as soon as she arrives.” “You’d better tell him how ugly I am, auntie, so that he will carry apples twelve miles on his own responsibility, and when he sees me won’t be vexed that all his work has been for nothing. Perhaps, though, it would be better not to describe me, or I will get no more apples,” I would reply. Aunt Helen was a clever needlewoman. She made all grannie’s dresses and her own. Now she was making some for me, which, however, I was not to see until I wore them. Aunt Helen had this as a pleasant surprise, and went to the trouble of blindfolding me while I was being fitted. While in bed, grannie and auntie being busy, I was often left hours alone, and during that time devoured the contents of
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My Brilliant Career
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"He must be an oddity, I think,"
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Elizabeth
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parishioners whenever it were required.<|quote|>"He must be an oddity, I think,"</|quote|>said she. "I cannot make
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christening, marrying, and burying his parishioners whenever it were required.<|quote|>"He must be an oddity, I think,"</|quote|>said she. "I cannot make him out.--There is something very
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"to guess in what way he can mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his credit." Elizabeth was chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference for Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying his parishioners whenever it were required.<|quote|>"He must be an oddity, I think,"</|quote|>said she. "I cannot make him out.--There is something very pompous in his style.--And what can he mean by apologizing for being next in the entail?--We cannot suppose he would help it, if he could.--Can he be a sensible man, sir?" "No, my dear; I think not. I have great
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Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him come to us again." "There is some sense in what he says about the girls however; and if he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to discourage him." "Though it is difficult," said Jane, "to guess in what way he can mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his credit." Elizabeth was chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference for Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying his parishioners whenever it were required.<|quote|>"He must be an oddity, I think,"</|quote|>said she. "I cannot make him out.--There is something very pompous in his style.--And what can he mean by apologizing for being next in the entail?--We cannot suppose he would help it, if he could.--Can he be a sensible man, sir?" "No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him." "In point of composition," said Mary, "his letter does not seem defective. The idea of the olive branch perhaps is not wholly new,
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se'night following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day. I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend, WILLIAM COLLINS." "At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman," said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. "He seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, upon my word; and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him come to us again." "There is some sense in what he says about the girls however; and if he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to discourage him." "Though it is difficult," said Jane, "to guess in what way he can mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his credit." Elizabeth was chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference for Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying his parishioners whenever it were required.<|quote|>"He must be an oddity, I think,"</|quote|>said she. "I cannot make him out.--There is something very pompous in his style.--And what can he mean by apologizing for being next in the entail?--We cannot suppose he would help it, if he could.--Can he be a sensible man, sir?" "No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him." "In point of composition," said Mary, "his letter does not seem defective. The idea of the olive branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I think it is well expressed." To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for their mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will, and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure, which astonished her husband and daughters. Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with
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bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her Ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures of good-will are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate, will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered olive branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible amends,--but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se'night following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day. I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend, WILLIAM COLLINS." "At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman," said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. "He seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, upon my word; and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him come to us again." "There is some sense in what he says about the girls however; and if he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to discourage him." "Though it is difficult," said Jane, "to guess in what way he can mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his credit." Elizabeth was chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference for Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying his parishioners whenever it were required.<|quote|>"He must be an oddity, I think,"</|quote|>said she. "I cannot make him out.--There is something very pompous in his style.--And what can he mean by apologizing for being next in the entail?--We cannot suppose he would help it, if he could.--Can he be a sensible man, sir?" "No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him." "In point of composition," said Mary, "his letter does not seem defective. The idea of the olive branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I think it is well expressed." To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for their mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will, and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure, which astonished her husband and daughters. Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall, heavy looking young man of five and twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters, said he had heard much of their beauty, but that, in this instance, fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did not doubt her seeing them all in due time well disposed of in marriage. This gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers, but Mrs. Bennet, who quarrelled with no compliments, answered most readily, "You are very kind, sir, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may prove so; for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so oddly." "You allude perhaps to the entail of this estate." "Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you must confess. Not that I
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it a case of some delicacy, and requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases." "Oh! my dear," cried his wife, "I cannot bear to hear that mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing in the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own children; and I am sure if I had been you, I should have tried long ago to do something or other about it." Jane and Elizabeth attempted to explain to her the nature of an entail. They had often attempted it before, but it was a subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason; and she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about. "It certainly is a most iniquitous affair," said Mr. Bennet, "and nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself." "No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it was very impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false friends. Why could not he keep on quarrelling with you, as his father did before him?" "Why, indeed, he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that head, as you will hear." "_Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15th October._ DEAR SIR, The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured father, always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with any one, with whom it had always pleased him to be at variance.--" "There, Mrs. Bennet" ."--My mind however is now made up on the subject, for having received ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her Ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures of good-will are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate, will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered olive branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible amends,--but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se'night following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day. I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend, WILLIAM COLLINS." "At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman," said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. "He seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, upon my word; and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him come to us again." "There is some sense in what he says about the girls however; and if he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to discourage him." "Though it is difficult," said Jane, "to guess in what way he can mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his credit." Elizabeth was chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference for Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying his parishioners whenever it were required.<|quote|>"He must be an oddity, I think,"</|quote|>said she. "I cannot make him out.--There is something very pompous in his style.--And what can he mean by apologizing for being next in the entail?--We cannot suppose he would help it, if he could.--Can he be a sensible man, sir?" "No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him." "In point of composition," said Mary, "his letter does not seem defective. The idea of the olive branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I think it is well expressed." To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for their mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will, and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure, which astonished her husband and daughters. Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall, heavy looking young man of five and twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters, said he had heard much of their beauty, but that, in this instance, fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did not doubt her seeing them all in due time well disposed of in marriage. This gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers, but Mrs. Bennet, who quarrelled with no compliments, answered most readily, "You are very kind, sir, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may prove so; for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so oddly." "You allude perhaps to the entail of this estate." "Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for such things I know are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates will go when once they come to be entailed." "I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins,--and could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more, but perhaps when we are better acquainted----" He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins's admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture were examined and praised; and his commendation of every thing would have touched Mrs. Bennet's heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his own future property. The dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and he begged to know to which of his fair cousins, the excellence of its cookery was owing. But here he was set right by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a quarter of an hour. CHAPTER XIV. During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for his comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect he protested that he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a person of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to approve of both the discourses, which he had already had the honour of preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine
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overtures of good-will are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate, will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered olive branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible amends,--but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se'night following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day. I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend, WILLIAM COLLINS." "At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman," said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. "He seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, upon my word; and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him come to us again." "There is some sense in what he says about the girls however; and if he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to discourage him." "Though it is difficult," said Jane, "to guess in what way he can mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his credit." Elizabeth was chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference for Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying his parishioners whenever it were required.<|quote|>"He must be an oddity, I think,"</|quote|>said she. "I cannot make him out.--There is something very pompous in his style.--And what can he mean by apologizing for being next in the entail?--We cannot suppose he would help it, if he could.--Can he be a sensible man, sir?" "No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him." "In point of composition," said Mary, "his letter does not seem defective. The idea of the olive branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I think it is well expressed." To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for their mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will, and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure, which astonished her husband and daughters. Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall, heavy looking young man of five and twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters,
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Pride And Prejudice
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"Oh, Harry!"
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Dorian Gray
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Harry," said the painter sadly.<|quote|>"Oh, Harry!"</|quote|>cried the lad, with a
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remain so." "You have got Harry," said the painter sadly.<|quote|>"Oh, Harry!"</|quote|>cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends
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picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?" "No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so." "You have got Harry," said the painter sadly.<|quote|>"Oh, Harry!"</|quote|>cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t think I would go to Harry if I were in
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a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?" "No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so." "You have got Harry," said the painter sadly.<|quote|>"Oh, Harry!"</|quote|>cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil." "You will sit to me again?" "Impossible!" "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one." "I can t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to
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not possibly let you stand in front of that picture." "You will some day, surely?" "Never." "Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don t know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you." "My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment." "It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?" "No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so." "You have got Harry," said the painter sadly.<|quote|>"Oh, Harry!"</|quote|>cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil." "You will sit to me again?" "Impossible!" "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one." "I can t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant." "Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward regretfully. "And now good-bye. I am sorry you won t let me look at the picture once again. But that can t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about it." As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead of having been
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not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped." Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store? "It is extraordinary to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you should have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?" "I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very curious." "Well, you don t mind my looking at the thing now?" Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture." "You will some day, surely?" "Never." "Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don t know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you." "My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment." "It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?" "No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so." "You have got Harry," said the painter sadly.<|quote|>"Oh, Harry!"</|quote|>cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil." "You will sit to me again?" "Impossible!" "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one." "I can t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant." "Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward regretfully. "And now good-bye. I am sorry you won t let me look at the picture once again. But that can t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about it." As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that strange confession explained to him! The painter s absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance. He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access. CHAPTER X. When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite impassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of Victor s face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There was nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be on
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had sat on the prow of Adrian s barge, gazing across the green turbid Nile. You had leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland and seen in the water s silent silver the marvel of your own face. And it had all been what art should be unconscious, ideal, and remote. One day, a fatal day I sometimes think, I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own dress and in your own time. Whether it was the realism of the method, or the mere wonder of your own personality, thus directly presented to me without mist or veil, I cannot tell. But I know that as I worked at it, every flake and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that others would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much, that I had put too much of myself into it. Then it was that I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me. Harry, to whom I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not mind that. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I felt that I was right.... Well, after a few days the thing left my studio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence, it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one creates. Art is always more abstract than we fancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour that is all. It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer from Paris, I determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were right. The picture cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped." Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store? "It is extraordinary to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you should have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?" "I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very curious." "Well, you don t mind my looking at the thing now?" Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture." "You will some day, surely?" "Never." "Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don t know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you." "My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment." "It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?" "No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so." "You have got Harry," said the painter sadly.<|quote|>"Oh, Harry!"</|quote|>cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil." "You will sit to me again?" "Impossible!" "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one." "I can t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant." "Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward regretfully. "And now good-bye. I am sorry you won t let me look at the picture once again. But that can t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about it." As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that strange confession explained to him! The painter s absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance. He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access. CHAPTER X. When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite impassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of Victor s face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There was nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be on his guard. Speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the house-keeper that he wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to send two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man left the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or was that merely his own fancy? After a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread mittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. He asked her for the key of the schoolroom. "The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?" she exclaimed. "Why, it is full of dust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. It is not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed." "I don t want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key." "Well, sir, you ll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, it hasn t been opened for nearly five years not since his lordship died." He winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories of him. "That does not matter," he answered. "I simply want to see the place that is all. Give me the key." "And here is the key, sir," said the old lady, going over the contents of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. "Here is the key. I ll have it off the bunch in a moment. But you don t think of living up there, sir, and you so comfortable here?" "No, no," he cried petulantly. "Thank you, Leaf. That will do." She lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of the household. He sighed and told her to manage things as she thought best. She left the room, wreathed in smiles. As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round the room. His eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century Venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna. Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps served often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death itself something that would breed horrors and yet
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so when I got this offer from Paris, I determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were right. The picture cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped." Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store? "It is extraordinary to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you should have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?" "I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very curious." "Well, you don t mind my looking at the thing now?" Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture." "You will some day, surely?" "Never." "Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don t know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you." "My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment." "It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?" "No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so." "You have got Harry," said the painter sadly.<|quote|>"Oh, Harry!"</|quote|>cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil." "You will sit to me again?" "Impossible!" "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one." "I can t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant." "Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward regretfully. "And now good-bye. I am sorry you won t let me look at the picture once again. But that can t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about it." As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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cried the old lady.
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No speaker
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with you and your milk!"<|quote|>cried the old lady.</|quote|>"Go and stuff _yourself_ as
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la verit "! "Have done with you and your milk!"<|quote|>cried the old lady.</|quote|>"Go and stuff _yourself_ as much as you like, but
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"Nous boirons du lait, sur l herbe fraiche," added De Griers with the snarl almost of a wild beast. "Du lait, de l herbe fraiche" the idyll, the ideal of the Parisian bourgeois his whole outlook upon "la nature et la verit "! "Have done with you and your milk!"<|quote|>cried the old lady.</|quote|>"Go and stuff _yourself_ as much as you like, but my stomach simply recoils from the idea. What are you stopping for? I have nothing to say to you." "Here we are, Madame," I announced. "Here is the moneychanger s office." I entered to get the securities changed, while the
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view to be obtained. We-we-we were just coming to invite you to go and see it." "Begone with you and your views!" said the Grandmother angrily as she waved him away. "And there are trees there, and we could have tea under them," continued the General now in utter despair. "Nous boirons du lait, sur l herbe fraiche," added De Griers with the snarl almost of a wild beast. "Du lait, de l herbe fraiche" the idyll, the ideal of the Parisian bourgeois his whole outlook upon "la nature et la verit "! "Have done with you and your milk!"<|quote|>cried the old lady.</|quote|>"Go and stuff _yourself_ as much as you like, but my stomach simply recoils from the idea. What are you stopping for? I have nothing to say to you." "Here we are, Madame," I announced. "Here is the moneychanger s office." I entered to get the securities changed, while the Grandmother remained outside in the porch, and the rest waited at a little distance, in doubt as to their best course of action. At length the old lady turned such an angry stare upon them that they departed along the road towards the Casino. The process of changing involved complicated
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money. At the present moment we are going to get some bonds changed." De Griers stamped his foot with vexation, and hastened to communicate the tidings to the General. Meanwhile we continued to wheel the old lady along. "Stop her, stop her," whispered the General in consternation. "You had better try and stop her yourself," I returned also in a whisper. "My good mother," he said as he approached her, "my good mother, pray let, let" (his voice was beginning to tremble and sink) "let us hire a carriage, and go for a drive. Near here there is an enchanting view to be obtained. We-we-we were just coming to invite you to go and see it." "Begone with you and your views!" said the Grandmother angrily as she waved him away. "And there are trees there, and we could have tea under them," continued the General now in utter despair. "Nous boirons du lait, sur l herbe fraiche," added De Griers with the snarl almost of a wild beast. "Du lait, de l herbe fraiche" the idyll, the ideal of the Parisian bourgeois his whole outlook upon "la nature et la verit "! "Have done with you and your milk!"<|quote|>cried the old lady.</|quote|>"Go and stuff _yourself_ as much as you like, but my stomach simply recoils from the idea. What are you stopping for? I have nothing to say to you." "Here we are, Madame," I announced. "Here is the moneychanger s office." I entered to get the securities changed, while the Grandmother remained outside in the porch, and the rest waited at a little distance, in doubt as to their best course of action. At length the old lady turned such an angry stare upon them that they departed along the road towards the Casino. The process of changing involved complicated calculations which soon necessitated my return to the Grandmother for instructions. "The thieves!" she exclaimed as she clapped her hands together. "Never mind, though. Get the documents cashed No; send the banker out to me," she added as an afterthought. "Would one of the clerks do, Madame?" "Yes, one of the clerks. The thieves!" The clerk consented to come out when he perceived that he was being asked for by an old lady who was too infirm to walk; after which the Grandmother began to upbraid him at length, and with great vehemence, for his alleged usuriousness, and to bargain
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in the purse?" "A mere trifle." "But there is a money-changer s office here, is there not? They told me I should be able to get any sort of paper security changed!" "Quite so; to any amount you please. But you will lose on the transaction what would frighten even a Jew." "Rubbish! I am _determined_ to retrieve my losses. Take me away, and call those fools of bearers." I wheeled the chair out of the throng, and, the bearers making their appearance, we left the Casino. "Hurry, hurry!" commanded the Grandmother. "Show me the nearest way to the money-changer s. Is it far?" "A couple of steps, Madame." At the turning from the square into the Avenue we came face to face with the whole of our party the General, De Griers, Mlle. Blanche, and her mother. Only Polina and Mr. Astley were absent. "Well, well, well!" exclaimed the Grandmother. "But we have no time to stop. What do you want? I can t talk to you here." I dropped behind a little, and immediately was pounced upon by De Griers. "She has lost this morning s winnings," I whispered, "and also twelve thousand g lden of her original money. At the present moment we are going to get some bonds changed." De Griers stamped his foot with vexation, and hastened to communicate the tidings to the General. Meanwhile we continued to wheel the old lady along. "Stop her, stop her," whispered the General in consternation. "You had better try and stop her yourself," I returned also in a whisper. "My good mother," he said as he approached her, "my good mother, pray let, let" (his voice was beginning to tremble and sink) "let us hire a carriage, and go for a drive. Near here there is an enchanting view to be obtained. We-we-we were just coming to invite you to go and see it." "Begone with you and your views!" said the Grandmother angrily as she waved him away. "And there are trees there, and we could have tea under them," continued the General now in utter despair. "Nous boirons du lait, sur l herbe fraiche," added De Griers with the snarl almost of a wild beast. "Du lait, de l herbe fraiche" the idyll, the ideal of the Parisian bourgeois his whole outlook upon "la nature et la verit "! "Have done with you and your milk!"<|quote|>cried the old lady.</|quote|>"Go and stuff _yourself_ as much as you like, but my stomach simply recoils from the idea. What are you stopping for? I have nothing to say to you." "Here we are, Madame," I announced. "Here is the moneychanger s office." I entered to get the securities changed, while the Grandmother remained outside in the porch, and the rest waited at a little distance, in doubt as to their best course of action. At length the old lady turned such an angry stare upon them that they departed along the road towards the Casino. The process of changing involved complicated calculations which soon necessitated my return to the Grandmother for instructions. "The thieves!" she exclaimed as she clapped her hands together. "Never mind, though. Get the documents cashed No; send the banker out to me," she added as an afterthought. "Would one of the clerks do, Madame?" "Yes, one of the clerks. The thieves!" The clerk consented to come out when he perceived that he was being asked for by an old lady who was too infirm to walk; after which the Grandmother began to upbraid him at length, and with great vehemence, for his alleged usuriousness, and to bargain with him in a mixture of Russian, French, and German I acting as interpreter. Meanwhile, the grave-faced official eyed us both, and silently nodded his head. At the Grandmother, in particular, he gazed with a curiosity which almost bordered upon rudeness. At length, too, he smiled. "Pray recollect yourself!" cried the old lady. "And may my money choke you! Alexis Ivanovitch, tell him that we can easily repair to someone else." "The clerk says that others will give you even less than he." Of what the ultimate calculations consisted I do not exactly remember, but at all events they were alarming. Receiving twelve thousand florins in gold, I took also the statement of accounts, and carried it out to the Grandmother. "Well, well," she said, "I am no accountant. Let us hurry away, hurry away." And she waved the paper aside. "Neither upon that accursed zero, however, nor upon that equally accursed red do I mean to stake a cent," I muttered to myself as I entered the Casino. This time I did all I could to persuade the old lady to stake as little as possible saying that a turn would come in the chances when she would be
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made a sudden reappearance why, the poor old lady fell to cursing it, and to throwing herself about, and wailing and gesticulating at the company at large. Indeed, some people in our vicinity actually burst out laughing. "To think that that accursed zero should have turned up _now!_" she sobbed. "The accursed, accursed thing! And, it is all _your_ fault," she added, rounding upon me in a frenzy. "It was _you_ who persuaded me to cease staking upon it." "But, Madame, I only explained the game to you. How am _I_ to answer for every mischance which may occur in it?" "You and your mischances!" she whispered threateningly. "Go! Away at once!" "Farewell, then, Madame." And I turned to depart. "No stay," she put in hastily. "Where are you going to? Why should you leave me? You fool! No, no... stay here. It is _I_ who was the fool. Tell me what I ought to do." "I cannot take it upon myself to advise you, for you will only blame me if I do so. Play at your own discretion. Say exactly what you wish staked, and I will stake it." "Very well. Stake another four thousand g lden upon the red. Take this banknote to do it with. I have still got twenty thousand roubles in actual cash." "But," I whispered, "such a quantity of money" "Never mind. I cannot rest until I have won back my losses. Stake!" I staked, and we lost. "Stake again, stake again eight thousand at a stroke!" "I cannot, Madame. The largest stake allowed is four thousand g lden." "Well, then; stake four thousand." This time we won, and the Grandmother recovered herself a little. "You see, you see!" she exclaimed as she nudged me. "Stake another four thousand." I did so, and lost. Again, and yet again, we lost. "Madame, your twelve thousand g lden are now gone," at length I reported. "I see they are," she replied with, as it were, the calmness of despair. "I see they are," she muttered again as she gazed straight in front of her, like a person lost in thought. "Ah well, I do not mean to rest until I have staked another four thousand." "But you have no money with which to do it, Madame. In this satchel I can see only a few five percent bonds and some transfers no actual cash." "And in the purse?" "A mere trifle." "But there is a money-changer s office here, is there not? They told me I should be able to get any sort of paper security changed!" "Quite so; to any amount you please. But you will lose on the transaction what would frighten even a Jew." "Rubbish! I am _determined_ to retrieve my losses. Take me away, and call those fools of bearers." I wheeled the chair out of the throng, and, the bearers making their appearance, we left the Casino. "Hurry, hurry!" commanded the Grandmother. "Show me the nearest way to the money-changer s. Is it far?" "A couple of steps, Madame." At the turning from the square into the Avenue we came face to face with the whole of our party the General, De Griers, Mlle. Blanche, and her mother. Only Polina and Mr. Astley were absent. "Well, well, well!" exclaimed the Grandmother. "But we have no time to stop. What do you want? I can t talk to you here." I dropped behind a little, and immediately was pounced upon by De Griers. "She has lost this morning s winnings," I whispered, "and also twelve thousand g lden of her original money. At the present moment we are going to get some bonds changed." De Griers stamped his foot with vexation, and hastened to communicate the tidings to the General. Meanwhile we continued to wheel the old lady along. "Stop her, stop her," whispered the General in consternation. "You had better try and stop her yourself," I returned also in a whisper. "My good mother," he said as he approached her, "my good mother, pray let, let" (his voice was beginning to tremble and sink) "let us hire a carriage, and go for a drive. Near here there is an enchanting view to be obtained. We-we-we were just coming to invite you to go and see it." "Begone with you and your views!" said the Grandmother angrily as she waved him away. "And there are trees there, and we could have tea under them," continued the General now in utter despair. "Nous boirons du lait, sur l herbe fraiche," added De Griers with the snarl almost of a wild beast. "Du lait, de l herbe fraiche" the idyll, the ideal of the Parisian bourgeois his whole outlook upon "la nature et la verit "! "Have done with you and your milk!"<|quote|>cried the old lady.</|quote|>"Go and stuff _yourself_ as much as you like, but my stomach simply recoils from the idea. What are you stopping for? I have nothing to say to you." "Here we are, Madame," I announced. "Here is the moneychanger s office." I entered to get the securities changed, while the Grandmother remained outside in the porch, and the rest waited at a little distance, in doubt as to their best course of action. At length the old lady turned such an angry stare upon them that they departed along the road towards the Casino. The process of changing involved complicated calculations which soon necessitated my return to the Grandmother for instructions. "The thieves!" she exclaimed as she clapped her hands together. "Never mind, though. Get the documents cashed No; send the banker out to me," she added as an afterthought. "Would one of the clerks do, Madame?" "Yes, one of the clerks. The thieves!" The clerk consented to come out when he perceived that he was being asked for by an old lady who was too infirm to walk; after which the Grandmother began to upbraid him at length, and with great vehemence, for his alleged usuriousness, and to bargain with him in a mixture of Russian, French, and German I acting as interpreter. Meanwhile, the grave-faced official eyed us both, and silently nodded his head. At the Grandmother, in particular, he gazed with a curiosity which almost bordered upon rudeness. At length, too, he smiled. "Pray recollect yourself!" cried the old lady. "And may my money choke you! Alexis Ivanovitch, tell him that we can easily repair to someone else." "The clerk says that others will give you even less than he." Of what the ultimate calculations consisted I do not exactly remember, but at all events they were alarming. Receiving twelve thousand florins in gold, I took also the statement of accounts, and carried it out to the Grandmother. "Well, well," she said, "I am no accountant. Let us hurry away, hurry away." And she waved the paper aside. "Neither upon that accursed zero, however, nor upon that equally accursed red do I mean to stake a cent," I muttered to myself as I entered the Casino. This time I did all I could to persuade the old lady to stake as little as possible saying that a turn would come in the chances when she would be at liberty to stake more. But she was so impatient that, though at first she agreed to do as I suggested, nothing could stop her when once she had begun. By way of prelude she won stakes of a hundred and two hundred g lden. "There you are!" she said as she nudged me. "See what we have won! Surely it would be worth our while to stake four thousand instead of a hundred, for we might win another four thousand, and then ! Oh, it was YOUR fault before all your fault!" I felt greatly put out as I watched her play, but I decided to hold my tongue, and to give her no more advice. Suddenly De Griers appeared on the scene. It seemed that all this while he and his companions had been standing beside us though I noticed that Mlle. Blanche had withdrawn a little from the rest, and was engaged in flirting with the Prince. Clearly the General was greatly put out at this. Indeed, he was in a perfect agony of vexation. But Mlle. was careful never to look his way, though he did his best to attract her notice. Poor General! By turns his face blanched and reddened, and he was trembling to such an extent that he could scarcely follow the old lady s play. At length Mlle. and the Prince took their departure, and the General followed them. "Madame, Madame," sounded the honeyed accents of De Griers as he leant over to whisper in the Grandmother s ear. "That stake will never win. No, no, it is impossible," he added in Russian with a writhe. "No, no!" "But why not?" asked the Grandmother, turning round. "Show me what I ought to do." Instantly De Griers burst into a babble of French as he advised, jumped about, declared that such and such chances ought to be waited for, and started to make calculations of figures. All this he addressed to me in my capacity as translator tapping the table the while with his finger, and pointing hither and thither. At length he seized a pencil, and began to reckon sums on paper until he had exhausted the Grandmother s patience. "Away with you!" she interrupted. "You talk sheer nonsense, for, though you keep on saying" Madame, Madame, "you haven t the least notion what ought to be done. Away with you, I
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which to do it, Madame. In this satchel I can see only a few five percent bonds and some transfers no actual cash." "And in the purse?" "A mere trifle." "But there is a money-changer s office here, is there not? They told me I should be able to get any sort of paper security changed!" "Quite so; to any amount you please. But you will lose on the transaction what would frighten even a Jew." "Rubbish! I am _determined_ to retrieve my losses. Take me away, and call those fools of bearers." I wheeled the chair out of the throng, and, the bearers making their appearance, we left the Casino. "Hurry, hurry!" commanded the Grandmother. "Show me the nearest way to the money-changer s. Is it far?" "A couple of steps, Madame." At the turning from the square into the Avenue we came face to face with the whole of our party the General, De Griers, Mlle. Blanche, and her mother. Only Polina and Mr. Astley were absent. "Well, well, well!" exclaimed the Grandmother. "But we have no time to stop. What do you want? I can t talk to you here." I dropped behind a little, and immediately was pounced upon by De Griers. "She has lost this morning s winnings," I whispered, "and also twelve thousand g lden of her original money. At the present moment we are going to get some bonds changed." De Griers stamped his foot with vexation, and hastened to communicate the tidings to the General. Meanwhile we continued to wheel the old lady along. "Stop her, stop her," whispered the General in consternation. "You had better try and stop her yourself," I returned also in a whisper. "My good mother," he said as he approached her, "my good mother, pray let, let" (his voice was beginning to tremble and sink) "let us hire a carriage, and go for a drive. Near here there is an enchanting view to be obtained. We-we-we were just coming to invite you to go and see it." "Begone with you and your views!" said the Grandmother angrily as she waved him away. "And there are trees there, and we could have tea under them," continued the General now in utter despair. "Nous boirons du lait, sur l herbe fraiche," added De Griers with the snarl almost of a wild beast. "Du lait, de l herbe fraiche" the idyll, the ideal of the Parisian bourgeois his whole outlook upon "la nature et la verit "! "Have done with you and your milk!"<|quote|>cried the old lady.</|quote|>"Go and stuff _yourself_ as much as you like, but my stomach simply recoils from the idea. What are you stopping for? I have nothing to say to you." "Here we are, Madame," I announced. "Here is the moneychanger s office." I entered to get the securities changed, while the Grandmother remained outside in the porch, and the rest waited at a little distance, in doubt as to their best course of action. At length the old lady turned such an angry stare upon them that they departed along the road towards the Casino. The process of changing involved complicated calculations which soon necessitated my return to the Grandmother for instructions. "The thieves!" she exclaimed as she clapped her hands together. "Never mind, though. Get the documents cashed No; send the banker out to me," she added as an afterthought. "Would one of the clerks do, Madame?" "Yes, one of the clerks. The thieves!" The clerk consented to come out when he perceived that he was being asked for by an old lady who was too infirm to walk; after which the Grandmother began to upbraid him at length, and with great vehemence, for his alleged usuriousness, and to bargain with him in a mixture of Russian, French, and German I acting as interpreter. Meanwhile, the grave-faced official eyed us both, and silently nodded his head. At the Grandmother, in particular, he gazed with a curiosity which almost bordered upon rudeness. At length, too, he smiled. "Pray recollect yourself!" cried the old lady. "And may my money choke you! Alexis Ivanovitch, tell him that we can easily repair to someone else." "The clerk says that others will give you even less than he." Of what the ultimate calculations consisted I do not exactly remember, but at all events they were alarming. Receiving twelve thousand florins in gold, I took also the statement of accounts, and carried it out to the Grandmother. "Well, well," she said, "I am no accountant. Let us hurry away, hurry away." And she waved the paper aside. "Neither upon that accursed zero, however, nor upon that equally accursed red do I mean to stake a cent," I muttered to myself as I entered the Casino. This time I did all I could to persuade the old lady to stake as little as possible saying that a turn would come in the chances when she would be at liberty to stake more. But she was so impatient that, though at first she agreed to do as I suggested, nothing could stop her when once she had begun. By way of prelude she won stakes of a
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The Gambler
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said Margaret, blushing, but letting her hand remain in that of the invalid.
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No speaker
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"I think of nothing else,"<|quote|>said Margaret, blushing, but letting her hand remain in that of the invalid.</|quote|>"I wonder. I wondered at
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you ever think about yourself?" "I think of nothing else,"<|quote|>said Margaret, blushing, but letting her hand remain in that of the invalid.</|quote|>"I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg." "I M sure!" "I
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all the housekeeping to do, and she had to interview Tibby s riding-master. Then the curious note was struck again. "Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you for coming. You have cheered me up." "I m so glad!" "I--I wonder whether you ever think about yourself?" "I think of nothing else,"<|quote|>said Margaret, blushing, but letting her hand remain in that of the invalid.</|quote|>"I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg." "I M sure!" "I almost think--" "Yes?" asked Margaret, for there was a long pause--a pause that was somehow akin to the flicker of the fire, the quiver of the reading-lamp upon their hands, the white blur from the window; a pause of shifting
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of the movements of Mr. Wilcox and Evie, who were motoring in Yorkshire. Margaret could not bear being bored. She grew inattentive, played with the photograph frame, dropped it, smashed Dolly s glass, apologised, was pardoned, cut her finger thereon, was pitied, and finally said she must be going--there was all the housekeeping to do, and she had to interview Tibby s riding-master. Then the curious note was struck again. "Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you for coming. You have cheered me up." "I m so glad!" "I--I wonder whether you ever think about yourself?" "I think of nothing else,"<|quote|>said Margaret, blushing, but letting her hand remain in that of the invalid.</|quote|>"I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg." "I M sure!" "I almost think--" "Yes?" asked Margaret, for there was a long pause--a pause that was somehow akin to the flicker of the fire, the quiver of the reading-lamp upon their hands, the white blur from the window; a pause of shifting and eternal shadows. "I almost think you forget you re a girl." Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. "I m twenty-nine," she remarked. "That s not so wildly girlish." Mrs. Wilcox smiled. "What makes you say that? Do you mean that I have been gauche and rude?" A shake
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I love folklore and all festering superstitions." "Do you think that the tree really did cure toothache, if one believed in it?" "Of course it did. It would cure anything--once." "Certainly I remember cases--you see I lived at Howards End long, long before Mr. Wilcox knew it. I was born there." The conversation again shifted. At the time it seemed little more than aimless chatter. She was interested when her hostess explained that Howards End was her own property. She was bored when too minute an account was given of the Fussell family, of the anxieties of Charles concerning Naples, of the movements of Mr. Wilcox and Evie, who were motoring in Yorkshire. Margaret could not bear being bored. She grew inattentive, played with the photograph frame, dropped it, smashed Dolly s glass, apologised, was pardoned, cut her finger thereon, was pitied, and finally said she must be going--there was all the housekeeping to do, and she had to interview Tibby s riding-master. Then the curious note was struck again. "Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you for coming. You have cheered me up." "I m so glad!" "I--I wonder whether you ever think about yourself?" "I think of nothing else,"<|quote|>said Margaret, blushing, but letting her hand remain in that of the invalid.</|quote|>"I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg." "I M sure!" "I almost think--" "Yes?" asked Margaret, for there was a long pause--a pause that was somehow akin to the flicker of the fire, the quiver of the reading-lamp upon their hands, the white blur from the window; a pause of shifting and eternal shadows. "I almost think you forget you re a girl." Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. "I m twenty-nine," she remarked. "That s not so wildly girlish." Mrs. Wilcox smiled. "What makes you say that? Do you mean that I have been gauche and rude?" A shake of the head. "I only meant that I am fifty-one, and that to me both of you--Read it all in some book or other; I cannot put things clearly." "Oh, I ve got it--inexperience. I m no better than Helen, you mean, and yet I presume to advise her." "Yes. You have got it. Inexperience is the word." "Inexperience," repeated Margaret, in serious yet buoyant tones. "Of course, I have everything to learn--absolutely everything--just as much as Helen. Life s very difficult and full of surprises. At all events, I ve got as far as that. To be humble and
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he enjoys most is a motor tour in England, and I think that would have carried the day if the weather had not been so abominable. His father gave him a car for a wedding present, which for the present is being stored at Howards End." "I suppose you have a garage there?" "Yes. My husband built a little one only last month, to the west of the house, not far from the wych-elm, in what used to be the paddock for the pony." The last words had an indescribable ring about them. "Where s the pony gone?" asked Margaret after a pause. "The pony? Oh, dead, ever so long ago." "The wych-elm I remember. Helen spoke of it as a very splendid tree." "It is the finest wych-elm in Hertfordshire. Did your sister tell you about the teeth?" "No." "Oh, it might interest you. There are pigs teeth stuck into the trunk, about four feet from the ground. The country people put them in long ago, and they think that if they chew a piece of the bark, it will cure the toothache. The teeth are almost grown over now, and no one comes to the tree." "I should. I love folklore and all festering superstitions." "Do you think that the tree really did cure toothache, if one believed in it?" "Of course it did. It would cure anything--once." "Certainly I remember cases--you see I lived at Howards End long, long before Mr. Wilcox knew it. I was born there." The conversation again shifted. At the time it seemed little more than aimless chatter. She was interested when her hostess explained that Howards End was her own property. She was bored when too minute an account was given of the Fussell family, of the anxieties of Charles concerning Naples, of the movements of Mr. Wilcox and Evie, who were motoring in Yorkshire. Margaret could not bear being bored. She grew inattentive, played with the photograph frame, dropped it, smashed Dolly s glass, apologised, was pardoned, cut her finger thereon, was pitied, and finally said she must be going--there was all the housekeeping to do, and she had to interview Tibby s riding-master. Then the curious note was struck again. "Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you for coming. You have cheered me up." "I m so glad!" "I--I wonder whether you ever think about yourself?" "I think of nothing else,"<|quote|>said Margaret, blushing, but letting her hand remain in that of the invalid.</|quote|>"I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg." "I M sure!" "I almost think--" "Yes?" asked Margaret, for there was a long pause--a pause that was somehow akin to the flicker of the fire, the quiver of the reading-lamp upon their hands, the white blur from the window; a pause of shifting and eternal shadows. "I almost think you forget you re a girl." Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. "I m twenty-nine," she remarked. "That s not so wildly girlish." Mrs. Wilcox smiled. "What makes you say that? Do you mean that I have been gauche and rude?" A shake of the head. "I only meant that I am fifty-one, and that to me both of you--Read it all in some book or other; I cannot put things clearly." "Oh, I ve got it--inexperience. I m no better than Helen, you mean, and yet I presume to advise her." "Yes. You have got it. Inexperience is the word." "Inexperience," repeated Margaret, in serious yet buoyant tones. "Of course, I have everything to learn--absolutely everything--just as much as Helen. Life s very difficult and full of surprises. At all events, I ve got as far as that. To be humble and kind, to go straight ahead, to love people rather than pity them, to remember the submerged--well, one can t do all these things at once, worse luck, because they re so contradictory. It s then that proportion comes in--to live by proportion. Don t BEGIN with proportion. Only prigs do that. Let proportion come in as a last resource, when the better things have failed, and a deadlock--Gracious me, I ve started preaching!" "Indeed, you put the difficulties of life splendidly," said Mrs. Wilcox, withdrawing her hand into the deeper shadows. "It is just what I should have liked to say about them myself." CHAPTER IX Mrs. Wilcox cannot be accused of giving Margaret much information about life. And Margaret, on the other hand, has made a fair show of modesty, and has pretended to an inexperience that she certainly did not feel. She had kept house for over ten years; she had entertained, almost with distinction; she had brought up a charming sister, and was bringing up a brother. Surely, if experience is attainable, she had attained it. Yet the little luncheon-party that she gave in Mrs. Wilcox s honour was not a success. The new friend did not
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most kindly offered it to us. So before the day came we were able to make the acquaintance of Dolly s people, which we had not yet done." Margaret asked who Dolly s people were. "Fussell. The father is in the Indian army--retired; the brother is in the army. The mother is dead." So perhaps these were the "chinless sunburnt men" whom Helen had espied one afternoon through the window. Margaret felt mildly interested in the fortunes of the Wilcox family. She had acquired the habit on Helen s account, and it still clung to her. She asked for more information about Miss Dolly Fussell that was, and was given it in even, unemotional tones. Mrs. Wilcox s voice, though sweet and compelling, had little range of expression. It suggested that pictures, concerts, and people are all of small and equal value. Only once had it quickened--when speaking of Howards End. "Charles and Albert Fussell have known one another some time. They belong to the same club, and are both devoted to golf. Dolly plays golf too, though I believe not so well; and they first met in a mixed foursome. We all like her, and are very much pleased. They were married on the 11th, a few days before Paul sailed. Charles was very anxious to have his brother as best man, so he made a great point of having it on the 11th. The Fussells would have preferred it after Christmas, but they were very nice about it. There is Dolly s photograph--in that double frame." "Are you quite certain that I m not interrupting, Mrs. Wilcox?" "Yes, quite." "Then I will stay. I m enjoying this." Dolly s photograph was now examined. It was signed "For dear Mims," which Mrs. Wilcox interpreted as "the name she and Charles had settled that she should call me." Dolly looked silly, and had one of those triangular faces that so often prove attractive to a robust man. She was very pretty. From her Margaret passed to Charles, whose features prevailed opposite. She speculated on the forces that had drawn the two together till God parted them. She found time to hope that they would be happy. "They have gone to Naples for their honeymoon." "Lucky people!" "I can hardly imagine Charles in Italy." "Doesn t he care for travelling?" "He likes travel, but he does see through foreigners so. What he enjoys most is a motor tour in England, and I think that would have carried the day if the weather had not been so abominable. His father gave him a car for a wedding present, which for the present is being stored at Howards End." "I suppose you have a garage there?" "Yes. My husband built a little one only last month, to the west of the house, not far from the wych-elm, in what used to be the paddock for the pony." The last words had an indescribable ring about them. "Where s the pony gone?" asked Margaret after a pause. "The pony? Oh, dead, ever so long ago." "The wych-elm I remember. Helen spoke of it as a very splendid tree." "It is the finest wych-elm in Hertfordshire. Did your sister tell you about the teeth?" "No." "Oh, it might interest you. There are pigs teeth stuck into the trunk, about four feet from the ground. The country people put them in long ago, and they think that if they chew a piece of the bark, it will cure the toothache. The teeth are almost grown over now, and no one comes to the tree." "I should. I love folklore and all festering superstitions." "Do you think that the tree really did cure toothache, if one believed in it?" "Of course it did. It would cure anything--once." "Certainly I remember cases--you see I lived at Howards End long, long before Mr. Wilcox knew it. I was born there." The conversation again shifted. At the time it seemed little more than aimless chatter. She was interested when her hostess explained that Howards End was her own property. She was bored when too minute an account was given of the Fussell family, of the anxieties of Charles concerning Naples, of the movements of Mr. Wilcox and Evie, who were motoring in Yorkshire. Margaret could not bear being bored. She grew inattentive, played with the photograph frame, dropped it, smashed Dolly s glass, apologised, was pardoned, cut her finger thereon, was pitied, and finally said she must be going--there was all the housekeeping to do, and she had to interview Tibby s riding-master. Then the curious note was struck again. "Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you for coming. You have cheered me up." "I m so glad!" "I--I wonder whether you ever think about yourself?" "I think of nothing else,"<|quote|>said Margaret, blushing, but letting her hand remain in that of the invalid.</|quote|>"I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg." "I M sure!" "I almost think--" "Yes?" asked Margaret, for there was a long pause--a pause that was somehow akin to the flicker of the fire, the quiver of the reading-lamp upon their hands, the white blur from the window; a pause of shifting and eternal shadows. "I almost think you forget you re a girl." Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. "I m twenty-nine," she remarked. "That s not so wildly girlish." Mrs. Wilcox smiled. "What makes you say that? Do you mean that I have been gauche and rude?" A shake of the head. "I only meant that I am fifty-one, and that to me both of you--Read it all in some book or other; I cannot put things clearly." "Oh, I ve got it--inexperience. I m no better than Helen, you mean, and yet I presume to advise her." "Yes. You have got it. Inexperience is the word." "Inexperience," repeated Margaret, in serious yet buoyant tones. "Of course, I have everything to learn--absolutely everything--just as much as Helen. Life s very difficult and full of surprises. At all events, I ve got as far as that. To be humble and kind, to go straight ahead, to love people rather than pity them, to remember the submerged--well, one can t do all these things at once, worse luck, because they re so contradictory. It s then that proportion comes in--to live by proportion. Don t BEGIN with proportion. Only prigs do that. Let proportion come in as a last resource, when the better things have failed, and a deadlock--Gracious me, I ve started preaching!" "Indeed, you put the difficulties of life splendidly," said Mrs. Wilcox, withdrawing her hand into the deeper shadows. "It is just what I should have liked to say about them myself." CHAPTER IX Mrs. Wilcox cannot be accused of giving Margaret much information about life. And Margaret, on the other hand, has made a fair show of modesty, and has pretended to an inexperience that she certainly did not feel. She had kept house for over ten years; she had entertained, almost with distinction; she had brought up a charming sister, and was bringing up a brother. Surely, if experience is attainable, she had attained it. Yet the little luncheon-party that she gave in Mrs. Wilcox s honour was not a success. The new friend did not blend with the "one or two delightful people" who had been asked to meet her, and the atmosphere was one of polite bewilderment. Her tastes were simple, her knowledge of culture slight, and she was not interested in the New English Art Club, nor in the dividing-line between Journalism and Literature, which was started as a conversational hare. The delightful people darted after it with cries of joy, Margaret leading them, and not till the meal was half over did they realise that the principal guest had taken no part in the chase. There was no common topic. Mrs. Wilcox, whose life had been spent in the service of husband and sons, had little to say to strangers who had never shared it, and whose age was half her own. Clever talk alarmed her, and withered her delicate imaginings; it was the social counterpart of a motor-car, all jerks, and she was a wisp of hay, a flower. Twice she deplored the weather, twice criticised the train service on the Great Northern Railway. They vigorously assented, and rushed on, and when she inquired whether there was any news of Helen, her hostess was too much occupied in placing Rothenstein to answer. The question was repeated: "I hope that your sister is safe in Germany by now." Margaret checked herself and said, "Yes, thank you; I heard on Tuesday." But the demon of vociferation was in her, and the next moment she was off again. "Only on Tuesday, for they live right away at Stettin. Did you ever know any one living at Stettin?" "Never," said Mrs. Wilcox gravely, while her neighbour, a young man low down in the Education Office, began to discuss what people who lived at Stettin ought to look like. Was there such a thing as Stettininity? Margaret swept on. "People at Stettin drop things into boats out of overhanging warehouses. At least, our cousins do, but aren t particularly rich. The town isn t interesting, except for a clock that rolls its eyes, and the view of the Oder, which truly is something special. Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, you would love the Oder! The river, or rather rivers--there seem to be dozens of them--are intense blue, and the plain they run through an intensest green." "Indeed! That sounds like a most beautiful view, Miss Schlegel." "So I say, but Helen, who will muddle things, says no, it
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they would be happy. "They have gone to Naples for their honeymoon." "Lucky people!" "I can hardly imagine Charles in Italy." "Doesn t he care for travelling?" "He likes travel, but he does see through foreigners so. What he enjoys most is a motor tour in England, and I think that would have carried the day if the weather had not been so abominable. His father gave him a car for a wedding present, which for the present is being stored at Howards End." "I suppose you have a garage there?" "Yes. My husband built a little one only last month, to the west of the house, not far from the wych-elm, in what used to be the paddock for the pony." The last words had an indescribable ring about them. "Where s the pony gone?" asked Margaret after a pause. "The pony? Oh, dead, ever so long ago." "The wych-elm I remember. Helen spoke of it as a very splendid tree." "It is the finest wych-elm in Hertfordshire. Did your sister tell you about the teeth?" "No." "Oh, it might interest you. There are pigs teeth stuck into the trunk, about four feet from the ground. The country people put them in long ago, and they think that if they chew a piece of the bark, it will cure the toothache. The teeth are almost grown over now, and no one comes to the tree." "I should. I love folklore and all festering superstitions." "Do you think that the tree really did cure toothache, if one believed in it?" "Of course it did. It would cure anything--once." "Certainly I remember cases--you see I lived at Howards End long, long before Mr. Wilcox knew it. I was born there." The conversation again shifted. At the time it seemed little more than aimless chatter. She was interested when her hostess explained that Howards End was her own property. She was bored when too minute an account was given of the Fussell family, of the anxieties of Charles concerning Naples, of the movements of Mr. Wilcox and Evie, who were motoring in Yorkshire. Margaret could not bear being bored. She grew inattentive, played with the photograph frame, dropped it, smashed Dolly s glass, apologised, was pardoned, cut her finger thereon, was pitied, and finally said she must be going--there was all the housekeeping to do, and she had to interview Tibby s riding-master. Then the curious note was struck again. "Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you for coming. You have cheered me up." "I m so glad!" "I--I wonder whether you ever think about yourself?" "I think of nothing else,"<|quote|>said Margaret, blushing, but letting her hand remain in that of the invalid.</|quote|>"I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg." "I M sure!" "I almost think--" "Yes?" asked Margaret, for there was a long pause--a pause that was somehow akin to the flicker of the fire, the quiver of the reading-lamp upon their hands, the white blur from the window; a pause of shifting and eternal shadows. "I almost think you forget you re a girl." Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. "I m twenty-nine," she remarked. "That s not so wildly girlish." Mrs. Wilcox smiled. "What makes you say that? Do you mean that I have been gauche and rude?" A shake of the head. "I only meant that I am fifty-one, and that to me both of you--Read it all in some book or other; I cannot put things clearly." "Oh, I ve got it--inexperience. I m no better than Helen, you mean, and yet I presume to advise her." "Yes. You have got it. Inexperience is the word." "Inexperience," repeated Margaret, in serious yet buoyant tones. "Of course, I have everything to learn--absolutely everything--just as much as Helen. Life s very difficult and full of surprises. At all events, I ve got as far as that. To be humble and kind, to go straight ahead, to love people rather than pity them, to remember the submerged--well, one can t do all these things at once, worse luck, because they re so contradictory. It s then that proportion comes in--to live by proportion. Don t BEGIN with proportion. Only prigs do that. Let proportion come in as a last
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Howards End
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I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect my scattered thoughts.
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No speaker
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seriously wrong. "What's the matter?"<|quote|>I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect my scattered thoughts.</|quote|>"We are afraid my mother
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at once that something was seriously wrong. "What's the matter?"<|quote|>I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect my scattered thoughts.</|quote|>"We are afraid my mother is very ill. She seems
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right wing, where the Inglethorps' rooms were situated. [Illustration] It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by Lawrence Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of his face told me at once that something was seriously wrong. "What's the matter?"<|quote|>I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect my scattered thoughts.</|quote|>"We are afraid my mother is very ill. She seems to be having some kind of fit. Unfortunately she has locked herself in." "I'll come at once." I sprang out of bed; and, pulling on a dressing-gown, followed Lawrence along the passage and the gallery to the right wing of
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one need sit up. I will take the latch-key." CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY To make this part of my story clear, I append the following plan of the first floor of Styles. The servants' rooms are reached through the door B. They have no communication with the right wing, where the Inglethorps' rooms were situated. [Illustration] It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by Lawrence Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of his face told me at once that something was seriously wrong. "What's the matter?"<|quote|>I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect my scattered thoughts.</|quote|>"We are afraid my mother is very ill. She seems to be having some kind of fit. Unfortunately she has locked herself in." "I'll come at once." I sprang out of bed; and, pulling on a dressing-gown, followed Lawrence along the passage and the gallery to the right wing of the house. John Cavendish joined us, and one or two of the servants were standing round in a state of awe-stricken excitement. Lawrence turned to his brother. "What do you think we had better do?" Never, I thought, had his indecision of character been more apparent. John rattled the handle
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The door into the hall was a wide one. I had risen when Cynthia did, John was close by me. There were therefore three witnesses who could swear that Mrs. Inglethorp was carrying her coffee, as yet untasted, in her hand. My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the presence of Dr. Bauerstein. It seemed to me the man would never go. He rose at last, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief. "I'll walk down to the village with you," said Mr. Inglethorp. "I must see our agent over those estate accounts." He turned to John. "No one need sit up. I will take the latch-key." CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY To make this part of my story clear, I append the following plan of the first floor of Styles. The servants' rooms are reached through the door B. They have no communication with the right wing, where the Inglethorps' rooms were situated. [Illustration] It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by Lawrence Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of his face told me at once that something was seriously wrong. "What's the matter?"<|quote|>I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect my scattered thoughts.</|quote|>"We are afraid my mother is very ill. She seems to be having some kind of fit. Unfortunately she has locked herself in." "I'll come at once." I sprang out of bed; and, pulling on a dressing-gown, followed Lawrence along the passage and the gallery to the right wing of the house. John Cavendish joined us, and one or two of the servants were standing round in a state of awe-stricken excitement. Lawrence turned to his brother. "What do you think we had better do?" Never, I thought, had his indecision of character been more apparent. John rattled the handle of Mrs. Inglethorp's door violently, but with no effect. It was obviously locked or bolted on the inside. The whole household was aroused by now. The most alarming sounds were audible from the interior of the room. Clearly something must be done. "Try going through Mr. Inglethorp's room, sir," cried Dorcas. "Oh, the poor mistress!" Suddenly I realized that Alfred Inglethorp was not with us that he alone had given no sign of his presence. John opened the door of his room. It was pitch dark, but Lawrence was following with the candle, and by its feeble light we saw
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I glanced jealously at Mary Cavendish, but she seemed quite undisturbed, the delicate pallor of her cheeks did not vary. In a few moments, Alfred Inglethorp had ushered the doctor in, the latter laughing, and protesting that he was in no fit state for a drawing-room. In truth, he presented a sorry spectacle, being literally plastered with mud. "What have you been doing, doctor?" cried Mrs. Cavendish. "I must make my apologies," said the doctor. "I did not really mean to come in, but Mr. Inglethorp insisted." "Well, Bauerstein, you are in a plight," said John, strolling in from the hall. "Have some coffee, and tell us what you have been up to." "Thank you, I will." He laughed rather ruefully, as he described how he had discovered a very rare species of fern in an inaccessible place, and in his efforts to obtain it had lost his footing, and slipped ignominiously into a neighbouring pond. "The sun soon dried me off," he added, "but I'm afraid my appearance is very disreputable." At this juncture, Mrs. Inglethorp called to Cynthia from the hall, and the girl ran out. "Just carry up my despatch-case, will you, dear? I'm going to bed." The door into the hall was a wide one. I had risen when Cynthia did, John was close by me. There were therefore three witnesses who could swear that Mrs. Inglethorp was carrying her coffee, as yet untasted, in her hand. My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the presence of Dr. Bauerstein. It seemed to me the man would never go. He rose at last, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief. "I'll walk down to the village with you," said Mr. Inglethorp. "I must see our agent over those estate accounts." He turned to John. "No one need sit up. I will take the latch-key." CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY To make this part of my story clear, I append the following plan of the first floor of Styles. The servants' rooms are reached through the door B. They have no communication with the right wing, where the Inglethorps' rooms were situated. [Illustration] It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by Lawrence Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of his face told me at once that something was seriously wrong. "What's the matter?"<|quote|>I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect my scattered thoughts.</|quote|>"We are afraid my mother is very ill. She seems to be having some kind of fit. Unfortunately she has locked herself in." "I'll come at once." I sprang out of bed; and, pulling on a dressing-gown, followed Lawrence along the passage and the gallery to the right wing of the house. John Cavendish joined us, and one or two of the servants were standing round in a state of awe-stricken excitement. Lawrence turned to his brother. "What do you think we had better do?" Never, I thought, had his indecision of character been more apparent. John rattled the handle of Mrs. Inglethorp's door violently, but with no effect. It was obviously locked or bolted on the inside. The whole household was aroused by now. The most alarming sounds were audible from the interior of the room. Clearly something must be done. "Try going through Mr. Inglethorp's room, sir," cried Dorcas. "Oh, the poor mistress!" Suddenly I realized that Alfred Inglethorp was not with us that he alone had given no sign of his presence. John opened the door of his room. It was pitch dark, but Lawrence was following with the candle, and by its feeble light we saw that the bed had not been slept in, and that there was no sign of the room having been occupied. We went straight to the connecting door. That, too, was locked or bolted on the inside. What was to be done? "Oh, dear, sir," cried Dorcas, wringing her hands, "what ever shall we do?" "We must try and break the door in, I suppose. It'll be a tough job, though. Here, let one of the maids go down and wake Baily and tell him to go for Dr. Wilkins at once. Now then, we'll have a try at the door. Half a moment, though, isn't there a door into Miss Cynthia's rooms?" "Yes, sir, but that's always bolted. It's never been undone." "Well, we might just see." He ran rapidly down the corridor to Cynthia's room. Mary Cavendish was there, shaking the girl who must have been an unusually sound sleeper and trying to wake her. In a moment or two he was back. "No good. That's bolted too. We must break in the door. I think this one is a shade less solid than the one in the passage." We strained and heaved together. The framework of the door
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row?" "Between Aunt Emily and _him_. I do hope she's found him out at last!" "Was Dorcas there, then?" "Of course not. She" happened to be near the door'. "It was a real old bust-up. I do wish I knew what it was all about." I thought of Mrs. Raikes's gipsy face, and Evelyn Howard's warnings, but wisely decided to hold my peace, whilst Cynthia exhausted every possible hypothesis, and cheerfully hoped, "Aunt Emily will send him away, and will never speak to him again." I was anxious to get hold of John, but he was nowhere to be seen. Evidently something very momentous had occurred that afternoon. I tried to forget the few words I had overheard; but, do what I would, I could not dismiss them altogether from my mind. What was Mary Cavendish's concern in the matter? Mr. Inglethorp was in the drawing-room when I came down to supper. His face was impassive as ever, and the strange unreality of the man struck me afresh. Mrs. Inglethorp came down last. She still looked agitated, and during the meal there was a somewhat constrained silence. Inglethorp was unusually quiet. As a rule, he surrounded his wife with little attentions, placing a cushion at her back, and altogether playing the part of the devoted husband. Immediately after supper, Mrs. Inglethorp retired to her boudoir again. "Send my coffee in here, Mary," she called. "I've just five minutes to catch the post." Cynthia and I went and sat by the open window in the drawing-room. Mary Cavendish brought our coffee to us. She seemed excited. "Do you young people want lights, or do you enjoy the twilight?" she asked. "Will you take Mrs. Inglethorp her coffee, Cynthia? I will pour it out." "Do not trouble, Mary," said Inglethorp. "I will take it to Emily." He poured it out, and went out of the room carrying it carefully. Lawrence followed him, and Mrs. Cavendish sat down by us. We three sat for some time in silence. It was a glorious night, hot and still. Mrs. Cavendish fanned herself gently with a palm leaf. "It's almost too hot," she murmured. "We shall have a thunderstorm." Alas, that these harmonious moments can never endure! My paradise was rudely shattered by the sound of a well known, and heartily disliked, voice in the hall. "Dr. Bauerstein!" exclaimed Cynthia. "What a funny time to come." I glanced jealously at Mary Cavendish, but she seemed quite undisturbed, the delicate pallor of her cheeks did not vary. In a few moments, Alfred Inglethorp had ushered the doctor in, the latter laughing, and protesting that he was in no fit state for a drawing-room. In truth, he presented a sorry spectacle, being literally plastered with mud. "What have you been doing, doctor?" cried Mrs. Cavendish. "I must make my apologies," said the doctor. "I did not really mean to come in, but Mr. Inglethorp insisted." "Well, Bauerstein, you are in a plight," said John, strolling in from the hall. "Have some coffee, and tell us what you have been up to." "Thank you, I will." He laughed rather ruefully, as he described how he had discovered a very rare species of fern in an inaccessible place, and in his efforts to obtain it had lost his footing, and slipped ignominiously into a neighbouring pond. "The sun soon dried me off," he added, "but I'm afraid my appearance is very disreputable." At this juncture, Mrs. Inglethorp called to Cynthia from the hall, and the girl ran out. "Just carry up my despatch-case, will you, dear? I'm going to bed." The door into the hall was a wide one. I had risen when Cynthia did, John was close by me. There were therefore three witnesses who could swear that Mrs. Inglethorp was carrying her coffee, as yet untasted, in her hand. My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the presence of Dr. Bauerstein. It seemed to me the man would never go. He rose at last, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief. "I'll walk down to the village with you," said Mr. Inglethorp. "I must see our agent over those estate accounts." He turned to John. "No one need sit up. I will take the latch-key." CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY To make this part of my story clear, I append the following plan of the first floor of Styles. The servants' rooms are reached through the door B. They have no communication with the right wing, where the Inglethorps' rooms were situated. [Illustration] It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by Lawrence Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of his face told me at once that something was seriously wrong. "What's the matter?"<|quote|>I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect my scattered thoughts.</|quote|>"We are afraid my mother is very ill. She seems to be having some kind of fit. Unfortunately she has locked herself in." "I'll come at once." I sprang out of bed; and, pulling on a dressing-gown, followed Lawrence along the passage and the gallery to the right wing of the house. John Cavendish joined us, and one or two of the servants were standing round in a state of awe-stricken excitement. Lawrence turned to his brother. "What do you think we had better do?" Never, I thought, had his indecision of character been more apparent. John rattled the handle of Mrs. Inglethorp's door violently, but with no effect. It was obviously locked or bolted on the inside. The whole household was aroused by now. The most alarming sounds were audible from the interior of the room. Clearly something must be done. "Try going through Mr. Inglethorp's room, sir," cried Dorcas. "Oh, the poor mistress!" Suddenly I realized that Alfred Inglethorp was not with us that he alone had given no sign of his presence. John opened the door of his room. It was pitch dark, but Lawrence was following with the candle, and by its feeble light we saw that the bed had not been slept in, and that there was no sign of the room having been occupied. We went straight to the connecting door. That, too, was locked or bolted on the inside. What was to be done? "Oh, dear, sir," cried Dorcas, wringing her hands, "what ever shall we do?" "We must try and break the door in, I suppose. It'll be a tough job, though. Here, let one of the maids go down and wake Baily and tell him to go for Dr. Wilkins at once. Now then, we'll have a try at the door. Half a moment, though, isn't there a door into Miss Cynthia's rooms?" "Yes, sir, but that's always bolted. It's never been undone." "Well, we might just see." He ran rapidly down the corridor to Cynthia's room. Mary Cavendish was there, shaking the girl who must have been an unusually sound sleeper and trying to wake her. In a moment or two he was back. "No good. That's bolted too. We must break in the door. I think this one is a shade less solid than the one in the passage." We strained and heaved together. The framework of the door was solid, and for a long time it resisted our efforts, but at last we felt it give beneath our weight, and finally, with a resounding crash, it was burst open. We stumbled in together, Lawrence still holding his candle. Mrs. Inglethorp was lying on the bed, her whole form agitated by violent convulsions, in one of which she must have overturned the table beside her. As we entered, however, her limbs relaxed, and she fell back upon the pillows. John strode across the room, and lit the gas. Turning to Annie, one of the housemaids, he sent her downstairs to the dining-room for brandy. Then he went across to his mother whilst I unbolted the door that gave on the corridor. I turned to Lawrence, to suggest that I had better leave them now that there was no further need of my services, but the words were frozen on my lips. Never have I seen such a ghastly look on any man's face. He was white as chalk, the candle he held in his shaking hand was sputtering onto the carpet, and his eyes, petrified with terror, or some such kindred emotion, stared fixedly over my head at a point on the further wall. It was as though he had seen something that turned him to stone. I instinctively followed the direction of his eyes, but I could see nothing unusual. The still feebly flickering ashes in the grate, and the row of prim ornaments on the mantelpiece, were surely harmless enough. The violence of Mrs. Inglethorp's attack seemed to be passing. She was able to speak in short gasps. "Better now very sudden stupid of me to lock myself in." A shadow fell on the bed and, looking up, I saw Mary Cavendish standing near the door with her arm around Cynthia. She seemed to be supporting the girl, who looked utterly dazed and unlike herself. Her face was heavily flushed, and she yawned repeatedly. "Poor Cynthia is quite frightened," said Mrs. Cavendish in a low clear voice. She herself, I noticed, was dressed in her white land smock. Then it must be later than I thought. I saw that a faint streak of daylight was showing through the curtains of the windows, and that the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to close upon five o'clock. A strangled cry from the bed startled me. A fresh access of
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off," he added, "but I'm afraid my appearance is very disreputable." At this juncture, Mrs. Inglethorp called to Cynthia from the hall, and the girl ran out. "Just carry up my despatch-case, will you, dear? I'm going to bed." The door into the hall was a wide one. I had risen when Cynthia did, John was close by me. There were therefore three witnesses who could swear that Mrs. Inglethorp was carrying her coffee, as yet untasted, in her hand. My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the presence of Dr. Bauerstein. It seemed to me the man would never go. He rose at last, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief. "I'll walk down to the village with you," said Mr. Inglethorp. "I must see our agent over those estate accounts." He turned to John. "No one need sit up. I will take the latch-key." CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY To make this part of my story clear, I append the following plan of the first floor of Styles. The servants' rooms are reached through the door B. They have no communication with the right wing, where the Inglethorps' rooms were situated. [Illustration] It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by Lawrence Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of his face told me at once that something was seriously wrong. "What's the matter?"<|quote|>I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect my scattered thoughts.</|quote|>"We are afraid my mother is very ill. She seems to be having some kind of fit. Unfortunately she has locked herself in." "I'll come at once." I sprang out of bed; and, pulling on a dressing-gown, followed Lawrence along the passage and the gallery to the right wing of the house. John Cavendish joined us, and one or two of the servants were standing round in a state of awe-stricken excitement. Lawrence turned to his brother. "What do you think we had better do?" Never, I thought, had his indecision of character been more apparent. John rattled the handle of Mrs. Inglethorp's door violently, but with no effect. It was obviously locked or bolted on the inside. The whole household was aroused by now. The most alarming sounds were audible from the interior of the room. Clearly something must be done. "Try going through Mr. Inglethorp's room, sir," cried Dorcas. "Oh, the poor mistress!" Suddenly I realized that Alfred Inglethorp was not with us that he alone had given no sign of his presence. John opened the door of his room. It was pitch dark, but Lawrence was following with the candle, and by its feeble light we saw that the bed had not been slept in, and that there was no sign of the room having been occupied. We went straight to the connecting door. That, too, was locked or bolted on the inside. What was to be done? "Oh, dear, sir," cried Dorcas, wringing her hands, "what ever shall we do?" "We must try and break the door in, I suppose. It'll be a tough job, though. Here, let one of the maids go down and wake Baily and tell him to go for Dr. Wilkins at once. Now then, we'll have a try at the door. Half a moment, though, isn't there a door into Miss Cynthia's rooms?" "Yes, sir, but that's always bolted. It's never been undone." "Well, we might just see." He ran rapidly down the corridor to Cynthia's room. Mary Cavendish was there, shaking the girl who must have been an unusually sound sleeper and trying to wake her. In a moment or two he was back. "No good. That's bolted too. We must break in the door. I think this one is a shade less solid than the one in the passage." We strained and heaved together. The framework of the door was solid, and for a long time it resisted our efforts, but at last we felt
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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"You talk to them about their children, if they have any, or their accomplishments painting, gardening, poetry they re so delightfully sympathetic. Seriously, you know I think a woman s opinion of one s poetry is always worth having. Don t ask them for their reasons. Just ask them for their feelings. Katharine, for example"
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William Rodney
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find any difficulty," Rodney chuckled.<|quote|>"You talk to them about their children, if they have any, or their accomplishments painting, gardening, poetry they re so delightfully sympathetic. Seriously, you know I think a woman s opinion of one s poetry is always worth having. Don t ask them for their reasons. Just ask them for their feelings. Katharine, for example"</|quote|>"Katharine," said Henry, with an
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met her." "I don t find any difficulty," Rodney chuckled.<|quote|>"You talk to them about their children, if they have any, or their accomplishments painting, gardening, poetry they re so delightfully sympathetic. Seriously, you know I think a woman s opinion of one s poetry is always worth having. Don t ask them for their reasons. Just ask them for their feelings. Katharine, for example"</|quote|>"Katharine," said Henry, with an emphasis upon the name, almost
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one, except a rather singular character, afford to be so ridiculously vain? "I don t think I should get on in that society," he replied. "I don t think I should know what to say to Lady Rose if I met her." "I don t find any difficulty," Rodney chuckled.<|quote|>"You talk to them about their children, if they have any, or their accomplishments painting, gardening, poetry they re so delightfully sympathetic. Seriously, you know I think a woman s opinion of one s poetry is always worth having. Don t ask them for their reasons. Just ask them for their feelings. Katharine, for example"</|quote|>"Katharine," said Henry, with an emphasis upon the name, almost as if he resented Rodney s use of it, "Katharine is very unlike most women." "Quite," Rodney agreed. "She is" He seemed about to describe her, and he hesitated for a long time. "She s looking very well," he stated,
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could not help liking Rodney nevertheless, and this appeared to him strange, for he was fastidious, and such words in another mouth would have condemned the speaker irreparably. He began, in short, to wonder what kind of creature this man who was to marry his cousin might be. Could any one, except a rather singular character, afford to be so ridiculously vain? "I don t think I should get on in that society," he replied. "I don t think I should know what to say to Lady Rose if I met her." "I don t find any difficulty," Rodney chuckled.<|quote|>"You talk to them about their children, if they have any, or their accomplishments painting, gardening, poetry they re so delightfully sympathetic. Seriously, you know I think a woman s opinion of one s poetry is always worth having. Don t ask them for their reasons. Just ask them for their feelings. Katharine, for example"</|quote|>"Katharine," said Henry, with an emphasis upon the name, almost as if he resented Rodney s use of it, "Katharine is very unlike most women." "Quite," Rodney agreed. "She is" He seemed about to describe her, and he hesitated for a long time. "She s looking very well," he stated, or rather almost inquired, in a different tone from that in which he had been speaking. Henry bent his head. "But, as a family, you re given to moods, eh?" "Not Katharine," said Henry, with decision. "Not Katharine," Rodney repeated, as if he weighed the meaning of the words. "No,
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shortly. But Rodney, now started on an agreeable current of reflection, could not resist the temptation of pursuing it a little further. He appeared to himself as a man who moved easily in very good society, and knew enough about the true values of life to be himself above it. "Oh, but you should," he went on. "It s well worth staying there, anyhow, once a year. They make one very comfortable, and the women are ravishing." "The women?" Henry thought to himself, with disgust. "What could any woman see in you?" His tolerance was rapidly becoming exhausted, but he could not help liking Rodney nevertheless, and this appeared to him strange, for he was fastidious, and such words in another mouth would have condemned the speaker irreparably. He began, in short, to wonder what kind of creature this man who was to marry his cousin might be. Could any one, except a rather singular character, afford to be so ridiculously vain? "I don t think I should get on in that society," he replied. "I don t think I should know what to say to Lady Rose if I met her." "I don t find any difficulty," Rodney chuckled.<|quote|>"You talk to them about their children, if they have any, or their accomplishments painting, gardening, poetry they re so delightfully sympathetic. Seriously, you know I think a woman s opinion of one s poetry is always worth having. Don t ask them for their reasons. Just ask them for their feelings. Katharine, for example"</|quote|>"Katharine," said Henry, with an emphasis upon the name, almost as if he resented Rodney s use of it, "Katharine is very unlike most women." "Quite," Rodney agreed. "She is" He seemed about to describe her, and he hesitated for a long time. "She s looking very well," he stated, or rather almost inquired, in a different tone from that in which he had been speaking. Henry bent his head. "But, as a family, you re given to moods, eh?" "Not Katharine," said Henry, with decision. "Not Katharine," Rodney repeated, as if he weighed the meaning of the words. "No, perhaps you re right. But her engagement has changed her. Naturally," he added, "one would expect that to be so." He waited for Henry to confirm this statement, but Henry remained silent. "Katharine has had a difficult life, in some ways," he continued. "I expect that marriage will be good for her. She has great powers." "Great," said Henry, with decision. "Yes but now what direction d you think they take?" Rodney had completely dropped his pose as a man of the world, and seemed to be asking Henry to help him in a difficulty. "I don t know," Henry
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reputation as a horseman, anyhow," he added, desiring to help Rodney in his effort to recover his complacency. "Oh, I love riding," Rodney replied. "Could I get a horse down here? Stupid of me! I forgot to bring any clothes. I can t imagine, though, who told you I was anything of a rider?" To tell the truth, Henry labored under the same difficulty; he did not wish to introduce Katharine s name, and, therefore, he replied vaguely that he had always heard that Rodney was a great rider. In truth, he had heard very little about him, one way or another, accepting him as a figure often to be found in the background at his aunt s house, and inevitably, though inexplicably, engaged to his cousin. "I don t care much for shooting," Rodney continued; "but one has to do it, unless one wants to be altogether out of things. I dare say there s some very pretty country round here. I stayed once at Bolham Hall. Young Cranthorpe was up with you, wasn t he? He married old Lord Bolham s daughter. Very nice people in their way." "I don t mix in that society," Henry remarked, rather shortly. But Rodney, now started on an agreeable current of reflection, could not resist the temptation of pursuing it a little further. He appeared to himself as a man who moved easily in very good society, and knew enough about the true values of life to be himself above it. "Oh, but you should," he went on. "It s well worth staying there, anyhow, once a year. They make one very comfortable, and the women are ravishing." "The women?" Henry thought to himself, with disgust. "What could any woman see in you?" His tolerance was rapidly becoming exhausted, but he could not help liking Rodney nevertheless, and this appeared to him strange, for he was fastidious, and such words in another mouth would have condemned the speaker irreparably. He began, in short, to wonder what kind of creature this man who was to marry his cousin might be. Could any one, except a rather singular character, afford to be so ridiculously vain? "I don t think I should get on in that society," he replied. "I don t think I should know what to say to Lady Rose if I met her." "I don t find any difficulty," Rodney chuckled.<|quote|>"You talk to them about their children, if they have any, or their accomplishments painting, gardening, poetry they re so delightfully sympathetic. Seriously, you know I think a woman s opinion of one s poetry is always worth having. Don t ask them for their reasons. Just ask them for their feelings. Katharine, for example"</|quote|>"Katharine," said Henry, with an emphasis upon the name, almost as if he resented Rodney s use of it, "Katharine is very unlike most women." "Quite," Rodney agreed. "She is" He seemed about to describe her, and he hesitated for a long time. "She s looking very well," he stated, or rather almost inquired, in a different tone from that in which he had been speaking. Henry bent his head. "But, as a family, you re given to moods, eh?" "Not Katharine," said Henry, with decision. "Not Katharine," Rodney repeated, as if he weighed the meaning of the words. "No, perhaps you re right. But her engagement has changed her. Naturally," he added, "one would expect that to be so." He waited for Henry to confirm this statement, but Henry remained silent. "Katharine has had a difficult life, in some ways," he continued. "I expect that marriage will be good for her. She has great powers." "Great," said Henry, with decision. "Yes but now what direction d you think they take?" Rodney had completely dropped his pose as a man of the world, and seemed to be asking Henry to help him in a difficulty. "I don t know," Henry hesitated cautiously. "D you think children a household that sort of thing d you think that ll satisfy her? Mind, I m out all day." "She would certainly be very competent," Henry stated. "Oh, she s wonderfully competent," said Rodney. "But I get absorbed in my poetry. Well, Katharine hasn t got that. She admires my poetry, you know, but that wouldn t be enough for her?" "No," said Henry. He paused. "I think you re right," he added, as if he were summing up his thoughts. "Katharine hasn t found herself yet. Life isn t altogether real to her yet I sometimes think" "Yes?" Rodney inquired, as if he were eager for Henry to continue. "That is what I" he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sentence was not finished, for the door opened, and they were interrupted by Henry s younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry s relief, for he had already said more than he liked. CHAPTER XVII When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmas week, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-up in Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retired from
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She looked back, and said in a very commanding tone, and with an expression of authority upon her face: "It s useless for you to come. I shall go to bed in ten minutes. Good night." She nodded to them both, but Henry could not help noticing that her last nod was in his direction. Rodney sat down rather heavily. His mortification was so obvious that Henry scarcely liked to open the conversation with some remark of a literary character. On the other hand, unless he checked him, Rodney might begin to talk about his feelings, and irreticence is apt to be extremely painful, at any rate in prospect. He therefore adopted a middle course; that is to say, he wrote a note upon the fly-leaf of his book, which ran, "The situation is becoming most uncomfortable." This he decorated with those flourishes and decorative borders which grow of themselves upon these occasions; and as he did so, he thought to himself that whatever Katharine s difficulties might be, they did not justify her behavior. She had spoken with a kind of brutality which suggested that, whether it is natural or assumed, women have a peculiar blindness to the feelings of men. The penciling of this note gave Rodney time to recover himself. Perhaps, for he was a very vain man, he was more hurt that Henry had seen him rebuffed than by the rebuff itself. He was in love with Katharine, and vanity is not decreased but increased by love; especially, one may hazard, in the presence of one s own sex. But Rodney enjoyed the courage which springs from that laughable and lovable defect, and when he had mastered his first impulse, in some way to make a fool of himself, he drew inspiration from the perfect fit of his evening dress. He chose a cigarette, tapped it on the back of his hand, displayed his exquisite pumps on the edge of the fender, and summoned his self-respect. "You ve several big estates round here, Otway," he began. "Any good hunting? Let me see, what pack would it be? Who s your great man?" "Sir William Budge, the sugar king, has the biggest estate. He bought out poor Stanham, who went bankrupt." "Which Stanham would that be? Verney or Alfred?" "Alfred.... I don t hunt myself. You re a great huntsman, aren t you? You have a great reputation as a horseman, anyhow," he added, desiring to help Rodney in his effort to recover his complacency. "Oh, I love riding," Rodney replied. "Could I get a horse down here? Stupid of me! I forgot to bring any clothes. I can t imagine, though, who told you I was anything of a rider?" To tell the truth, Henry labored under the same difficulty; he did not wish to introduce Katharine s name, and, therefore, he replied vaguely that he had always heard that Rodney was a great rider. In truth, he had heard very little about him, one way or another, accepting him as a figure often to be found in the background at his aunt s house, and inevitably, though inexplicably, engaged to his cousin. "I don t care much for shooting," Rodney continued; "but one has to do it, unless one wants to be altogether out of things. I dare say there s some very pretty country round here. I stayed once at Bolham Hall. Young Cranthorpe was up with you, wasn t he? He married old Lord Bolham s daughter. Very nice people in their way." "I don t mix in that society," Henry remarked, rather shortly. But Rodney, now started on an agreeable current of reflection, could not resist the temptation of pursuing it a little further. He appeared to himself as a man who moved easily in very good society, and knew enough about the true values of life to be himself above it. "Oh, but you should," he went on. "It s well worth staying there, anyhow, once a year. They make one very comfortable, and the women are ravishing." "The women?" Henry thought to himself, with disgust. "What could any woman see in you?" His tolerance was rapidly becoming exhausted, but he could not help liking Rodney nevertheless, and this appeared to him strange, for he was fastidious, and such words in another mouth would have condemned the speaker irreparably. He began, in short, to wonder what kind of creature this man who was to marry his cousin might be. Could any one, except a rather singular character, afford to be so ridiculously vain? "I don t think I should get on in that society," he replied. "I don t think I should know what to say to Lady Rose if I met her." "I don t find any difficulty," Rodney chuckled.<|quote|>"You talk to them about their children, if they have any, or their accomplishments painting, gardening, poetry they re so delightfully sympathetic. Seriously, you know I think a woman s opinion of one s poetry is always worth having. Don t ask them for their reasons. Just ask them for their feelings. Katharine, for example"</|quote|>"Katharine," said Henry, with an emphasis upon the name, almost as if he resented Rodney s use of it, "Katharine is very unlike most women." "Quite," Rodney agreed. "She is" He seemed about to describe her, and he hesitated for a long time. "She s looking very well," he stated, or rather almost inquired, in a different tone from that in which he had been speaking. Henry bent his head. "But, as a family, you re given to moods, eh?" "Not Katharine," said Henry, with decision. "Not Katharine," Rodney repeated, as if he weighed the meaning of the words. "No, perhaps you re right. But her engagement has changed her. Naturally," he added, "one would expect that to be so." He waited for Henry to confirm this statement, but Henry remained silent. "Katharine has had a difficult life, in some ways," he continued. "I expect that marriage will be good for her. She has great powers." "Great," said Henry, with decision. "Yes but now what direction d you think they take?" Rodney had completely dropped his pose as a man of the world, and seemed to be asking Henry to help him in a difficulty. "I don t know," Henry hesitated cautiously. "D you think children a household that sort of thing d you think that ll satisfy her? Mind, I m out all day." "She would certainly be very competent," Henry stated. "Oh, she s wonderfully competent," said Rodney. "But I get absorbed in my poetry. Well, Katharine hasn t got that. She admires my poetry, you know, but that wouldn t be enough for her?" "No," said Henry. He paused. "I think you re right," he added, as if he were summing up his thoughts. "Katharine hasn t found herself yet. Life isn t altogether real to her yet I sometimes think" "Yes?" Rodney inquired, as if he were eager for Henry to continue. "That is what I" he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sentence was not finished, for the door opened, and they were interrupted by Henry s younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry s relief, for he had already said more than he liked. CHAPTER XVII When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmas week, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-up in Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retired from service under the Government of India with a pension that was not adequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly was not adequate to his ambitions. His career had not come up to his expectations, and although he was a very fine, white-whiskered, mahogany-colored old man to look at, and had laid down a very choice cellar of good reading and good stories, you could not long remain ignorant of the fact that some thunder-storm had soured them; he had a grievance. This grievance dated back to the middle years of the last century, when, owing to some official intrigue, his merits had been passed over in a disgraceful manner in favor of another, his junior. The rights and wrongs of the story, presuming that they had some existence in fact, were no longer clearly known to his wife and children; but this disappointment had played a very large part in their lives, and had poisoned the life of Sir Francis much as a disappointment in love is said to poison the whole life of a woman. Long brooding on his failure, continual arrangement and rearrangement of his deserts and rebuffs, had made Sir Francis much of an egoist, and in his retirement his temper became increasingly difficult and exacting. His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods that she was practically useless to him. He made his daughter Eleanor into his chief confidante, and the prime of her life was being rapidly consumed by her father. To her he dictated the memoirs which were to avenge his memory, and she had to assure him constantly that his treatment had been a disgrace. Already, at the age of thirty-five, her cheeks were whitening as her mother s had whitened, but for her there would be no memories of Indian suns and Indian rivers, and clamor of children in a nursery; she would have very little of substance to think about when she sat, as Lady Otway now sat, knitting white wool, with her eyes fixed almost perpetually upon the same embroidered bird upon the same fire-screen. But then Lady Otway was one of the people for whom the great make-believe game of English social life has been invented; she spent most of her time in pretending to herself and her neighbors that she was a dignified, important, much-occupied person, of considerable social standing and sufficient wealth.
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did not wish to introduce Katharine s name, and, therefore, he replied vaguely that he had always heard that Rodney was a great rider. In truth, he had heard very little about him, one way or another, accepting him as a figure often to be found in the background at his aunt s house, and inevitably, though inexplicably, engaged to his cousin. "I don t care much for shooting," Rodney continued; "but one has to do it, unless one wants to be altogether out of things. I dare say there s some very pretty country round here. I stayed once at Bolham Hall. Young Cranthorpe was up with you, wasn t he? He married old Lord Bolham s daughter. Very nice people in their way." "I don t mix in that society," Henry remarked, rather shortly. But Rodney, now started on an agreeable current of reflection, could not resist the temptation of pursuing it a little further. He appeared to himself as a man who moved easily in very good society, and knew enough about the true values of life to be himself above it. "Oh, but you should," he went on. "It s well worth staying there, anyhow, once a year. They make one very comfortable, and the women are ravishing." "The women?" Henry thought to himself, with disgust. "What could any woman see in you?" His tolerance was rapidly becoming exhausted, but he could not help liking Rodney nevertheless, and this appeared to him strange, for he was fastidious, and such words in another mouth would have condemned the speaker irreparably. He began, in short, to wonder what kind of creature this man who was to marry his cousin might be. Could any one, except a rather singular character, afford to be so ridiculously vain? "I don t think I should get on in that society," he replied. "I don t think I should know what to say to Lady Rose if I met her." "I don t find any difficulty," Rodney chuckled.<|quote|>"You talk to them about their children, if they have any, or their accomplishments painting, gardening, poetry they re so delightfully sympathetic. Seriously, you know I think a woman s opinion of one s poetry is always worth having. Don t ask them for their reasons. Just ask them for their feelings. Katharine, for example"</|quote|>"Katharine," said Henry, with an emphasis upon the name, almost as if he resented Rodney s use of it, "Katharine is very unlike most women." "Quite," Rodney agreed. "She is" He seemed about to describe her, and he hesitated for a long time. "She s looking very well," he stated, or rather almost inquired, in a different tone from that in which he had been speaking. Henry bent his head. "But, as a family, you re given to moods, eh?" "Not Katharine," said Henry, with decision. "Not Katharine," Rodney repeated, as if he weighed the meaning of the words. "No, perhaps you re right. But her engagement has changed her. Naturally," he added, "one would expect that to be so." He waited for Henry to confirm this statement, but Henry remained silent. "Katharine has had a difficult life, in some ways," he continued. "I expect that marriage will be good for her. She has great powers." "Great," said Henry, with decision. "Yes but now what direction d you think they take?" Rodney had completely dropped his pose as a man of the world, and seemed to be asking Henry to help him in a difficulty. "I don t know," Henry hesitated cautiously. "D you think children
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Night And Day
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THE END
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No speaker
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again, who knows? And then"<|quote|>THE END</|quote|>
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friend. We may hunt together again, who knows? And then"<|quote|>THE END</|quote|>
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love is a sorry spectacle. Now Cynthia had looked charming. I sighed. "What is it, _mon ami?_" "Nothing," I said sadly. "They are two delightful women!" "And neither of them is for you?" finished Poirot. "Never mind. Console yourself, my friend. We may hunt together again, who knows? And then"<|quote|>THE END</|quote|>
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she has discovered Monsieur Lawrence does not dislike her as much as she thought," replied Poirot philosophically. "But" "Here he is." Lawrence at that moment passed the door. "Eh! Monsieur Lawrence," called Poirot. "We must congratulate you, is it not so?" Lawrence blushed, and then smiled awkwardly. A man in love is a sorry spectacle. Now Cynthia had looked charming. I sighed. "What is it, _mon ami?_" "Nothing," I said sadly. "They are two delightful women!" "And neither of them is for you?" finished Poirot. "Never mind. Console yourself, my friend. We may hunt together again, who knows? And then"<|quote|>THE END</|quote|>
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greatest thing in the world." Suddenly, there was a tap at the door, and Cynthia peeped in. "I I only" "Come in," I said, springing up. She came in, but did not sit down. "I only wanted to tell you something" "Yes?" Cynthia fidgeted with a little tassel for some moments, then, suddenly exclaiming: "You dears!" kissed first me and then Poirot, and rushed out of the room again. "What on earth does this mean?" I asked, surprised. It was very nice to be kissed by Cynthia, but the publicity of the salute rather impaired the pleasure. "It means that she has discovered Monsieur Lawrence does not dislike her as much as she thought," replied Poirot philosophically. "But" "Here he is." Lawrence at that moment passed the door. "Eh! Monsieur Lawrence," called Poirot. "We must congratulate you, is it not so?" Lawrence blushed, and then smiled awkwardly. A man in love is a sorry spectacle. Now Cynthia had looked charming. I sighed. "What is it, _mon ami?_" "Nothing," I said sadly. "They are two delightful women!" "And neither of them is for you?" finished Poirot. "Never mind. Console yourself, my friend. We may hunt together again, who knows? And then"<|quote|>THE END</|quote|>
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favour of a woman's happiness'. Nothing but the great danger through which they have passed could have brought these two proud souls together again." I looked at Poirot in silent amazement. The colossal cheek of the little man! Who on earth but Poirot would have thought of a trial for murder as a restorer of conjugal happiness! "I perceive your thoughts, _mon ami_," said Poirot, smiling at me. "No one but Hercule Poirot would have attempted such a thing! And you are wrong in condemning it. The happiness of one man and one woman is the greatest thing in all the world." His words took me back to earlier events. I remembered Mary as she lay white and exhausted on the sofa, listening, listening. There had come the sound of the bell below. She had started up. Poirot had opened the door, and meeting her agonized eyes had nodded gently. "Yes, madame," he said. "I have brought him back to you." He had stood aside, and as I went out I had seen the look in Mary's eyes, as John Cavendish had caught his wife in his arms. "Perhaps you are right, Poirot," I said gently. "Yes, it is the greatest thing in the world." Suddenly, there was a tap at the door, and Cynthia peeped in. "I I only" "Come in," I said, springing up. She came in, but did not sit down. "I only wanted to tell you something" "Yes?" Cynthia fidgeted with a little tassel for some moments, then, suddenly exclaiming: "You dears!" kissed first me and then Poirot, and rushed out of the room again. "What on earth does this mean?" I asked, surprised. It was very nice to be kissed by Cynthia, but the publicity of the salute rather impaired the pleasure. "It means that she has discovered Monsieur Lawrence does not dislike her as much as she thought," replied Poirot philosophically. "But" "Here he is." Lawrence at that moment passed the door. "Eh! Monsieur Lawrence," called Poirot. "We must congratulate you, is it not so?" Lawrence blushed, and then smiled awkwardly. A man in love is a sorry spectacle. Now Cynthia had looked charming. I sighed. "What is it, _mon ami?_" "Nothing," I said sadly. "They are two delightful women!" "And neither of them is for you?" finished Poirot. "Never mind. Console yourself, my friend. We may hunt together again, who knows? And then"<|quote|>THE END</|quote|>
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feet, remembering that _she_ had gone up with his mother the night before, and he determined that there should be no chance of testing its contents. Thenceforward, he strenuously, and quite uselessly, upheld the theory of Death from natural causes'." "And what about the extra coffee-cup'?" "I was fairly certain that it was Mrs. Cavendish who had hidden it, but I had to make sure. Monsieur Lawrence did not know at all what I meant; but, on reflection, he came to the conclusion that if he could find an extra coffee-cup anywhere his lady love would be cleared of suspicion. And he was perfectly right." "One thing more. What did Mrs. Inglethorp mean by her dying words?" "They were, of course, an accusation against her husband." "Dear me, Poirot," I said with a sigh, "I think you have explained everything. I am glad it has all ended so happily. Even John and his wife are reconciled." "Thanks to me." "How do you mean thanks to you?" "My dear friend, do you not realize that it was simply and solely the trial which has brought them together again? That John Cavendish still loved his wife, I was convinced. Also, that she was equally in love with him. But they had drifted very far apart. It all arose from a misunderstanding. She married him without love. He knew it. He is a sensitive man in his way, he would not force himself upon her if she did not want him. And, as he withdrew, her love awoke. But they are both unusually proud, and their pride held them inexorably apart. He drifted into an entanglement with Mrs. Raikes, and she deliberately cultivated the friendship of Dr. Bauerstein. Do you remember the day of John Cavendish's arrest, when you found me deliberating over a big decision?" "Yes, I quite understood your distress." "Pardon me, _mon ami_, but you did not understand it in the least. I was trying to decide whether or not I would clear John Cavendish at once. I could have cleared him though it might have meant a failure to convict the real criminals. They were entirely in the dark as to my real attitude up to the very last moment which partly accounts for my success." "Do you mean that you could have saved John Cavendish from being brought to trial?" "Yes, my friend. But I eventually decided in favour of a woman's happiness'. Nothing but the great danger through which they have passed could have brought these two proud souls together again." I looked at Poirot in silent amazement. The colossal cheek of the little man! Who on earth but Poirot would have thought of a trial for murder as a restorer of conjugal happiness! "I perceive your thoughts, _mon ami_," said Poirot, smiling at me. "No one but Hercule Poirot would have attempted such a thing! And you are wrong in condemning it. The happiness of one man and one woman is the greatest thing in all the world." His words took me back to earlier events. I remembered Mary as she lay white and exhausted on the sofa, listening, listening. There had come the sound of the bell below. She had started up. Poirot had opened the door, and meeting her agonized eyes had nodded gently. "Yes, madame," he said. "I have brought him back to you." He had stood aside, and as I went out I had seen the look in Mary's eyes, as John Cavendish had caught his wife in his arms. "Perhaps you are right, Poirot," I said gently. "Yes, it is the greatest thing in the world." Suddenly, there was a tap at the door, and Cynthia peeped in. "I I only" "Come in," I said, springing up. She came in, but did not sit down. "I only wanted to tell you something" "Yes?" Cynthia fidgeted with a little tassel for some moments, then, suddenly exclaiming: "You dears!" kissed first me and then Poirot, and rushed out of the room again. "What on earth does this mean?" I asked, surprised. It was very nice to be kissed by Cynthia, but the publicity of the salute rather impaired the pleasure. "It means that she has discovered Monsieur Lawrence does not dislike her as much as she thought," replied Poirot philosophically. "But" "Here he is." Lawrence at that moment passed the door. "Eh! Monsieur Lawrence," called Poirot. "We must congratulate you, is it not so?" Lawrence blushed, and then smiled awkwardly. A man in love is a sorry spectacle. Now Cynthia had looked charming. I sighed. "What is it, _mon ami?_" "Nothing," I said sadly. "They are two delightful women!" "And neither of them is for you?" finished Poirot. "Never mind. Console yourself, my friend. We may hunt together again, who knows? And then"<|quote|>THE END</|quote|>
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took me back to earlier events. I remembered Mary as she lay white and exhausted on the sofa, listening, listening. There had come the sound of the bell below. She had started up. Poirot had opened the door, and meeting her agonized eyes had nodded gently. "Yes, madame," he said. "I have brought him back to you." He had stood aside, and as I went out I had seen the look in Mary's eyes, as John Cavendish had caught his wife in his arms. "Perhaps you are right, Poirot," I said gently. "Yes, it is the greatest thing in the world." Suddenly, there was a tap at the door, and Cynthia peeped in. "I I only" "Come in," I said, springing up. She came in, but did not sit down. "I only wanted to tell you something" "Yes?" Cynthia fidgeted with a little tassel for some moments, then, suddenly exclaiming: "You dears!" kissed first me and then Poirot, and rushed out of the room again. "What on earth does this mean?" I asked, surprised. It was very nice to be kissed by Cynthia, but the publicity of the salute rather impaired the pleasure. "It means that she has discovered Monsieur Lawrence does not dislike her as much as she thought," replied Poirot philosophically. "But" "Here he is." Lawrence at that moment passed the door. "Eh! Monsieur Lawrence," called Poirot. "We must congratulate you, is it not so?" Lawrence blushed, and then smiled awkwardly. A man in love is a sorry spectacle. Now Cynthia had looked charming. I sighed. "What is it, _mon ami?_" "Nothing," I said sadly. "They are two delightful women!" "And neither of them is for you?" finished Poirot. "Never mind. Console yourself, my friend. We may hunt together again, who knows? And then"<|quote|>THE END</|quote|>
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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"Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"
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Helen
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you change in a moment."<|quote|>"Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"</|quote|>said Helen, taking fire. "I
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before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment."<|quote|>"Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"</|quote|>said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can
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their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment."<|quote|>"Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"</|quote|>said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take
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when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment."<|quote|>"Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"</|quote|>said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious
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Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment."<|quote|>"Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"</|quote|>said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general
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you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment."<|quote|>"Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"</|quote|>said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn.
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each other s eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" "Do you? Oh, very well. But we ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can." "Please, I m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy. "The house will be locked up then." "In the morning would I bring eggs too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ve another called Tibby." "Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live." "I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago." "Meaning that I was dead. I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment."<|quote|>"Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"</|quote|>said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby s perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. "But the diddums can t listen; he isn t nine months old," she pleaded. "That s not what I was saying," retorted her father-in-law. Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn of Margaret. "Is it what we feared?" he asked. "It is." "Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us through." Margaret bent her head. "I am obliged to question you on subjects we d both prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain me, but there are occasions--We are husband and wife, not children. I am a man of the world, and you are a most exceptional woman." All Margaret s senses forsook her. She blushed, and looked past him at the Six Hills, covered with spring herbage. Noting her colour, he grew still more kind. "I see that you feel as I felt when--My poor little wife! Oh, be brave! Just one or two questions, and I have done with you. Was your sister wearing a wedding-ring?" Margaret stammered a "No." There was an appalling silence. "Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards End." "One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for the name of her seducer." She rose to her feet and held the chair between them. Her colour had ebbed, and she was grey. It did not displease him that she should receive his question thus. "Take your time," he counselled her. "Remember that this is far worse for me than for you." She swayed; he feared she was going to faint. Then speech came, and she said slowly: "Seducer? No; I do not know her seducer s name." "Would she not tell you?" "I never even asked her who seduced her," said Margaret, dwelling on the hateful word thoughtfully. "That is singular." Then he changed his mind. "Natural perhaps, dear girl, that you shouldn t ask. But until his name is known, nothing can be done. Sit down. How
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excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment."<|quote|>"Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"</|quote|>said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like;
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Howards End
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cried her cousin,
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No speaker
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her story. "Poor dear Fanny,"<|quote|>cried her cousin,</|quote|>"how ill you have been
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the first salutations. She told her story. "Poor dear Fanny,"<|quote|>cried her cousin,</|quote|>"how ill you have been used by them! You had
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it was not those she wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued from the same path which she had trod herself, and were before her. "Miss Price all alone" and "My dear Fanny, how comes this?" were the first salutations. She told her story. "Poor dear Fanny,"<|quote|>cried her cousin,</|quote|>"how ill you have been used by them! You had better have staid with us." Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed the conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the possibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on; but Henry Crawford was
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without interruption from any one. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to listen with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices again. She listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices and feet approaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those she wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued from the same path which she had trod herself, and were before her. "Miss Price all alone" and "My dear Fanny, how comes this?" were the first salutations. She told her story. "Poor dear Fanny,"<|quote|>cried her cousin,</|quote|>"how ill you have been used by them! You had better have staid with us." Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed the conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the possibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on; but Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally speaking, whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her, and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to hear the others, and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own beyond a wish that they had seen his
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be back in a few minutes. Fanny said she was rested, and would have moved too, but this was not suffered. Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an earnestness which she could not resist, and she was left on the bench to think with pleasure of her cousin's care, but with great regret that she was not stronger. She watched them till they had turned the corner, and listened till all sound of them had ceased. CHAPTER X A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and Fanny was still thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and herself, without interruption from any one. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to listen with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices again. She listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices and feet approaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those she wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued from the same path which she had trod herself, and were before her. "Miss Price all alone" and "My dear Fanny, how comes this?" were the first salutations. She told her story. "Poor dear Fanny,"<|quote|>cried her cousin,</|quote|>"how ill you have been used by them! You had better have staid with us." Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed the conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the possibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on; but Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally speaking, whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her, and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to hear the others, and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own beyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith's place. After some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram, observing the iron gate, expressed a wish of passing through it into the park, that their views and their plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very thing of all others to be wished, it was the best, it was the only way of proceeding with any advantage, in Henry Crawford's opinion; and he directly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly the requisite command of the house. Go therefore they must to that knoll, and through that gate; but the
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Crawford was up again. "I must move," said she; "resting fatigues me. I have looked across the ha-ha till I am weary. I must go and look through that iron gate at the same view, without being able to see it so well." Edmund left the seat likewise. "Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look up the walk, you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile long, or half half a mile." "It is an immense distance," said she; "I see _that_ with a glance." He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not calculate, she would not compare. She would only smile and assert. The greatest degree of rational consistency could not have been more engaging, and they talked with mutual satisfaction. At last it was agreed that they should endeavour to determine the dimensions of the wood by walking a little more about it. They would go to one end of it, in the line they were then in for there was a straight green walk along the bottom by the side of the ha-ha and perhaps turn a little way in some other direction, if it seemed likely to assist them, and be back in a few minutes. Fanny said she was rested, and would have moved too, but this was not suffered. Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an earnestness which she could not resist, and she was left on the bench to think with pleasure of her cousin's care, but with great regret that she was not stronger. She watched them till they had turned the corner, and listened till all sound of them had ceased. CHAPTER X A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and Fanny was still thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and herself, without interruption from any one. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to listen with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices again. She listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices and feet approaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those she wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued from the same path which she had trod herself, and were before her. "Miss Price all alone" and "My dear Fanny, how comes this?" were the first salutations. She told her story. "Poor dear Fanny,"<|quote|>cried her cousin,</|quote|>"how ill you have been used by them! You had better have staid with us." Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed the conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the possibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on; but Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally speaking, whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her, and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to hear the others, and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own beyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith's place. After some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram, observing the iron gate, expressed a wish of passing through it into the park, that their views and their plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very thing of all others to be wished, it was the best, it was the only way of proceeding with any advantage, in Henry Crawford's opinion; and he directly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly the requisite command of the house. Go therefore they must to that knoll, and through that gate; but the gate was locked. Mr. Rushworth wished he had brought the key; he had been very near thinking whether he should not bring the key; he was determined he would never come without the key again; but still this did not remove the present evil. They could not get through; and as Miss Bertram's inclination for so doing did by no means lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth's declaring outright that he would go and fetch the key. He set off accordingly. "It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from the house already," said Mr. Crawford, when he was gone. "Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But now, sincerely, do not you find the place altogether worse than you expected?" "No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more complete in its style, though that style may not be the best. And to tell you the truth," speaking rather lower, "I do not think that _I_ shall ever see Sotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will hardly improve it to me." After a moment's embarrassment the lady replied, "You are too much a man
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we left that first great path, we saw directly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it closed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in length." "Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is a very long wood, and that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into it; and therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must speak within compass." "We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here," said Edmund, taking out his watch. "Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?" "Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch." A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the very walk they had been talking of; and standing back, well shaded and sheltered, and looking over a ha-ha into the park, was a comfortable-sized bench, on which they all sat down. "I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny," said Edmund, observing her; "why would not you speak sooner? This will be a bad day's amusement for you if you are to be knocked up. Every sort of exercise fatigues her so soon, Miss Crawford, except riding." "How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse as I did all last week! I am ashamed of you and of myself, but it shall never happen again." "_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my own neglect. Fanny's interest seems in safer hands with you than with me." "That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for there is nothing in the course of one's duties so fatiguing as what we have been doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from one room to another, straining one's eyes and one's attention, hearing what one does not understand, admiring what one does not care for. It is generally allowed to be the greatest bore in the world, and Miss Price has found it so, though she did not know it." "I shall soon be rested," said Fanny; "to sit in the shade on a fine day, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment." After sitting a little while Miss Crawford was up again. "I must move," said she; "resting fatigues me. I have looked across the ha-ha till I am weary. I must go and look through that iron gate at the same view, without being able to see it so well." Edmund left the seat likewise. "Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look up the walk, you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile long, or half half a mile." "It is an immense distance," said she; "I see _that_ with a glance." He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not calculate, she would not compare. She would only smile and assert. The greatest degree of rational consistency could not have been more engaging, and they talked with mutual satisfaction. At last it was agreed that they should endeavour to determine the dimensions of the wood by walking a little more about it. They would go to one end of it, in the line they were then in for there was a straight green walk along the bottom by the side of the ha-ha and perhaps turn a little way in some other direction, if it seemed likely to assist them, and be back in a few minutes. Fanny said she was rested, and would have moved too, but this was not suffered. Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an earnestness which she could not resist, and she was left on the bench to think with pleasure of her cousin's care, but with great regret that she was not stronger. She watched them till they had turned the corner, and listened till all sound of them had ceased. CHAPTER X A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and Fanny was still thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and herself, without interruption from any one. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to listen with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices again. She listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices and feet approaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those she wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued from the same path which she had trod herself, and were before her. "Miss Price all alone" and "My dear Fanny, how comes this?" were the first salutations. She told her story. "Poor dear Fanny,"<|quote|>cried her cousin,</|quote|>"how ill you have been used by them! You had better have staid with us." Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed the conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the possibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on; but Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally speaking, whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her, and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to hear the others, and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own beyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith's place. After some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram, observing the iron gate, expressed a wish of passing through it into the park, that their views and their plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very thing of all others to be wished, it was the best, it was the only way of proceeding with any advantage, in Henry Crawford's opinion; and he directly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly the requisite command of the house. Go therefore they must to that knoll, and through that gate; but the gate was locked. Mr. Rushworth wished he had brought the key; he had been very near thinking whether he should not bring the key; he was determined he would never come without the key again; but still this did not remove the present evil. They could not get through; and as Miss Bertram's inclination for so doing did by no means lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth's declaring outright that he would go and fetch the key. He set off accordingly. "It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from the house already," said Mr. Crawford, when he was gone. "Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But now, sincerely, do not you find the place altogether worse than you expected?" "No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more complete in its style, though that style may not be the best. And to tell you the truth," speaking rather lower, "I do not think that _I_ shall ever see Sotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will hardly improve it to me." After a moment's embarrassment the lady replied, "You are too much a man of the world not to see with the eyes of the world. If other people think Sotherton improved, I have no doubt that you will." "I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be good for me in some points. My feelings are not quite so evanescent, nor my memory of the past under such easy dominion as one finds to be the case with men of the world." This was followed by a short silence. Miss Bertram began again. "You seemed to enjoy your drive here very much this morning. I was glad to see you so well entertained. You and Julia were laughing the whole way." "Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the least recollection at what. Oh! I believe I was relating to her some ridiculous stories of an old Irish groom of my uncle's. Your sister loves to laugh." "You think her more light-hearted than I am?" "More easily amused," he replied; "consequently, you know," smiling, "better company. I could not have hoped to entertain you with Irish anecdotes during a ten miles' drive." "Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I have more to think of now." "You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations in which very high spirits would denote insensibility. Your prospects, however, are too fair to justify want of spirits. You have a very smiling scene before you." "Do you mean literally or figuratively? Literally, I conclude. Yes, certainly, the sun shines, and the park looks very cheerful. But unluckily that iron gate, that ha-ha, give me a feeling of restraint and hardship. I cannot get out,' as the starling said." As she spoke, and it was with expression, she walked to the gate: he followed her. "Mr. Rushworth is so long fetching this key!" "And for the world you would not get out without the key and without Mr. Rushworth's authority and protection, or I think you might with little difficulty pass round the edge of the gate, here, with my assistance; I think it might be done, if you really wished to be more at large, and could allow yourself to think it not prohibited." "Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get out that way, and I will. Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment, you know; we shall not be out of sight."
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of myself, but it shall never happen again." "_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my own neglect. Fanny's interest seems in safer hands with you than with me." "That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for there is nothing in the course of one's duties so fatiguing as what we have been doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from one room to another, straining one's eyes and one's attention, hearing what one does not understand, admiring what one does not care for. It is generally allowed to be the greatest bore in the world, and Miss Price has found it so, though she did not know it." "I shall soon be rested," said Fanny; "to sit in the shade on a fine day, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment." After sitting a little while Miss Crawford was up again. "I must move," said she; "resting fatigues me. I have looked across the ha-ha till I am weary. I must go and look through that iron gate at the same view, without being able to see it so well." Edmund left the seat likewise. "Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look up the walk, you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile long, or half half a mile." "It is an immense distance," said she; "I see _that_ with a glance." He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not calculate, she would not compare. She would only smile and assert. The greatest degree of rational consistency could not have been more engaging, and they talked with mutual satisfaction. At last it was agreed that they should endeavour to determine the dimensions of the wood by walking a little more about it. They would go to one end of it, in the line they were then in for there was a straight green walk along the bottom by the side of the ha-ha and perhaps turn a little way in some other direction, if it seemed likely to assist them, and be back in a few minutes. Fanny said she was rested, and would have moved too, but this was not suffered. Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an earnestness which she could not resist, and she was left on the bench to think with pleasure of her cousin's care, but with great regret that she was not stronger. She watched them till they had turned the corner, and listened till all sound of them had ceased. CHAPTER X A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and Fanny was still thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and herself, without interruption from any one. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to listen with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices again. She listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices and feet approaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those she wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued from the same path which she had trod herself, and were before her. "Miss Price all alone" and "My dear Fanny, how comes this?" were the first salutations. She told her story. "Poor dear Fanny,"<|quote|>cried her cousin,</|quote|>"how ill you have been used by them! You had better have staid with us." Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed the conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the possibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on; but Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally speaking, whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her, and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to hear the others, and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own beyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith's place. After some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram, observing the iron gate, expressed a wish of passing through it into the park, that their views and their plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very thing of all others to be wished, it was the best, it was the only way of proceeding with any advantage, in Henry Crawford's opinion; and he directly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly the requisite command of the house. Go therefore they must to that knoll, and through that gate; but the gate was locked. Mr. Rushworth wished he had brought the key; he had been very near thinking whether he should not bring the key; he was determined he would never come without the key again; but still this did not remove the present evil. They could not get through; and as Miss Bertram's inclination for so doing did by no means lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth's declaring outright that he would go and fetch the key. He set off accordingly. "It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from the house already," said Mr. Crawford, when he was gone. "Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But now, sincerely, do not you find the place altogether worse than you expected?" "No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more complete in its style, though that style may not be the best. And to tell you the truth," speaking rather lower, "I do not think that _I_ shall ever see Sotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will hardly improve it to me." After a moment's embarrassment the lady replied, "You are too much a man of the world not to see with the eyes of the world. If other people think Sotherton improved, I have no doubt that you will." "I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be good for me in some points. My feelings are not quite so evanescent, nor my memory of the past under such easy dominion as one finds to be the case with men of
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Mansfield Park
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"Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!"
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Stephen Blackpool
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me all that happens, Stephen?"<|quote|>"Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!"</|quote|>"May it bless thee, Stephen,
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write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?"<|quote|>"Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!"</|quote|>"May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings,
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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?"<|quote|>"Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!"</|quote|>"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 "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
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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?"<|quote|>"Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!"</|quote|>"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 "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!" 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
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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?"<|quote|>"Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!"</|quote|>"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 "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!" 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
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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?"<|quote|>"Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!"</|quote|>"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 "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!" 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
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in a century. Tom had sat upon the bed, swinging one leg and sucking his walking-stick with sufficient unconcern, until the visit had attained this stage. Seeing his sister ready to depart, he got up, rather hurriedly, and put in a word. "Just wait a moment, 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?"<|quote|>"Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!"</|quote|>"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 "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!" 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
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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?"<|quote|>"Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!"</|quote|>"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 "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!" 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
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Hard Times
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"Why or how I have come to love you I do not know. It may be that you are not altogether fair to look upon. Do you know, I am ignorant even as to what your face is like. In all probability, too, your heart is not comely, and it is possible that your mind is wholly ignoble."
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Alexis Ivanovitch
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is a matter of indifference."<|quote|>"Why or how I have come to love you I do not know. It may be that you are not altogether fair to look upon. Do you know, I am ignorant even as to what your face is like. In all probability, too, your heart is not comely, and it is possible that your mind is wholly ignoble."</|quote|>"And because you do not
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only you all the rest is a matter of indifference."<|quote|>"Why or how I have come to love you I do not know. It may be that you are not altogether fair to look upon. Do you know, I am ignorant even as to what your face is like. In all probability, too, your heart is not comely, and it is possible that your mind is wholly ignoble."</|quote|>"And because you do not believe in my nobility of
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in the dark as to what Dresden is like. You know the cause of my obsession. I have no hope now, and am a mere cipher in your eyes; wherefore, I tell you outright that wherever I go I see only you all the rest is a matter of indifference."<|quote|>"Why or how I have come to love you I do not know. It may be that you are not altogether fair to look upon. Do you know, I am ignorant even as to what your face is like. In all probability, too, your heart is not comely, and it is possible that your mind is wholly ignoble."</|quote|>"And because you do not believe in my nobility of soul you think to purchase me with money?" she said. "_When_ have I thought to do so?" was my reply. "You are losing the thread of the argument. If you do not wish to purchase me, at all events you
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things. Everything in me has undergone a cheek. You know the reason. I have not a single human thought in my head. For a long while I have been ignorant of what is going on in the world here or in Russia. I have been to Dresden, yet am completely in the dark as to what Dresden is like. You know the cause of my obsession. I have no hope now, and am a mere cipher in your eyes; wherefore, I tell you outright that wherever I go I see only you all the rest is a matter of indifference."<|quote|>"Why or how I have come to love you I do not know. It may be that you are not altogether fair to look upon. Do you know, I am ignorant even as to what your face is like. In all probability, too, your heart is not comely, and it is possible that your mind is wholly ignoble."</|quote|>"And because you do not believe in my nobility of soul you think to purchase me with money?" she said. "_When_ have I thought to do so?" was my reply. "You are losing the thread of the argument. If you do not wish to purchase me, at all events you wish to purchase my respect." "Not at all. I have told you that I find it difficult to explain myself. You are hard upon me. Do not be angry at my chattering. You know why you ought not to be angry with me that I am simply an imbecile. However,
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as a Frenchman s manners. The Frenchman is only a bird the _coq gaulois_. At the same time, as I am not a woman, I do not properly understand the question. Cocks may be excellent birds. If I am wrong you must stop me. You ought to stop and correct me more often when I am speaking to you, for I am too apt to say everything that is in my head." "You see, I have lost my manners. I agree that I have none, nor yet any dignity. I will tell you why. I set no store upon such things. Everything in me has undergone a cheek. You know the reason. I have not a single human thought in my head. For a long while I have been ignorant of what is going on in the world here or in Russia. I have been to Dresden, yet am completely in the dark as to what Dresden is like. You know the cause of my obsession. I have no hope now, and am a mere cipher in your eyes; wherefore, I tell you outright that wherever I go I see only you all the rest is a matter of indifference."<|quote|>"Why or how I have come to love you I do not know. It may be that you are not altogether fair to look upon. Do you know, I am ignorant even as to what your face is like. In all probability, too, your heart is not comely, and it is possible that your mind is wholly ignoble."</|quote|>"And because you do not believe in my nobility of soul you think to purchase me with money?" she said. "_When_ have I thought to do so?" was my reply. "You are losing the thread of the argument. If you do not wish to purchase me, at all events you wish to purchase my respect." "Not at all. I have told you that I find it difficult to explain myself. You are hard upon me. Do not be angry at my chattering. You know why you ought not to be angry with me that I am simply an imbecile. However, I do not mind if you _are_ angry. Sitting in my room, I need but to think of you, to imagine to myself the rustle of your dress, and at once I fall almost to biting my hands. Why should you be angry with me? Because I call myself your slave? Revel, I pray you, in my slavery revel in it. Do you know that sometimes I could kill you? not because I do not love you, or am jealous of you, but, because I feel as though I could simply devour you... You are laughing!" "No, I am not,"
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am unable to carry off a situation properly. Do you know the reason? It is because we Russians are too richly and multifariously gifted to be able at once to find the proper mode of expression. It is all a question of mode. Most of us are so bounteously endowed with intellect as to require also a spice of genius to choose the right form of behaviour. And genius is lacking in us for the reason that so little genius at all exists. It belongs only to the French though a few other Europeans have elaborated their forms so well as to be able to figure with extreme dignity, and yet be wholly undignified persons. That is why, with us, the mode is so all-important. The Frenchman may receive an insult a real, a venomous insult: yet, he will not so much as frown. But a tweaking of the nose he cannot bear, for the reason that such an act is an infringement of the accepted, of the time-hallowed order of decorum. That is why our good ladies are so fond of Frenchmen the Frenchman s manners, they say, are perfect! But in my opinion there is no such thing as a Frenchman s manners. The Frenchman is only a bird the _coq gaulois_. At the same time, as I am not a woman, I do not properly understand the question. Cocks may be excellent birds. If I am wrong you must stop me. You ought to stop and correct me more often when I am speaking to you, for I am too apt to say everything that is in my head." "You see, I have lost my manners. I agree that I have none, nor yet any dignity. I will tell you why. I set no store upon such things. Everything in me has undergone a cheek. You know the reason. I have not a single human thought in my head. For a long while I have been ignorant of what is going on in the world here or in Russia. I have been to Dresden, yet am completely in the dark as to what Dresden is like. You know the cause of my obsession. I have no hope now, and am a mere cipher in your eyes; wherefore, I tell you outright that wherever I go I see only you all the rest is a matter of indifference."<|quote|>"Why or how I have come to love you I do not know. It may be that you are not altogether fair to look upon. Do you know, I am ignorant even as to what your face is like. In all probability, too, your heart is not comely, and it is possible that your mind is wholly ignoble."</|quote|>"And because you do not believe in my nobility of soul you think to purchase me with money?" she said. "_When_ have I thought to do so?" was my reply. "You are losing the thread of the argument. If you do not wish to purchase me, at all events you wish to purchase my respect." "Not at all. I have told you that I find it difficult to explain myself. You are hard upon me. Do not be angry at my chattering. You know why you ought not to be angry with me that I am simply an imbecile. However, I do not mind if you _are_ angry. Sitting in my room, I need but to think of you, to imagine to myself the rustle of your dress, and at once I fall almost to biting my hands. Why should you be angry with me? Because I call myself your slave? Revel, I pray you, in my slavery revel in it. Do you know that sometimes I could kill you? not because I do not love you, or am jealous of you, but, because I feel as though I could simply devour you... You are laughing!" "No, I am not," she retorted. "But I order you, nevertheless, to be silent." She stopped, well nigh breathless with anger. God knows, she may not have been a beautiful woman, yet I loved to see her come to a halt like this, and was therefore, the more fond of arousing her temper. Perhaps she divined this, and for that very reason gave way to rage. I said as much to her. "What rubbish!" she cried with a shudder. "I do not care," I continued. "Also, do you know that it is not safe for us to take walks together? Often I have a feeling that I should like to strike you, to disfigure you, to strangle you. Are you certain that it will never come to that? You are driving me to frenzy. Am I afraid of a scandal, or of your anger? Why should I fear your anger? I love without hope, and know that hereafter I shall love you a thousand times more. If ever I should kill you I should have to kill myself too. But I shall put off doing so as long as possible, for I wish to continue enjoying the unbearable pain which your coldness gives me.
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surprised. "What?" she said. "Do not you also hope something from it? Did you not tell me again and again, two weeks ago, that you were certain of winning at roulette if you played here? And did you not ask me not to consider you a fool for doing so? Were you joking? You cannot have been, for I remember that you spoke with a gravity which forbade the idea of your jesting." "True," I replied gloomily. "I always felt certain that I should win. Indeed, what you say makes me ask myself Why have my absurd, senseless losses of today raised a doubt in my mind? Yet I am _still_ positive that, so soon as ever I begin to play for myself, I shall infallibly win." "And why are you so certain?" "To tell the truth, I do not know. I only know that I _must_ win that it is the one resource I have left. Yes, why do I feel so assured on the point?" "Perhaps because one cannot help winning if one is fanatically certain of doing so." "Yet I dare wager that you do not think me capable of serious feeling in the matter?" "I do not care whether you are so or not," answered Polina with calm indifference. "Well, since you ask me, I _do_ doubt your ability to take anything seriously. You are capable of worrying, but not deeply. You are too ill-regulated and unsettled a person for that. But why do you want money? Not a single one of the reasons which you have given can be looked upon as serious." "By the way," I interrupted, "you say you want to pay off a debt. It must be a large one. Is it to the Frenchman?" "What do you mean by asking all these questions? You are very clever today. Surely you are not drunk?" "You know that you and I stand on no ceremony, and that sometimes I put to you very plain questions. I repeat that I am your slave and slaves cannot be shamed or offended." "You talk like a child. It is always possible to comport oneself with dignity. If one has a quarrel it ought to elevate rather than to degrade one." "A maxim straight from the copybook! Suppose I _cannot_ comport myself with dignity. By that I mean that, though I am a man of self-respect, I am unable to carry off a situation properly. Do you know the reason? It is because we Russians are too richly and multifariously gifted to be able at once to find the proper mode of expression. It is all a question of mode. Most of us are so bounteously endowed with intellect as to require also a spice of genius to choose the right form of behaviour. And genius is lacking in us for the reason that so little genius at all exists. It belongs only to the French though a few other Europeans have elaborated their forms so well as to be able to figure with extreme dignity, and yet be wholly undignified persons. That is why, with us, the mode is so all-important. The Frenchman may receive an insult a real, a venomous insult: yet, he will not so much as frown. But a tweaking of the nose he cannot bear, for the reason that such an act is an infringement of the accepted, of the time-hallowed order of decorum. That is why our good ladies are so fond of Frenchmen the Frenchman s manners, they say, are perfect! But in my opinion there is no such thing as a Frenchman s manners. The Frenchman is only a bird the _coq gaulois_. At the same time, as I am not a woman, I do not properly understand the question. Cocks may be excellent birds. If I am wrong you must stop me. You ought to stop and correct me more often when I am speaking to you, for I am too apt to say everything that is in my head." "You see, I have lost my manners. I agree that I have none, nor yet any dignity. I will tell you why. I set no store upon such things. Everything in me has undergone a cheek. You know the reason. I have not a single human thought in my head. For a long while I have been ignorant of what is going on in the world here or in Russia. I have been to Dresden, yet am completely in the dark as to what Dresden is like. You know the cause of my obsession. I have no hope now, and am a mere cipher in your eyes; wherefore, I tell you outright that wherever I go I see only you all the rest is a matter of indifference."<|quote|>"Why or how I have come to love you I do not know. It may be that you are not altogether fair to look upon. Do you know, I am ignorant even as to what your face is like. In all probability, too, your heart is not comely, and it is possible that your mind is wholly ignoble."</|quote|>"And because you do not believe in my nobility of soul you think to purchase me with money?" she said. "_When_ have I thought to do so?" was my reply. "You are losing the thread of the argument. If you do not wish to purchase me, at all events you wish to purchase my respect." "Not at all. I have told you that I find it difficult to explain myself. You are hard upon me. Do not be angry at my chattering. You know why you ought not to be angry with me that I am simply an imbecile. However, I do not mind if you _are_ angry. Sitting in my room, I need but to think of you, to imagine to myself the rustle of your dress, and at once I fall almost to biting my hands. Why should you be angry with me? Because I call myself your slave? Revel, I pray you, in my slavery revel in it. Do you know that sometimes I could kill you? not because I do not love you, or am jealous of you, but, because I feel as though I could simply devour you... You are laughing!" "No, I am not," she retorted. "But I order you, nevertheless, to be silent." She stopped, well nigh breathless with anger. God knows, she may not have been a beautiful woman, yet I loved to see her come to a halt like this, and was therefore, the more fond of arousing her temper. Perhaps she divined this, and for that very reason gave way to rage. I said as much to her. "What rubbish!" she cried with a shudder. "I do not care," I continued. "Also, do you know that it is not safe for us to take walks together? Often I have a feeling that I should like to strike you, to disfigure you, to strangle you. Are you certain that it will never come to that? You are driving me to frenzy. Am I afraid of a scandal, or of your anger? Why should I fear your anger? I love without hope, and know that hereafter I shall love you a thousand times more. If ever I should kill you I should have to kill myself too. But I shall put off doing so as long as possible, for I wish to continue enjoying the unbearable pain which your coldness gives me. Do you know a very strange thing? It is that, with every day, my love for you increases though that would seem to be almost an impossibility. Why should I not become a fatalist? Remember how, on the third day that we ascended the Shlangenberg, I was moved to whisper in your ear:" Say but the word, and I will leap into the abyss. "Had you said it, I should have leapt. Do you not believe me?" "What stupid rubbish!" she cried. "I care not whether it be wise or stupid," I cried in return. "I only know that in your presence I must speak, speak, speak. Therefore, I am speaking. I lose all conceit when I am with you, and everything ceases to matter." "Why should I have wanted you to leap from the Shlangenberg?" she said drily, and (I think) with wilful offensiveness. "_That_ would have been of no use to me." "Splendid!" I shouted. "I know well that you must have used the words of no use in order to crush me. _I_ can see through you. Of no use, did you say? Why, to give pleasure is _always_ of use; and, as for barbarous, unlimited power even if it be only over a fly why, it is a kind of luxury. Man is a despot by nature, and loves to torture. You, in particular, love to do so." I remember that at this moment she looked at me in a peculiar way. The fact is that my face must have been expressing all the maze of senseless, gross sensations which were seething within me. To this day I can remember, word for word, the conversation as I have written it down. My eyes were suffused with blood, and the foam had caked itself on my lips. Also, on my honour I swear that, had she bidden me cast myself from the summit of the Shlangenberg, I should have done it. Yes, had she bidden me in jest, or only in contempt and with a spit in my face, I should have cast myself down. "Oh no! Why so? I believe you," she said, but in such a manner in the manner of which, at times, she was a mistress and with such a note of disdain and viperish arrogance in her tone, that God knows I could have killed her. Yes, at that moment she stood
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to be able at once to find the proper mode of expression. It is all a question of mode. Most of us are so bounteously endowed with intellect as to require also a spice of genius to choose the right form of behaviour. And genius is lacking in us for the reason that so little genius at all exists. It belongs only to the French though a few other Europeans have elaborated their forms so well as to be able to figure with extreme dignity, and yet be wholly undignified persons. That is why, with us, the mode is so all-important. The Frenchman may receive an insult a real, a venomous insult: yet, he will not so much as frown. But a tweaking of the nose he cannot bear, for the reason that such an act is an infringement of the accepted, of the time-hallowed order of decorum. That is why our good ladies are so fond of Frenchmen the Frenchman s manners, they say, are perfect! But in my opinion there is no such thing as a Frenchman s manners. The Frenchman is only a bird the _coq gaulois_. At the same time, as I am not a woman, I do not properly understand the question. Cocks may be excellent birds. If I am wrong you must stop me. You ought to stop and correct me more often when I am speaking to you, for I am too apt to say everything that is in my head." "You see, I have lost my manners. I agree that I have none, nor yet any dignity. I will tell you why. I set no store upon such things. Everything in me has undergone a cheek. You know the reason. I have not a single human thought in my head. For a long while I have been ignorant of what is going on in the world here or in Russia. I have been to Dresden, yet am completely in the dark as to what Dresden is like. You know the cause of my obsession. I have no hope now, and am a mere cipher in your eyes; wherefore, I tell you outright that wherever I go I see only you all the rest is a matter of indifference."<|quote|>"Why or how I have come to love you I do not know. It may be that you are not altogether fair to look upon. Do you know, I am ignorant even as to what your face is like. In all probability, too, your heart is not comely, and it is possible that your mind is wholly ignoble."</|quote|>"And because you do not believe in my nobility of soul you think to purchase me with money?" she said. "_When_ have I thought to do so?" was my reply. "You are losing the thread of the argument. If you do not wish to purchase me, at all events you wish to purchase my respect." "Not at all. I have told you that I find it difficult to explain myself. You are hard upon me. Do not be angry at my chattering. You know why you ought not to be angry with me that I am simply an imbecile. However, I do not mind if you _are_ angry. Sitting in my room, I need but to think of you, to imagine to myself the rustle of your dress, and at once I fall almost to biting my hands. Why should you be angry with me? Because I call myself your slave? Revel, I pray you, in my slavery revel in it. Do you know that sometimes I could kill you? not because I do not love you, or am jealous of you, but, because I feel as though I could simply devour you... You are laughing!" "No, I am not," she retorted. "But I order you,
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The Gambler
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“For many, many reasons. He is young, and very kind and gentle. He is one of the biggest and finest-looking men you could find. He is a man whom no one could despise, for he has nothing despicable about him. But, best of all, he is true, and that, I think, is the bedrock of all virtues.”
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Aunt Helen
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could I care for him?”<|quote|>“For many, many reasons. He is young, and very kind and gentle. He is one of the biggest and finest-looking men you could find. He is a man whom no one could despise, for he has nothing despicable about him. But, best of all, he is true, and that, I think, is the bedrock of all virtues.”</|quote|>“But he is so conceited,”
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Just a little? Think.” “How could I care for him?”<|quote|>“For many, many reasons. He is young, and very kind and gentle. He is one of the biggest and finest-looking men you could find. He is a man whom no one could despise, for he has nothing despicable about him. But, best of all, he is true, and that, I think, is the bedrock of all virtues.”</|quote|>“But he is so conceited,” I remarked. “That does not
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feel sure he loves you truly. Tell me plainly, do you intend to accept him?” “Intend to accept him!” I echoed. “I haven’t once thought of such a possibility. I never mean to marry anyone.” “Don’t you care for Harold? Just a little? Think.” “How could I care for him?”<|quote|>“For many, many reasons. He is young, and very kind and gentle. He is one of the biggest and finest-looking men you could find. He is a man whom no one could despise, for he has nothing despicable about him. But, best of all, he is true, and that, I think, is the bedrock of all virtues.”</|quote|>“But he is so conceited,” I remarked. “That does not make him any the less lovable. I know another young person very conceited, and it does not prevent me from loving her dearly,” here aunt Helen smiled affectionately at me. “What you complain of in Harold will wear off presently—life
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Something has put you out. Be sensible for once in a way. What you have said of men’s love may be true in a sense, but it is not always so, and Harry is not that kind of man. I have known him all his life, and understand him, and feel sure he loves you truly. Tell me plainly, do you intend to accept him?” “Intend to accept him!” I echoed. “I haven’t once thought of such a possibility. I never mean to marry anyone.” “Don’t you care for Harold? Just a little? Think.” “How could I care for him?”<|quote|>“For many, many reasons. He is young, and very kind and gentle. He is one of the biggest and finest-looking men you could find. He is a man whom no one could despise, for he has nothing despicable about him. But, best of all, he is true, and that, I think, is the bedrock of all virtues.”</|quote|>“But he is so conceited,” I remarked. “That does not make him any the less lovable. I know another young person very conceited, and it does not prevent me from loving her dearly,” here aunt Helen smiled affectionately at me. “What you complain of in Harold will wear off presently—life has been very easy for him so far, you see.” “But, auntie, I’m sure he thinks he could have any girl for the asking.” “Well, he has a great number to choose from, for they all like him.” “Yes, just for his money,” I said scornfully. “But I’ll surprise him
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like commodities. In workaday reality it is the lowest of passions, which is set alight by the most artistic nose and mouth, and it matters not if its object is vile, low, or brainless to idiocy, so long as it has these attributes.” “Sybylla, Sybylla,” said auntie sadly, as if to herself. “In the first flush of girlhood, and so bitter. Why is this?” “Because I have been cursed with the power of seeing, thinking, and, worse than all, feeling, and branded with the stinging affliction of ugliness,” I replied. “Now, Sybylla, you are going to think of yourself again. Something has put you out. Be sensible for once in a way. What you have said of men’s love may be true in a sense, but it is not always so, and Harry is not that kind of man. I have known him all his life, and understand him, and feel sure he loves you truly. Tell me plainly, do you intend to accept him?” “Intend to accept him!” I echoed. “I haven’t once thought of such a possibility. I never mean to marry anyone.” “Don’t you care for Harold? Just a little? Think.” “How could I care for him?”<|quote|>“For many, many reasons. He is young, and very kind and gentle. He is one of the biggest and finest-looking men you could find. He is a man whom no one could despise, for he has nothing despicable about him. But, best of all, he is true, and that, I think, is the bedrock of all virtues.”</|quote|>“But he is so conceited,” I remarked. “That does not make him any the less lovable. I know another young person very conceited, and it does not prevent me from loving her dearly,” here aunt Helen smiled affectionately at me. “What you complain of in Harold will wear off presently—life has been very easy for him so far, you see.” “But, auntie, I’m sure he thinks he could have any girl for the asking.” “Well, he has a great number to choose from, for they all like him.” “Yes, just for his money,” I said scornfully. “But I’ll surprise him if he thinks he can get me for the asking.” “Sybylla, never flirt. To play with a man’s heart, I think, is one of the most horribly unwomanly actions our sex can be guilty of.” “I would scorn to flirt with any man,” I returned with vigour. “Play with a man’s heart! You’d really think they had such a thing, aunt Helen, to hear you talk. Hurt their vanity for a few days is the most a woman could do with any of them. I am sick of this preach, preach about playing with men’s hearts. It is an old
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with him is the same thing. Can you look at me straight, Sybylla, and say that Harold has not extended you something more than common politeness?” Had aunt Helen put that question to me a day before, I would have blushed and felt guilty. But today not so. The words of the jackeroo the night before had struck home. “A hideous barbarian” , he had called me, and it seemed to me he had spoken the truth. My life had been so pleasant lately that I had overlooked this fact, but now it returned to sting with redoubled bitterness. I had no lovable qualities to win for me the love of my fellows, which I so much desired. I returned aunt Helen a gaze as steady as her own, and said bitterly: “Aunt Helen, I can truly say he has never, and will never extend to me more than common politeness. Neither will any other man. Surely you know enough of masculine human nature to see there is no danger of a man losing his heart to a plain woman like me. Love in fancy and song is a pretty myth, embracing unity of souls, congeniality of tastes, and such like commodities. In workaday reality it is the lowest of passions, which is set alight by the most artistic nose and mouth, and it matters not if its object is vile, low, or brainless to idiocy, so long as it has these attributes.” “Sybylla, Sybylla,” said auntie sadly, as if to herself. “In the first flush of girlhood, and so bitter. Why is this?” “Because I have been cursed with the power of seeing, thinking, and, worse than all, feeling, and branded with the stinging affliction of ugliness,” I replied. “Now, Sybylla, you are going to think of yourself again. Something has put you out. Be sensible for once in a way. What you have said of men’s love may be true in a sense, but it is not always so, and Harry is not that kind of man. I have known him all his life, and understand him, and feel sure he loves you truly. Tell me plainly, do you intend to accept him?” “Intend to accept him!” I echoed. “I haven’t once thought of such a possibility. I never mean to marry anyone.” “Don’t you care for Harold? Just a little? Think.” “How could I care for him?”<|quote|>“For many, many reasons. He is young, and very kind and gentle. He is one of the biggest and finest-looking men you could find. He is a man whom no one could despise, for he has nothing despicable about him. But, best of all, he is true, and that, I think, is the bedrock of all virtues.”</|quote|>“But he is so conceited,” I remarked. “That does not make him any the less lovable. I know another young person very conceited, and it does not prevent me from loving her dearly,” here aunt Helen smiled affectionately at me. “What you complain of in Harold will wear off presently—life has been very easy for him so far, you see.” “But, auntie, I’m sure he thinks he could have any girl for the asking.” “Well, he has a great number to choose from, for they all like him.” “Yes, just for his money,” I said scornfully. “But I’ll surprise him if he thinks he can get me for the asking.” “Sybylla, never flirt. To play with a man’s heart, I think, is one of the most horribly unwomanly actions our sex can be guilty of.” “I would scorn to flirt with any man,” I returned with vigour. “Play with a man’s heart! You’d really think they had such a thing, aunt Helen, to hear you talk. Hurt their vanity for a few days is the most a woman could do with any of them. I am sick of this preach, preach about playing with men’s hearts. It is an old fable which should have been abolished long ago. It does not matter how a woman is played with.” “Sybylla, you talk at random. The shortcomings of men are no excuse for you to be unwomanly,” said aunt Helen. CHAPTER NINETEEN The 9th of November 1896 The Prince of Wales’s birthday up the country was celebrated as usual thereaway by the annual horse-races on the Wyambeet course, about fourteen miles from Caddagat. The holding of these races was an elderly institution, and was followed at night by a servants’ ball given by one of the squatters. Last year it had been Beecham’s ball, the year before Bossier’s, and this year it was to take place in the woolshed of James Grant of Yabtree. Our two girls, the gardener, and Joe Slocombe the groom, were to be present, as also were all the other employees about. Nearly every one in the district—masters and men—attended the races. We were going, Frank Hawden volunteering to stay and mind the house. We started at nine o’clock. Grannie and uncle Boss sat in the front seat of the buggy, and aunt Helen and I occupied the back. Uncle always drove at a good round gallop. His
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I did not intentionally disobey you. Disobedience never entered my head. I hate that thing. His presence was detestable to me. When he got out at the gate I could not resist the impulse to drive off and leave him there. He looked such a complete jackdaw that you would have laughed yourself to see him.” “Dear, oh dear! You wicked hussy, what will become of you!” And grannie shook her head, trying to look stern, and hiding a smile in her serviette. “Your manners are not improving, Sybylla. I fear you must be incorrigible,” said aunt Helen. When uncle Jay-Jay heard the whole particulars of the affair, he lay back in his chair and laughed fit to kill himself. “You ought to be ashamed to always encourage her in her tomboyish ways, Julius. It grieves me to see she makes no effort to acquire a ladylike demeanour,” said grannie. Mr Hawden had come off second-best, so he arose from his half-finished meal and stamped out, banging the door after him, and muttering something about “a disgustingly spoilt and petted tomboy” , “a hideous barbarian” , and so forth. Uncle Jay-Jay related that story to everyone, dwelling with great delight upon the fact that Frank Hawden was forced to walk four miles in the heat and dust. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN As Short as I Wish had been the Majority of Sermons to which I have been Forced to give Ear When alone I confessed to aunt Helen that Harold had accompanied me to within a short distance of home. She did not smile as usual, but looked very grave, and, drawing me in front of her, said: “Sybylla, do you know what you are doing? Do you love Harry Beecham? Do you mean to marry him?” “Aunt Helen, what a question to ask! I never dreamt of such a thing. He has never spoken a word of love to me. Marriage! I am sure he does not for an instant think of me in that light. I’m not seventeen.” “Yes, you are young, but some people’s age cannot be reckoned by years. I am glad to see you have developed a certain amount of half-real and half-assumed youthfulness lately, but when the novelty of your present life wears away, your old mature nature will be there, so it is of no use feigning childishness. Harold Beecham is not given to speech—action with him is the same thing. Can you look at me straight, Sybylla, and say that Harold has not extended you something more than common politeness?” Had aunt Helen put that question to me a day before, I would have blushed and felt guilty. But today not so. The words of the jackeroo the night before had struck home. “A hideous barbarian” , he had called me, and it seemed to me he had spoken the truth. My life had been so pleasant lately that I had overlooked this fact, but now it returned to sting with redoubled bitterness. I had no lovable qualities to win for me the love of my fellows, which I so much desired. I returned aunt Helen a gaze as steady as her own, and said bitterly: “Aunt Helen, I can truly say he has never, and will never extend to me more than common politeness. Neither will any other man. Surely you know enough of masculine human nature to see there is no danger of a man losing his heart to a plain woman like me. Love in fancy and song is a pretty myth, embracing unity of souls, congeniality of tastes, and such like commodities. In workaday reality it is the lowest of passions, which is set alight by the most artistic nose and mouth, and it matters not if its object is vile, low, or brainless to idiocy, so long as it has these attributes.” “Sybylla, Sybylla,” said auntie sadly, as if to herself. “In the first flush of girlhood, and so bitter. Why is this?” “Because I have been cursed with the power of seeing, thinking, and, worse than all, feeling, and branded with the stinging affliction of ugliness,” I replied. “Now, Sybylla, you are going to think of yourself again. Something has put you out. Be sensible for once in a way. What you have said of men’s love may be true in a sense, but it is not always so, and Harry is not that kind of man. I have known him all his life, and understand him, and feel sure he loves you truly. Tell me plainly, do you intend to accept him?” “Intend to accept him!” I echoed. “I haven’t once thought of such a possibility. I never mean to marry anyone.” “Don’t you care for Harold? Just a little? Think.” “How could I care for him?”<|quote|>“For many, many reasons. He is young, and very kind and gentle. He is one of the biggest and finest-looking men you could find. He is a man whom no one could despise, for he has nothing despicable about him. But, best of all, he is true, and that, I think, is the bedrock of all virtues.”</|quote|>“But he is so conceited,” I remarked. “That does not make him any the less lovable. I know another young person very conceited, and it does not prevent me from loving her dearly,” here aunt Helen smiled affectionately at me. “What you complain of in Harold will wear off presently—life has been very easy for him so far, you see.” “But, auntie, I’m sure he thinks he could have any girl for the asking.” “Well, he has a great number to choose from, for they all like him.” “Yes, just for his money,” I said scornfully. “But I’ll surprise him if he thinks he can get me for the asking.” “Sybylla, never flirt. To play with a man’s heart, I think, is one of the most horribly unwomanly actions our sex can be guilty of.” “I would scorn to flirt with any man,” I returned with vigour. “Play with a man’s heart! You’d really think they had such a thing, aunt Helen, to hear you talk. Hurt their vanity for a few days is the most a woman could do with any of them. I am sick of this preach, preach about playing with men’s hearts. It is an old fable which should have been abolished long ago. It does not matter how a woman is played with.” “Sybylla, you talk at random. The shortcomings of men are no excuse for you to be unwomanly,” said aunt Helen. CHAPTER NINETEEN The 9th of November 1896 The Prince of Wales’s birthday up the country was celebrated as usual thereaway by the annual horse-races on the Wyambeet course, about fourteen miles from Caddagat. The holding of these races was an elderly institution, and was followed at night by a servants’ ball given by one of the squatters. Last year it had been Beecham’s ball, the year before Bossier’s, and this year it was to take place in the woolshed of James Grant of Yabtree. Our two girls, the gardener, and Joe Slocombe the groom, were to be present, as also were all the other employees about. Nearly every one in the district—masters and men—attended the races. We were going, Frank Hawden volunteering to stay and mind the house. We started at nine o’clock. Grannie and uncle Boss sat in the front seat of the buggy, and aunt Helen and I occupied the back. Uncle always drove at a good round gallop. His idea was to have good horses, not donkeys, and not to spare them, as there were plenty more to be had any day. On this morning he went off at his usual pace. Grannie urged as remonstrance that the dust was fearful when going at that rate. I clapped my hands and exclaimed, “Go it, Mr Bossier! Well done, uncle Jay-Jay! Hurrah for Clancy!” Uncle first said he was glad to see I had the spirit of an Australian, and then threatened to put my nose above my chin if I failed to behave properly. Grannie remarked that I might have the spirit of an Australian, but I had by no means the manners of a lady; while aunt Helen ventured a wish that I might expend all my superfluous spirits on the way, so that I would be enabled to deport myself with a little decorum when arrived at the racecourse. We went at a great pace; lizards and goannas scampered out of the way in dozens, and, clambering trees, eyed us unblinkingly as we passed. Did we see a person or vehicle a tiny speck ahead of us—in a short time they were as far away in the background. “Please, uncle, let me drive,” I requested. “Couldn’t now. Your grannie can’t sit in the back-seat—neither could I—and look like a tame cockatoo while you sat in front. You ask Harry to let you drive him. I bet he’ll consent; he’s sure to be in a sulky with a spare seat on spec. We’re sure to overtake him in a few minutes.” There was a vehicle in the distance which proved to be from Five-Bob Downs, but as we overhauled it, it was the drag, and not a sulky. Harold occupied the driver’s seat, and the other occupants were all ladies. I noticed the one beside him was wearing a very big hat, all ruffles, flowers, and plumes. “Shall I pull up and get you a seat?” inquired uncle Jay-Jay. “No, no, no.” The boss of Five-Bob drew to his side of the road, and when we had passed uncle began to tease: “Got faint-hearted, did you? The flower-garden on that woman’s hat corked your chances altogether. Never mind, don’t you funk; I’ll see that you have a fair show. I’ll get you a regular cart-wheel next time I go to town, and we’ll trim it up with some
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embracing unity of souls, congeniality of tastes, and such like commodities. In workaday reality it is the lowest of passions, which is set alight by the most artistic nose and mouth, and it matters not if its object is vile, low, or brainless to idiocy, so long as it has these attributes.” “Sybylla, Sybylla,” said auntie sadly, as if to herself. “In the first flush of girlhood, and so bitter. Why is this?” “Because I have been cursed with the power of seeing, thinking, and, worse than all, feeling, and branded with the stinging affliction of ugliness,” I replied. “Now, Sybylla, you are going to think of yourself again. Something has put you out. Be sensible for once in a way. What you have said of men’s love may be true in a sense, but it is not always so, and Harry is not that kind of man. I have known him all his life, and understand him, and feel sure he loves you truly. Tell me plainly, do you intend to accept him?” “Intend to accept him!” I echoed. “I haven’t once thought of such a possibility. I never mean to marry anyone.” “Don’t you care for Harold? Just a little? Think.” “How could I care for him?”<|quote|>“For many, many reasons. He is young, and very kind and gentle. He is one of the biggest and finest-looking men you could find. He is a man whom no one could despise, for he has nothing despicable about him. But, best of all, he is true, and that, I think, is the bedrock of all virtues.”</|quote|>“But he is so conceited,” I remarked. “That does not make him any the less lovable. I know another young person very conceited, and it does not prevent me from loving her dearly,” here aunt Helen smiled affectionately at me. “What you complain of in Harold will wear off presently—life has been very easy for him so far, you see.” “But, auntie, I’m sure he thinks he could have any girl for the asking.” “Well, he has a great number to choose from, for they all like him.” “Yes, just for his money,” I said scornfully. “But I’ll surprise him if he thinks he can get me for the asking.” “Sybylla, never flirt. To play with a man’s heart, I think, is one of the most horribly unwomanly actions our sex can be guilty of.” “I would scorn to flirt with any man,” I returned with vigour. “Play with a man’s heart! You’d really think they had such a thing, aunt Helen, to hear you talk. Hurt their vanity for a few days is the most a woman could do with any of them. I am sick of this preach, preach about playing with men’s hearts. It is an old fable which should have been abolished long ago. It does not matter how a woman is played with.” “Sybylla, you talk at random. The shortcomings of men are no excuse for you to be unwomanly,” said aunt Helen. CHAPTER NINETEEN The 9th of November 1896 The Prince of Wales’s birthday up the country was celebrated as usual thereaway by the annual horse-races on the Wyambeet course, about fourteen miles from Caddagat. The holding of these races was an elderly institution, and was followed at night by a servants’ ball given by one of the squatters. Last year it had been Beecham’s ball, the year before Bossier’s, and this year it was to take place in the woolshed of James Grant of Yabtree. Our two girls, the gardener, and Joe Slocombe the groom, were to be present, as also were all the other employees about. Nearly every one in the district—masters and men—attended the races. We were going, Frank Hawden volunteering to
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My Brilliant Career
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she had thought.
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No speaker
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too much. "I will bow,"<|quote|>she had thought.</|quote|>"I will not shake hands
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gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. "I will bow,"<|quote|>she had thought.</|quote|>"I will not shake hands with him. That will be
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to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. "I will bow,"<|quote|>she had thought.</|quote|>"I will not shake hands with him. That will be just the proper thing." She had bowed--but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbers the world. So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It
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shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these. But she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star. Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. "I will bow,"<|quote|>she had thought.</|quote|>"I will not shake hands with him. That will be just the proper thing." She had bowed--but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbers the world. So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did not want to join the C. O. S. When cross
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and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth. Chapter XIII: How Miss Bartlett's Boiler Was So Tiresome How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these. But she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star. Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. "I will bow,"<|quote|>she had thought.</|quote|>"I will not shake hands with him. That will be just the proper thing." She had bowed--but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbers the world. So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, and made long, clever answers where "Yes" or "No" would have done. Lucy soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised well for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed, though not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover. "Lucy," said her mother, when they got home, "is anything the matter with Cecil?" The question
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you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy." They turned. "Oh, look--don't look! Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! How unfortunate again--" For Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish. "And me, I've swallowed one," answered he of the bracken. "I've swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die--Emerson you beast, you've got on my bags." "Hush, dears," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. "And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly." "Mother, do come away," said Lucy. "Oh for goodness' sake, do come." "Hullo!" cried George, so that again the ladies stopped. He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called: "Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!" "Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow." Miss Honeychurch bowed. That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth. Chapter XIII: How Miss Bartlett's Boiler Was So Tiresome How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these. But she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star. Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. "I will bow,"<|quote|>she had thought.</|quote|>"I will not shake hands with him. That will be just the proper thing." She had bowed--but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbers the world. So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, and made long, clever answers where "Yes" or "No" would have done. Lucy soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised well for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed, though not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover. "Lucy," said her mother, when they got home, "is anything the matter with Cecil?" The question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with charity and restraint. "No, I don't think so, mother; Cecil's all right." "Perhaps he's tired." Lucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired. "Because otherwise" "--she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gathering displeasure--" "because otherwise I cannot account for him." "I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean that." "Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a little girl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoid fever. No--it is just the same thing everywhere." "Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?" "Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?" "Cecil has a very high standard for people," faltered Lucy, seeing trouble ahead. "It's part of his ideals--it is really that that makes him sometimes seem--" "Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets rid of them the better," said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet. "Now, mother! I've seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!" "Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in that way. No. It is the same with Cecil
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beside an imaginary goal-post. "Socker rules," George retorted, scattering Freddy's bundle with a kick. "Goal!" "Goal!" "Pass!" "Take care my watch!" cried Mr. Beebe. Clothes flew in all directions. "Take care my hat! No, that's enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!" But the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair. "That'll do!" shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. "Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!" Yells, and widening circles over the dappled earth. "Hi! hi! LADIES!" Neither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe's last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch, Cecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth. Freddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe's hat. "Gracious alive!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch. "Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too! Whatever has happened?" "Come this way immediately," commanded Cecil, who always felt that he must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though he knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy sat concealed. "Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil, Mr. Beebe's waistcoat--" "No business of ours," said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently 'minded.' "I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond." "This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way." They followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions. "Well, I can't help it," said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. "I can't be trodden on, can I?" "Good gracious me, dear; so it's you! What miserable management! Why not have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?" "Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow's got to dry, and if another fellow--" "Dear, no doubt you're right as usual, but you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy." They turned. "Oh, look--don't look! Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! How unfortunate again--" For Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish. "And me, I've swallowed one," answered he of the bracken. "I've swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die--Emerson you beast, you've got on my bags." "Hush, dears," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. "And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly." "Mother, do come away," said Lucy. "Oh for goodness' sake, do come." "Hullo!" cried George, so that again the ladies stopped. He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called: "Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!" "Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow." Miss Honeychurch bowed. That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth. Chapter XIII: How Miss Bartlett's Boiler Was So Tiresome How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these. But she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star. Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. "I will bow,"<|quote|>she had thought.</|quote|>"I will not shake hands with him. That will be just the proper thing." She had bowed--but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbers the world. So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, and made long, clever answers where "Yes" or "No" would have done. Lucy soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised well for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed, though not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover. "Lucy," said her mother, when they got home, "is anything the matter with Cecil?" The question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with charity and restraint. "No, I don't think so, mother; Cecil's all right." "Perhaps he's tired." Lucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired. "Because otherwise" "--she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gathering displeasure--" "because otherwise I cannot account for him." "I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean that." "Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a little girl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoid fever. No--it is just the same thing everywhere." "Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?" "Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?" "Cecil has a very high standard for people," faltered Lucy, seeing trouble ahead. "It's part of his ideals--it is really that that makes him sometimes seem--" "Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets rid of them the better," said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet. "Now, mother! I've seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!" "Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in that way. No. It is the same with Cecil all over." "By-the-by--I never told you. I had a letter from Charlotte while I was away in London." This attempt to divert the conversation was too puerile, and Mrs. Honeychurch resented it. "Since Cecil came back from London, nothing appears to please him. Whenever I speak he winces;--I see him, Lucy; it is useless to contradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary nor intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room furniture; your father bought it and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindly remember." "I--I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn't to. But he does not mean to be uncivil--he once explained--it is the things that upset him--he is easily upset by ugly things--he is not uncivil to PEOPLE." "Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?" "You can't expect a really musical person to enjoy comic songs as we do." "Then why didn't he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and sneering and spoiling everyone's pleasure?" "We mustn't be unjust to people," faltered Lucy. Something had enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly in London, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizations had clashed--Cecil hinted that they might--and she was dazzled and bewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilization had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song. She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changed her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and made things no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy--she knew not why--wished that the trouble could have come at any other time. "Go and dress, dear; you'll be late." "All right, mother--" "Don't say" 'All right' "and stop. Go" ." She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landing window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighed to herself, "Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?" It seemed to
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dear; so it's you! What miserable management! Why not have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?" "Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow's got to dry, and if another fellow--" "Dear, no doubt you're right as usual, but you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy." They turned. "Oh, look--don't look! Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! How unfortunate again--" For Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish. "And me, I've swallowed one," answered he of the bracken. "I've swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die--Emerson you beast, you've got on my bags." "Hush, dears," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. "And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly." "Mother, do come away," said Lucy. "Oh for goodness' sake, do come." "Hullo!" cried George, so that again the ladies stopped. He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called: "Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!" "Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow." Miss Honeychurch bowed. That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth. Chapter XIII: How Miss Bartlett's Boiler Was So Tiresome How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these. But she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star. Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. "I will bow,"<|quote|>she had thought.</|quote|>"I will not shake hands with him. That will be just the proper thing." She had bowed--but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbers the world. So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, and made long, clever answers where "Yes" or "No" would have done. Lucy soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised well for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed, though not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover. "Lucy," said her mother, when they got home, "is anything the matter with Cecil?" The question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with charity and restraint. "No, I don't think so, mother; Cecil's all right." "Perhaps he's tired." Lucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired. "Because otherwise" "--she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gathering displeasure--" "because otherwise I cannot account for him." "I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean that." "Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a little girl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoid fever. No--it is just the same thing everywhere." "Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?" "Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?" "Cecil has a very high standard for people," faltered Lucy, seeing trouble ahead. "It's part of his ideals--it is really that that makes him sometimes seem--" "Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets rid of them the better," said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet. "Now, mother! I've seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!" "Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in that way. No. It is the same with Cecil all over." "By-the-by--I never told you. I had a letter from Charlotte while I was away in London." This attempt to divert the conversation was too puerile, and Mrs. Honeychurch resented it. "Since Cecil came back from London, nothing appears to please him. Whenever I speak he winces;--I see him, Lucy; it is useless to contradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary nor intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room furniture; your father bought it and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindly remember." "I--I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn't to. But he does not mean to be uncivil--he once explained--it is the things that upset him--he is easily upset by ugly things--he is
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A Room With A View
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"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical analysis. One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of work is the best rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of the Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again. My boys had been up the river and down the river without result. The launch was not at any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned. Yet it could hardly have been scuttled to hide their traces, though that always remained as a possible hypothesis if all else failed. I knew this man Small had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable of anything in the nature of delicate finesse. That is usually a product of higher education. I then reflected that since he had certainly been in London some time as we had evidence that he maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge he could hardly leave at a moment s notice, but would need some little time, if it were only a day, to arrange his affairs. That was the balance of probability, at any rate."
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Mr. Sherlock Holmes
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so small a thing?" "Yes."<|quote|>"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical analysis. One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of work is the best rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of the Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again. My boys had been up the river and down the river without result. The launch was not at any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned. Yet it could hardly have been scuttled to hide their traces, though that always remained as a possible hypothesis if all else failed. I knew this man Small had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable of anything in the nature of delicate finesse. That is usually a product of higher education. I then reflected that since he had certainly been in London some time as we had evidence that he maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge he could hardly leave at a moment s notice, but would need some little time, if it were only a day, to arrange his affairs. That was the balance of probability, at any rate."</|quote|>"It seems to me to
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was at being balked by so small a thing?" "Yes."<|quote|>"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical analysis. One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of work is the best rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of the Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again. My boys had been up the river and down the river without result. The launch was not at any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned. Yet it could hardly have been scuttled to hide their traces, though that always remained as a possible hypothesis if all else failed. I knew this man Small had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable of anything in the nature of delicate finesse. That is usually a product of higher education. I then reflected that since he had certainly been in London some time as we had evidence that he maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge he could hardly leave at a moment s notice, but would need some little time, if it were only a day, to arrange his affairs. That was the balance of probability, at any rate."</|quote|>"It seems to me to be a little weak," said
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that. But there are not many launches to beat us." "We shall have to catch the _Aurora_, and she has a name for being a clipper. I will tell you how the land lies, Watson. You recollect how annoyed I was at being balked by so small a thing?" "Yes."<|quote|>"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical analysis. One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of work is the best rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of the Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again. My boys had been up the river and down the river without result. The launch was not at any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned. Yet it could hardly have been scuttled to hide their traces, though that always remained as a possible hypothesis if all else failed. I knew this man Small had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable of anything in the nature of delicate finesse. That is usually a product of higher education. I then reflected that since he had certainly been in London some time as we had evidence that he maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge he could hardly leave at a moment s notice, but would need some little time, if it were only a day, to arrange his affairs. That was the balance of probability, at any rate."</|quote|>"It seems to me to be a little weak," said I. "It is more probable that he had arranged his affairs before ever he set out upon his expedition." "No, I hardly think so. This lair of his would be too valuable a retreat in case of need for him
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was evidently a very fast one. We shot past the long lines of loaded barges as though they were stationary. Holmes smiled with satisfaction as we overhauled a river steamer and left her behind us. "We ought to be able to catch anything on the river," he said. "Well, hardly that. But there are not many launches to beat us." "We shall have to catch the _Aurora_, and she has a name for being a clipper. I will tell you how the land lies, Watson. You recollect how annoyed I was at being balked by so small a thing?" "Yes."<|quote|>"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical analysis. One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of work is the best rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of the Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again. My boys had been up the river and down the river without result. The launch was not at any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned. Yet it could hardly have been scuttled to hide their traces, though that always remained as a possible hypothesis if all else failed. I knew this man Small had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable of anything in the nature of delicate finesse. That is usually a product of higher education. I then reflected that since he had certainly been in London some time as we had evidence that he maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge he could hardly leave at a moment s notice, but would need some little time, if it were only a day, to arrange his affairs. That was the balance of probability, at any rate."</|quote|>"It seems to me to be a little weak," said I. "It is more probable that he had arranged his affairs before ever he set out upon his expedition." "No, I hardly think so. This lair of his would be too valuable a retreat in case of need for him to give it up until he was sure that he could do without it. But a second consideration struck me. Jonathan Small must have felt that the peculiar appearance of his companion, however much he may have top-coated him, would give rise to gossip, and possibly be associated with this
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six." It was a little past seven before we reached the Westminster wharf, and found our launch awaiting us. Holmes eyed it critically. "Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?" "Yes, that green lamp at the side." "Then take it off." The small change was made, we stepped on board, and the ropes were cast off. Jones, Holmes, and I sat in the stern. There was one man at the rudder, one to tend the engines, and two burly police-inspectors forward. "Where to?" asked Jones. "To the Tower. Tell them to stop opposite Jacobson s Yard." Our craft was evidently a very fast one. We shot past the long lines of loaded barges as though they were stationary. Holmes smiled with satisfaction as we overhauled a river steamer and left her behind us. "We ought to be able to catch anything on the river," he said. "Well, hardly that. But there are not many launches to beat us." "We shall have to catch the _Aurora_, and she has a name for being a clipper. I will tell you how the land lies, Watson. You recollect how annoyed I was at being balked by so small a thing?" "Yes."<|quote|>"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical analysis. One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of work is the best rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of the Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again. My boys had been up the river and down the river without result. The launch was not at any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned. Yet it could hardly have been scuttled to hide their traces, though that always remained as a possible hypothesis if all else failed. I knew this man Small had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable of anything in the nature of delicate finesse. That is usually a product of higher education. I then reflected that since he had certainly been in London some time as we had evidence that he maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge he could hardly leave at a moment s notice, but would need some little time, if it were only a day, to arrange his affairs. That was the balance of probability, at any rate."</|quote|>"It seems to me to be a little weak," said I. "It is more probable that he had arranged his affairs before ever he set out upon his expedition." "No, I hardly think so. This lair of his would be too valuable a retreat in case of need for him to give it up until he was sure that he could do without it. But a second consideration struck me. Jonathan Small must have felt that the peculiar appearance of his companion, however much he may have top-coated him, would give rise to gossip, and possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy. He was quite sharp enough to see that. They had started from their head-quarters under cover of darkness, and he would wish to get back before it was broad light. Now, it was past three o clock, according to Mrs. Smith, when they got the boat. It would be quite bright, and people would be about in an hour or so. Therefore, I argued, they did not go very far. They paid Smith well to hold his tongue, reserved his launch for the final escape, and hurried to their lodgings with the treasure-box. In a couple of nights,
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have never known him so brilliant. He spoke on a quick succession of subjects, on miracle-plays, on medi val pottery, on Stradivarius violins, on the Buddhism of Ceylon, and on the war-ships of the future, handling each as though he had made a special study of it. His bright humour marked the reaction from his black depression of the preceding days. Athelney Jones proved to be a sociable soul in his hours of relaxation, and faced his dinner with the air of a _bon vivant_. For myself, I felt elated at the thought that we were nearing the end of our task, and I caught something of Holmes s gaiety. None of us alluded during dinner to the cause which had brought us together. When the cloth was cleared, Holmes glanced at his watch, and filled up three glasses with port. "One bumper," said he, "to the success of our little expedition. And now it is high time we were off. Have you a pistol, Watson?" "I have my old service-revolver in my desk." "You had best take it, then. It is well to be prepared. I see that the cab is at the door. I ordered it for half-past six." It was a little past seven before we reached the Westminster wharf, and found our launch awaiting us. Holmes eyed it critically. "Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?" "Yes, that green lamp at the side." "Then take it off." The small change was made, we stepped on board, and the ropes were cast off. Jones, Holmes, and I sat in the stern. There was one man at the rudder, one to tend the engines, and two burly police-inspectors forward. "Where to?" asked Jones. "To the Tower. Tell them to stop opposite Jacobson s Yard." Our craft was evidently a very fast one. We shot past the long lines of loaded barges as though they were stationary. Holmes smiled with satisfaction as we overhauled a river steamer and left her behind us. "We ought to be able to catch anything on the river," he said. "Well, hardly that. But there are not many launches to beat us." "We shall have to catch the _Aurora_, and she has a name for being a clipper. I will tell you how the land lies, Watson. You recollect how annoyed I was at being balked by so small a thing?" "Yes."<|quote|>"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical analysis. One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of work is the best rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of the Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again. My boys had been up the river and down the river without result. The launch was not at any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned. Yet it could hardly have been scuttled to hide their traces, though that always remained as a possible hypothesis if all else failed. I knew this man Small had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable of anything in the nature of delicate finesse. That is usually a product of higher education. I then reflected that since he had certainly been in London some time as we had evidence that he maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge he could hardly leave at a moment s notice, but would need some little time, if it were only a day, to arrange his affairs. That was the balance of probability, at any rate."</|quote|>"It seems to me to be a little weak," said I. "It is more probable that he had arranged his affairs before ever he set out upon his expedition." "No, I hardly think so. This lair of his would be too valuable a retreat in case of need for him to give it up until he was sure that he could do without it. But a second consideration struck me. Jonathan Small must have felt that the peculiar appearance of his companion, however much he may have top-coated him, would give rise to gossip, and possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy. He was quite sharp enough to see that. They had started from their head-quarters under cover of darkness, and he would wish to get back before it was broad light. Now, it was past three o clock, according to Mrs. Smith, when they got the boat. It would be quite bright, and people would be about in an hour or so. Therefore, I argued, they did not go very far. They paid Smith well to hold his tongue, reserved his launch for the final escape, and hurried to their lodgings with the treasure-box. In a couple of nights, when they had time to see what view the papers took, and whether there was any suspicion, they would make their way under cover of darkness to some ship at Gravesend or in the Downs, where no doubt they had already arranged for passages to America or the Colonies." "But the launch? They could not have taken that to their lodgings." "Quite so. I argued that the launch must be no great way off, in spite of its invisibility. I then put myself in the place of Small, and looked at it as a man of his capacity would. He would probably consider that to send back the launch or to keep it at a wharf would make pursuit easy if the police did happen to get on his track. How, then, could he conceal the launch and yet have her at hand when wanted? I wondered what I should do myself if I were in his shoes. I could only think of one way of doing it. I might land the launch over to some boat-builder or repairer, with directions to make a trifling change in her. She would then be removed to his shed or yard, and so
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place of them. But you must put yourself under my orders. You are welcome to all the official credit, but you must act on the line that I point out. Is that agreed?" "Entirely, if you will help me to the men." "Well, then, in the first place I shall want a fast police-boat a steam launch to be at the Westminster Stairs at seven o clock." "That is easily managed. There is always one about there; but I can step across the road and telephone to make sure." "Then I shall want two stanch men, in case of resistance." "There will be two or three in the boat. What else?" "When we secure the men we shall get the treasure. I think that it would be a pleasure to my friend here to take the box round to the young lady to whom half of it rightfully belongs. Let her be the first to open it. Eh, Watson?" "It would be a great pleasure to me." "Rather an irregular proceeding," said Jones, shaking his head. "However, the whole thing is irregular, and I suppose we must wink at it. The treasure must afterwards be handed over to the authorities until after the official investigation." "Certainly. That is easily managed. One other point. I should much like to have a few details about this matter from the lips of Jonathan Small himself. You know I like to work the detail of my cases out. There is no objection to my having an unofficial interview with him, either here in my rooms or elsewhere, as long as he is efficiently guarded?" "Well, you are master of the situation. I have had no proof yet of the existence of this Jonathan Small. However, if you can catch him I don t see how I can refuse you an interview with him." "That is understood, then?" "Perfectly. Is there anything else?" "Only that I insist upon your dining with us. It will be ready in half an hour. I have oysters and a brace of grouse, with something a little choice in white wines. Watson, you have never yet recognised my merits as a housekeeper." Chapter X The End of the Islander Our meal was a merry one. Holmes could talk exceedingly well when he chose, and that night he did choose. He appeared to be in a state of nervous exaltation. I have never known him so brilliant. He spoke on a quick succession of subjects, on miracle-plays, on medi val pottery, on Stradivarius violins, on the Buddhism of Ceylon, and on the war-ships of the future, handling each as though he had made a special study of it. His bright humour marked the reaction from his black depression of the preceding days. Athelney Jones proved to be a sociable soul in his hours of relaxation, and faced his dinner with the air of a _bon vivant_. For myself, I felt elated at the thought that we were nearing the end of our task, and I caught something of Holmes s gaiety. None of us alluded during dinner to the cause which had brought us together. When the cloth was cleared, Holmes glanced at his watch, and filled up three glasses with port. "One bumper," said he, "to the success of our little expedition. And now it is high time we were off. Have you a pistol, Watson?" "I have my old service-revolver in my desk." "You had best take it, then. It is well to be prepared. I see that the cab is at the door. I ordered it for half-past six." It was a little past seven before we reached the Westminster wharf, and found our launch awaiting us. Holmes eyed it critically. "Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?" "Yes, that green lamp at the side." "Then take it off." The small change was made, we stepped on board, and the ropes were cast off. Jones, Holmes, and I sat in the stern. There was one man at the rudder, one to tend the engines, and two burly police-inspectors forward. "Where to?" asked Jones. "To the Tower. Tell them to stop opposite Jacobson s Yard." Our craft was evidently a very fast one. We shot past the long lines of loaded barges as though they were stationary. Holmes smiled with satisfaction as we overhauled a river steamer and left her behind us. "We ought to be able to catch anything on the river," he said. "Well, hardly that. But there are not many launches to beat us." "We shall have to catch the _Aurora_, and she has a name for being a clipper. I will tell you how the land lies, Watson. You recollect how annoyed I was at being balked by so small a thing?" "Yes."<|quote|>"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical analysis. One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of work is the best rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of the Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again. My boys had been up the river and down the river without result. The launch was not at any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned. Yet it could hardly have been scuttled to hide their traces, though that always remained as a possible hypothesis if all else failed. I knew this man Small had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable of anything in the nature of delicate finesse. That is usually a product of higher education. I then reflected that since he had certainly been in London some time as we had evidence that he maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge he could hardly leave at a moment s notice, but would need some little time, if it were only a day, to arrange his affairs. That was the balance of probability, at any rate."</|quote|>"It seems to me to be a little weak," said I. "It is more probable that he had arranged his affairs before ever he set out upon his expedition." "No, I hardly think so. This lair of his would be too valuable a retreat in case of need for him to give it up until he was sure that he could do without it. But a second consideration struck me. Jonathan Small must have felt that the peculiar appearance of his companion, however much he may have top-coated him, would give rise to gossip, and possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy. He was quite sharp enough to see that. They had started from their head-quarters under cover of darkness, and he would wish to get back before it was broad light. Now, it was past three o clock, according to Mrs. Smith, when they got the boat. It would be quite bright, and people would be about in an hour or so. Therefore, I argued, they did not go very far. They paid Smith well to hold his tongue, reserved his launch for the final escape, and hurried to their lodgings with the treasure-box. In a couple of nights, when they had time to see what view the papers took, and whether there was any suspicion, they would make their way under cover of darkness to some ship at Gravesend or in the Downs, where no doubt they had already arranged for passages to America or the Colonies." "But the launch? They could not have taken that to their lodgings." "Quite so. I argued that the launch must be no great way off, in spite of its invisibility. I then put myself in the place of Small, and looked at it as a man of his capacity would. He would probably consider that to send back the launch or to keep it at a wharf would make pursuit easy if the police did happen to get on his track. How, then, could he conceal the launch and yet have her at hand when wanted? I wondered what I should do myself if I were in his shoes. I could only think of one way of doing it. I might land the launch over to some boat-builder or repairer, with directions to make a trifling change in her. She would then be removed to his shed or yard, and so be effectually concealed, while at the same time I could have her at a few hours notice." "That seems simple enough." "It is just these very simple things which are extremely liable to be overlooked. However, I determined to act on the idea. I started at once in this harmless seaman s rig and inquired at all the yards down the river. I drew blank at fifteen, but at the sixteenth Jacobson s I learned that the _Aurora_ had been handed over to them two days ago by a wooden-legged man, with some trivial directions as to her rudder." There ain t naught amiss with her rudder, "said the foreman." There she lies, with the red streaks. "At that moment who should come down but Mordecai Smith, the missing owner? He was rather the worse for liquor. I should not, of course, have known him, but he bellowed out his name and the name of his launch." I want her to-night at eight o clock, "said he," eight o clock sharp, mind, for I have two gentlemen who won t be kept waiting. "They had evidently paid him well, for he was very flush of money, chucking shillings about to the men. I followed him some distance, but he subsided into an ale-house: so I went back to the yard, and, happening to pick up one of my boys on the way, I stationed him as a sentry over the launch. He is to stand at water s edge and wave his handkerchief to us when they start. We shall be lying off in the stream, and it will be a strange thing if we do not take men, treasure, and all." "You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men or not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I should have had a body of police in Jacobson s Yard, and arrested them when they came down." "Which would have been never. This man Small is a pretty shrewd fellow. He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him suspicious lie snug for another week." "But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their hiding-place," said I. "In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long
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an hour. I have oysters and a brace of grouse, with something a little choice in white wines. Watson, you have never yet recognised my merits as a housekeeper." Chapter X The End of the Islander Our meal was a merry one. Holmes could talk exceedingly well when he chose, and that night he did choose. He appeared to be in a state of nervous exaltation. I have never known him so brilliant. He spoke on a quick succession of subjects, on miracle-plays, on medi val pottery, on Stradivarius violins, on the Buddhism of Ceylon, and on the war-ships of the future, handling each as though he had made a special study of it. His bright humour marked the reaction from his black depression of the preceding days. Athelney Jones proved to be a sociable soul in his hours of relaxation, and faced his dinner with the air of a _bon vivant_. For myself, I felt elated at the thought that we were nearing the end of our task, and I caught something of Holmes s gaiety. None of us alluded during dinner to the cause which had brought us together. When the cloth was cleared, Holmes glanced at his watch, and filled up three glasses with port. "One bumper," said he, "to the success of our little expedition. And now it is high time we were off. Have you a pistol, Watson?" "I have my old service-revolver in my desk." "You had best take it, then. It is well to be prepared. I see that the cab is at the door. I ordered it for half-past six." It was a little past seven before we reached the Westminster wharf, and found our launch awaiting us. Holmes eyed it critically. "Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?" "Yes, that green lamp at the side." "Then take it off." The small change was made, we stepped on board, and the ropes were cast off. Jones, Holmes, and I sat in the stern. There was one man at the rudder, one to tend the engines, and two burly police-inspectors forward. "Where to?" asked Jones. "To the Tower. Tell them to stop opposite Jacobson s Yard." Our craft was evidently a very fast one. We shot past the long lines of loaded barges as though they were stationary. Holmes smiled with satisfaction as we overhauled a river steamer and left her behind us. "We ought to be able to catch anything on the river," he said. "Well, hardly that. But there are not many launches to beat us." "We shall have to catch the _Aurora_, and she has a name for being a clipper. I will tell you how the land lies, Watson. You recollect how annoyed I was at being balked by so small a thing?" "Yes."<|quote|>"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical analysis. One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of work is the best rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of the Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again. My boys had been up the river and down the river without result. The launch was not at any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned. Yet it could hardly have been scuttled to hide their traces, though that always remained as a possible hypothesis if all else failed. I knew this man Small had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable of anything in the nature of delicate finesse. That is usually a product of higher education. I then reflected that since he had certainly been in London some time as we had evidence that he maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge he could hardly leave at a moment s notice, but would need some little time, if it were only a day, to arrange his affairs. That was the balance of probability, at any rate."</|quote|>"It seems to me to be a little weak," said I. "It is more probable that he had arranged his affairs before ever he set out upon his expedition." "No, I hardly think so. This lair of his would be too valuable a retreat in case of need for him to give it up until he was sure that he could do without it. But a second consideration struck me. Jonathan Small must have felt that the peculiar appearance of his companion, however much he may have top-coated him, would give rise to gossip, and possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy. He was quite sharp enough to see that. They had started from their head-quarters under cover of darkness, and he would wish to get back before it was broad light. Now, it was past three o clock, according to Mrs. Smith, when they got the boat. It would be quite bright, and people would be about in an hour or so. Therefore, I argued, they did not go very far. They paid Smith well to hold his tongue, reserved his launch for the final escape, and hurried to their lodgings with the treasure-box. In a couple of nights, when they had time to see what view the papers took, and whether there was any suspicion, they would make their way under cover of darkness to some ship at Gravesend or in the Downs, where no doubt they had already arranged for passages to America or the Colonies." "But the launch? They could not have taken that to their lodgings." "Quite so. I argued that the launch must be no great way off, in spite of its invisibility. I then put myself in the place of Small, and looked at it as a man of his capacity would. He would probably consider that to send back the launch or to keep it at a wharf would make pursuit easy if the police did happen to get on his track. How, then, could he conceal the launch and yet have her at hand when wanted? I wondered what I should do myself if I were in his shoes. I could only think of one way of doing it. I might land the launch over to some boat-builder or repairer, with directions to make a trifling change in her. She would then be removed to his shed or yard, and so be effectually concealed, while at the same time I could have her at a few hours notice." "That seems simple enough." "It is just these very simple things which are extremely liable to be overlooked. However, I determined to act on the idea. I started at once in this harmless seaman s rig and inquired at all the yards down the river. I drew blank at fifteen, but at the sixteenth Jacobson s I learned that the _Aurora_ had been handed over to them two days ago by a wooden-legged man, with some trivial directions as to her rudder." There ain t naught amiss with her rudder, "said the foreman." There she lies, with the red streaks. "At that moment who should come down but Mordecai Smith, the missing owner? He was rather the worse for liquor. I should not, of course, have known him, but he bellowed out his name and the name of his launch." I want her to-night at eight o clock, "said he," eight o clock sharp, mind, for I have two gentlemen who won t be kept waiting. "They had evidently paid him well, for he was
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The Sign Of The Four
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"I answered."
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Wooden-Legged Man
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" Nothing of the sort,<|quote|>"I answered."</|quote|>I have thought it all
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that you ask an impossibility. " Nothing of the sort,<|quote|>"I answered."</|quote|>I have thought it all out to the last detail.
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a fifth share to divide between you. " Hum! "said he." A fifth share! That is not very tempting. " It would come to fifty thousand apiece, "said I." But how can we gain your freedom? You know very well that you ask an impossibility. " Nothing of the sort,<|quote|>"I answered."</|quote|>I have thought it all out to the last detail. The only bar to our escape is that we can get no boat fit for the voyage, and no provisions to last us for so long a time. There are plenty of little yachts and yawls at Calcutta or Madras
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be cool, but feeling as excited as he did," there is only one bargain which a man in my position can make. I shall want you to help me to my freedom, and to help my three companions to theirs. We shall then take you into partnership, and give you a fifth share to divide between you. " Hum! "said he." A fifth share! That is not very tempting. " It would come to fifty thousand apiece, "said I." But how can we gain your freedom? You know very well that you ask an impossibility. " Nothing of the sort,<|quote|>"I answered."</|quote|>I have thought it all out to the last detail. The only bar to our escape is that we can get no boat fit for the voyage, and no provisions to last us for so long a time. There are plenty of little yachts and yawls at Calcutta or Madras which would serve our turn well. Do you bring one over. We shall engage to get aboard her by night, and if you will drop us on any part of the Indian coast you will have done your part of the bargain. " If there were only one, "he said."
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we have come to the conclusion that this secret of yours is hardly a government matter, after all, but is a private concern of your own, which of course you have the power of disposing of as you think best. Now, the question is, what price would you ask for it? We might be inclined to take it up, and at least look into it, if we could agree as to terms. "He tried to speak in a cool, careless way, but his eyes were shining with excitement and greed." Why, as to that, gentlemen, "I answered, trying also to be cool, but feeling as excited as he did," there is only one bargain which a man in my position can make. I shall want you to help me to my freedom, and to help my three companions to theirs. We shall then take you into partnership, and give you a fifth share to divide between you. " Hum! "said he." A fifth share! That is not very tempting. " It would come to fifty thousand apiece, "said I." But how can we gain your freedom? You know very well that you ask an impossibility. " Nothing of the sort,<|quote|>"I answered."</|quote|>I have thought it all out to the last detail. The only bar to our escape is that we can get no boat fit for the voyage, and no provisions to last us for so long a time. There are plenty of little yachts and yawls at Calcutta or Madras which would serve our turn well. Do you bring one over. We shall engage to get aboard her by night, and if you will drop us on any part of the Indian coast you will have done your part of the bargain. " If there were only one, "he said." None or all, "I answered." We have sworn it. The four of us must always act together. " You see, Morstan, "said he," Small is a man of his word. He does not flinch from his friend. I think we may very well trust him. " It s a dirty business, "the other answered." Yet, as you say, the money would save our commissions handsomely. " Well, Small, "said the major," we must, I suppose, try and meet you. We must first, of course, test the truth of your story. Tell me where the box is hid, and I shall
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" You think, then, sir, that I should give the information to the Governor-General? "said I, quietly." Well, well, you must not do anything rash, or that you might repent. Let me hear all about it, Small. Give me the facts. "I told him the whole story, with small changes so that he could not identify the places. When I had finished he stood stock still and full of thought. I could see by the twitch of his lip that there was a struggle going on within him." This is a very important matter, Small, "he said, at last." You must not say a word to any one about it, and I shall see you again soon. "Two nights later he and his friend Captain Morstan came to my hut in the dead of the night with a lantern." I want you just to let Captain Morstan hear that story from your own lips, Small, "said he." "I repeated it as I had told it before." It rings true, eh? "said he." It s good enough to act upon? "Captain Morstan nodded." Look here, Small, "said the major." We have been talking it over, my friend here and I, and we have come to the conclusion that this secret of yours is hardly a government matter, after all, but is a private concern of your own, which of course you have the power of disposing of as you think best. Now, the question is, what price would you ask for it? We might be inclined to take it up, and at least look into it, if we could agree as to terms. "He tried to speak in a cool, careless way, but his eyes were shining with excitement and greed." Why, as to that, gentlemen, "I answered, trying also to be cool, but feeling as excited as he did," there is only one bargain which a man in my position can make. I shall want you to help me to my freedom, and to help my three companions to theirs. We shall then take you into partnership, and give you a fifth share to divide between you. " Hum! "said he." A fifth share! That is not very tempting. " It would come to fifty thousand apiece, "said I." But how can we gain your freedom? You know very well that you ask an impossibility. " Nothing of the sort,<|quote|>"I answered."</|quote|>I have thought it all out to the last detail. The only bar to our escape is that we can get no boat fit for the voyage, and no provisions to last us for so long a time. There are plenty of little yachts and yawls at Calcutta or Madras which would serve our turn well. Do you bring one over. We shall engage to get aboard her by night, and if you will drop us on any part of the Indian coast you will have done your part of the bargain. " If there were only one, "he said." None or all, "I answered." We have sworn it. The four of us must always act together. " You see, Morstan, "said he," Small is a man of his word. He does not flinch from his friend. I think we may very well trust him. " It s a dirty business, "the other answered." Yet, as you say, the money would save our commissions handsomely. " Well, Small, "said the major," we must, I suppose, try and meet you. We must first, of course, test the truth of your story. Tell me where the box is hid, and I shall get leave of absence and go back to India in the monthly relief-boat to inquire into the affair. " Not so fast, "said I, growing colder as he got hot." I must have the consent of my three comrades. I tell you that it is four or none with us. " Nonsense! "he broke in." What have three black fellows to do with our agreement? " Black or blue, "said I," they are in with me, and we all go together. "Well, the matter ended by a second meeting, at which Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan, and Dost Akbar were all present. We talked the matter over again, and at last we came to an arrangement. We were to provide both the officers with charts of the part of the Agra fort and mark the place in the wall where the treasure was hid. Major Sholto was to go to India to test our story. If he found the box he was to leave it there, to send out a small yacht provisioned for a voyage, which was to lie off Rutland Island, and to which we were to make our way, and finally to return to his duties. Captain Morstan
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cards down anyhow. Night after night the soldiers got up poorer men, and the poorer they got the more keen they were to play. Major Sholto was the hardest hit. He used to pay in notes and gold at first, but soon it came to notes of hand and for big sums. He sometimes would win for a few deals, just to give him heart, and then the luck would set in against him worse than ever. All day he would wander about as black as thunder, and he took to drinking a deal more than was good for him." "One night he lost even more heavily than usual. I was sitting in my hut when he and Captain Morstan came stumbling along on the way to their quarters. They were bosom friends, those two, and never far apart. The major was raving about his losses." It s all up, Morstan, "he was saying, as they passed my hut." I shall have to send in my papers. I am a ruined man. " Nonsense, old chap! "said the other, slapping him upon the shoulder." I ve had a nasty facer myself, but "That was all I could hear, but it was enough to set me thinking." "A couple of days later Major Sholto was strolling on the beach: so I took the chance of speaking to him." I wish to have your advice, major, "said I." Well, Small, what is it? "he asked, taking his cheroot from his lips." I wanted to ask you, sir, "said I," who is the proper person to whom hidden treasure should be handed over. I know where half a million worth lies, and, as I cannot use it myself, I thought perhaps the best thing that I could do would be to hand it over to the proper authorities, and then perhaps they would get my sentence shortened for me. " Half a million, Small? "he gasped, looking hard at me to see if I was in earnest." Quite that, sir, in jewels and pearls. It lies there ready for any one. And the queer thing about it is that the real owner is outlawed and cannot hold property, so that it belongs to the first comer. " To government, Small, "he stammered," to government. But he said it in a halting fashion, and I knew in my heart that I had got him. " You think, then, sir, that I should give the information to the Governor-General? "said I, quietly." Well, well, you must not do anything rash, or that you might repent. Let me hear all about it, Small. Give me the facts. "I told him the whole story, with small changes so that he could not identify the places. When I had finished he stood stock still and full of thought. I could see by the twitch of his lip that there was a struggle going on within him." This is a very important matter, Small, "he said, at last." You must not say a word to any one about it, and I shall see you again soon. "Two nights later he and his friend Captain Morstan came to my hut in the dead of the night with a lantern." I want you just to let Captain Morstan hear that story from your own lips, Small, "said he." "I repeated it as I had told it before." It rings true, eh? "said he." It s good enough to act upon? "Captain Morstan nodded." Look here, Small, "said the major." We have been talking it over, my friend here and I, and we have come to the conclusion that this secret of yours is hardly a government matter, after all, but is a private concern of your own, which of course you have the power of disposing of as you think best. Now, the question is, what price would you ask for it? We might be inclined to take it up, and at least look into it, if we could agree as to terms. "He tried to speak in a cool, careless way, but his eyes were shining with excitement and greed." Why, as to that, gentlemen, "I answered, trying also to be cool, but feeling as excited as he did," there is only one bargain which a man in my position can make. I shall want you to help me to my freedom, and to help my three companions to theirs. We shall then take you into partnership, and give you a fifth share to divide between you. " Hum! "said he." A fifth share! That is not very tempting. " It would come to fifty thousand apiece, "said I." But how can we gain your freedom? You know very well that you ask an impossibility. " Nothing of the sort,<|quote|>"I answered."</|quote|>I have thought it all out to the last detail. The only bar to our escape is that we can get no boat fit for the voyage, and no provisions to last us for so long a time. There are plenty of little yachts and yawls at Calcutta or Madras which would serve our turn well. Do you bring one over. We shall engage to get aboard her by night, and if you will drop us on any part of the Indian coast you will have done your part of the bargain. " If there were only one, "he said." None or all, "I answered." We have sworn it. The four of us must always act together. " You see, Morstan, "said he," Small is a man of his word. He does not flinch from his friend. I think we may very well trust him. " It s a dirty business, "the other answered." Yet, as you say, the money would save our commissions handsomely. " Well, Small, "said the major," we must, I suppose, try and meet you. We must first, of course, test the truth of your story. Tell me where the box is hid, and I shall get leave of absence and go back to India in the monthly relief-boat to inquire into the affair. " Not so fast, "said I, growing colder as he got hot." I must have the consent of my three comrades. I tell you that it is four or none with us. " Nonsense! "he broke in." What have three black fellows to do with our agreement? " Black or blue, "said I," they are in with me, and we all go together. "Well, the matter ended by a second meeting, at which Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan, and Dost Akbar were all present. We talked the matter over again, and at last we came to an arrangement. We were to provide both the officers with charts of the part of the Agra fort and mark the place in the wall where the treasure was hid. Major Sholto was to go to India to test our story. If he found the box he was to leave it there, to send out a small yacht provisioned for a voyage, which was to lie off Rutland Island, and to which we were to make our way, and finally to return to his duties. Captain Morstan was then to apply for leave of absence, to meet us at Agra, and there we were to have a final division of the treasure, he taking the major s share as well as his own. All this we sealed by the most solemn oaths that the mind could think or the lips utter. I sat up all night with paper and ink, and by the morning I had the two charts all ready, signed with the sign of four, that is, of Abdullah, Akbar, Mahomet, and myself." "Well, gentlemen, I weary you with my long story, and I know that my friend Mr. Jones is impatient to get me safely stowed in chokey. I ll make it as short as I can. The villain Sholto went off to India, but he never came back again. Captain Morstan showed me his name among a list of passengers in one of the mail-boats very shortly afterwards. His uncle had died, leaving him a fortune, and he had left the army, yet he could stoop to treat five men as he had treated us. Morstan went over to Agra shortly afterwards, and found, as we expected, that the treasure was indeed gone. The scoundrel had stolen it all, without carrying out one of the conditions on which we had sold him the secret. From that day I lived only for vengeance. I thought of it by day and I nursed it by night. It became an overpowering, absorbing passion with me. I cared nothing for the law, nothing for the gallows. To escape, to track down Sholto, to have my hand upon his throat, that was my one thought. Even the Agra treasure had come to be a smaller thing in my mind than the slaying of Sholto." "Well, I have set my mind on many things in this life, and never one which I did not carry out. But it was weary years before my time came. I have told you that I had picked up something of medicine. One day when Dr. Somerton was down with a fever a little Andaman Islander was picked up by a convict-gang in the woods. He was sick to death, and had gone to a lonely place to die. I took him in hand, though he was as venomous as a young snake, and after a couple of months I got him all right
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I thought perhaps the best thing that I could do would be to hand it over to the proper authorities, and then perhaps they would get my sentence shortened for me. " Half a million, Small? "he gasped, looking hard at me to see if I was in earnest." Quite that, sir, in jewels and pearls. It lies there ready for any one. And the queer thing about it is that the real owner is outlawed and cannot hold property, so that it belongs to the first comer. " To government, Small, "he stammered," to government. But he said it in a halting fashion, and I knew in my heart that I had got him. " You think, then, sir, that I should give the information to the Governor-General? "said I, quietly." Well, well, you must not do anything rash, or that you might repent. Let me hear all about it, Small. Give me the facts. "I told him the whole story, with small changes so that he could not identify the places. When I had finished he stood stock still and full of thought. I could see by the twitch of his lip that there was a struggle going on within him." This is a very important matter, Small, "he said, at last." You must not say a word to any one about it, and I shall see you again soon. "Two nights later he and his friend Captain Morstan came to my hut in the dead of the night with a lantern." I want you just to let Captain Morstan hear that story from your own lips, Small, "said he." "I repeated it as I had told it before." It rings true, eh? "said he." It s good enough to act upon? "Captain Morstan nodded." Look here, Small, "said the major." We have been talking it over, my friend here and I, and we have come to the conclusion that this secret of yours is hardly a government matter, after all, but is a private concern of your own, which of course you have the power of disposing of as you think best. Now, the question is, what price would you ask for it? We might be inclined to take it up, and at least look into it, if we could agree as to terms. "He tried to speak in a cool, careless way, but his eyes were shining with excitement and greed." Why, as to that, gentlemen, "I answered, trying also to be cool, but feeling as excited as he did," there is only one bargain which a man in my position can make. I shall want you to help me to my freedom, and to help my three companions to theirs. We shall then take you into partnership, and give you a fifth share to divide between you. " Hum! "said he." A fifth share! That is not very tempting. " It would come to fifty thousand apiece, "said I." But how can we gain your freedom? You know very well that you ask an impossibility. " Nothing of the sort,<|quote|>"I answered."</|quote|>I have thought it all out to the last detail. The only bar to our escape is that we can get no boat fit for the voyage, and no provisions to last us for so long a time. There are plenty of little yachts and yawls at Calcutta or Madras which would serve our turn well. Do you bring one over. We shall engage to get aboard her by night, and if you will drop us on any part of the Indian coast you will have done your part of the bargain. " If there were only one, "he said." None or all, "I answered." We have sworn it. The four of us must always act together. " You see, Morstan, "said he," Small is a man of his word. He does not flinch from his friend. I think we may very well trust him. " It s a dirty business, "the other answered." Yet, as you say, the money would save our commissions handsomely. " Well, Small, "said the major," we must, I suppose, try and meet you. We must first, of course, test the truth of your story. Tell me where the box is hid, and I shall get leave of absence and go back to India in the monthly relief-boat to inquire into the affair. " Not so fast, "said I, growing colder as he got hot." I must have the consent of my three comrades. I tell you that it is four or none with us. " Nonsense! "he broke in." What have three black fellows to do with our agreement? " Black or blue, "said I," they are in with me, and we all go together. "Well, the matter ended by a second meeting, at which Mahomet Singh,
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The Sign Of The Four
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"There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?"
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Ben
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but still in the saddle.<|quote|>"There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?"</|quote|>Twice more John and Thunderclap
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old support in the mane, but still in the saddle.<|quote|>"There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?"</|quote|>Twice more John and Thunderclap went over the little rail,
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took an arser. Keep hold on to the reins next time. You can lose a hunt that way." At the third attempt John got over and found himself breathless and insecure, one stirrup swinging loose and one hand grabbing its old support in the mane, but still in the saddle.<|quote|>"There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?"</|quote|>Twice more John and Thunderclap went over the little rail, then nanny called that it was time to go indoors for his milk. They walked the pony back to the stable. Nanny said, "Oh dear, look at all the mud on your coat." Ben said, "We'll have you riding the
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saddle and landed on his back in the grass. Nanny rose in alarm. "Oh, what's happened, Mr Hacket, is he hurt?" "He's all right," said Ben. "I'm all right," said John, "I think she put in a short step." "Short step my grandmother. You just opened your bloody legs and took an arser. Keep hold on to the reins next time. You can lose a hunt that way." At the third attempt John got over and found himself breathless and insecure, one stirrup swinging loose and one hand grabbing its old support in the mane, but still in the saddle.<|quote|>"There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?"</|quote|>Twice more John and Thunderclap went over the little rail, then nanny called that it was time to go indoors for his milk. They walked the pony back to the stable. Nanny said, "Oh dear, look at all the mud on your coat." Ben said, "We'll have you riding the winner at Aintree soon." "Good morning, Mr Hacket." "Good morning, miss." "Good-bye, Ben, may I come and see you doing the farm horses this evening?" "That's not for me to say. You must ask nanny. Tell you what though, the grey carthorse has got worms. Would you like to see
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his balance by dropping the reins and gripping the mane with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said, "What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!" He handed John a switch. Nanny sat by the gate re-reading a letter from her sister. John took Thunderclap back and tried the jump again. This time they made straight for the rail. Ben shouted "Legs!" and John kicked sturdily, losing his stirrups. Ben raised his arms as if scaring crows. Thunderclap jumped; John rose from the saddle and landed on his back in the grass. Nanny rose in alarm. "Oh, what's happened, Mr Hacket, is he hurt?" "He's all right," said Ben. "I'm all right," said John, "I think she put in a short step." "Short step my grandmother. You just opened your bloody legs and took an arser. Keep hold on to the reins next time. You can lose a hunt that way." At the third attempt John got over and found himself breathless and insecure, one stirrup swinging loose and one hand grabbing its old support in the mane, but still in the saddle.<|quote|>"There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?"</|quote|>Twice more John and Thunderclap went over the little rail, then nanny called that it was time to go indoors for his milk. They walked the pony back to the stable. Nanny said, "Oh dear, look at all the mud on your coat." Ben said, "We'll have you riding the winner at Aintree soon." "Good morning, Mr Hacket." "Good morning, miss." "Good-bye, Ben, may I come and see you doing the farm horses this evening?" "That's not for me to say. You must ask nanny. Tell you what though, the grey carthorse has got worms. Would you like to see me give him a pill?" "Oh yes; please, nanny, may I?" "You must ask mother. Come along now, you've had quite enough of horses for one day." "Can't have enough of horses," said John, "ever." On the way back to the house he said, "Can I have my milk in mummy's room?" "That depends." Nanny's replies were always evasive, like that--" "We'll see" or "That's asking" or "Those that ask no questions hear no lies" "--altogether unlike Ben's decisive and pungent judgments. "What does it depend on?" "Lots of things." "Tell me one of them." "On your not asking a
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it was a man's business. Nanny sat at a distance, crocheting, on her camp stool; out of earshot. There had been a corresponding promotion in Ben's position. From being the hand who looked after the farm horses, he was now, perceptibly, assuming the air of a stud groom. The handkerchief round his neck gave place to a stock with a fox-head pin. He was a man of varied experience in other parts of the country. Neither Tony nor Brenda hunted but they were anxious that John should like it. Ben foresaw the time when the stables would be full and himself in authority; it would not be like Mr Last to get anyone in from outside. Ben had got two posts bored for iron pegs, and a white-washed rail. With these he erected a two-foot jump in the middle of the field. "Now take it quite easy. Canter up slow and when she takes off lean forward in the saddle and you'll be over like a bird. Keep her head straight at it." Thunderclap trotted forwards, cantered two paces, thought better of it and, just before the jump, fell into a trot again and swerved round the obstacle. John recovered his balance by dropping the reins and gripping the mane with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said, "What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!" He handed John a switch. Nanny sat by the gate re-reading a letter from her sister. John took Thunderclap back and tried the jump again. This time they made straight for the rail. Ben shouted "Legs!" and John kicked sturdily, losing his stirrups. Ben raised his arms as if scaring crows. Thunderclap jumped; John rose from the saddle and landed on his back in the grass. Nanny rose in alarm. "Oh, what's happened, Mr Hacket, is he hurt?" "He's all right," said Ben. "I'm all right," said John, "I think she put in a short step." "Short step my grandmother. You just opened your bloody legs and took an arser. Keep hold on to the reins next time. You can lose a hunt that way." At the third attempt John got over and found himself breathless and insecure, one stirrup swinging loose and one hand grabbing its old support in the mane, but still in the saddle.<|quote|>"There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?"</|quote|>Twice more John and Thunderclap went over the little rail, then nanny called that it was time to go indoors for his milk. They walked the pony back to the stable. Nanny said, "Oh dear, look at all the mud on your coat." Ben said, "We'll have you riding the winner at Aintree soon." "Good morning, Mr Hacket." "Good morning, miss." "Good-bye, Ben, may I come and see you doing the farm horses this evening?" "That's not for me to say. You must ask nanny. Tell you what though, the grey carthorse has got worms. Would you like to see me give him a pill?" "Oh yes; please, nanny, may I?" "You must ask mother. Come along now, you've had quite enough of horses for one day." "Can't have enough of horses," said John, "ever." On the way back to the house he said, "Can I have my milk in mummy's room?" "That depends." Nanny's replies were always evasive, like that--" "We'll see" or "That's asking" or "Those that ask no questions hear no lies" "--altogether unlike Ben's decisive and pungent judgments. "What does it depend on?" "Lots of things." "Tell me one of them." "On your not asking a lot of silly questions." "Silly old tart." "_John!_ How dare you? What do you mean?" Delighted by the effect of this sally, John broke away from her hand and danced in front of her, saying, "Silly old tart, silly old tart" all the way to the side entrance. When they entered the porch his nurse silently took off his leggings; he was sobered a little by her grimness. "Go straight up to the nursery," she said. "I am going to speak to your mother about you." "Please, nanny. I don't know what it means, but I didn't mean it." "Go straight to the nursery." * * * * * Brenda was doing her face. "It's been the same ever since Ben Hacket started teaching him to ride, my lady, there's been no doing anything with him." Brenda spat in the eye-black. "But, nanny, what exactly did he say?" "Oh, I couldn't repeat it, my lady." "Nonsense, you must tell me. Otherwise I shall be thinking it something far worse than it was." "It couldn't have been worse... he called me a silly old tart, my lady." Brenda choked slightly into her face towel. "He said _that_?" "Repeatedly. He danced in
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Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the company's rum ration. But John was not going to name his pony after a drunken mule. So in the end they had decided on Thunderclap, in spite of her imperturbable disposition. She was a dark bay, with long tail and mane. Ben had left her legs shaggy. She cropped the grass, resisting John's attempts to keep her head up. Before her arrival riding had been a very different thing. He had jogged round the paddock on a little Shetland pony called Bunny, with his nurse panting at the bridle. Now it was a man's business. Nanny sat at a distance, crocheting, on her camp stool; out of earshot. There had been a corresponding promotion in Ben's position. From being the hand who looked after the farm horses, he was now, perceptibly, assuming the air of a stud groom. The handkerchief round his neck gave place to a stock with a fox-head pin. He was a man of varied experience in other parts of the country. Neither Tony nor Brenda hunted but they were anxious that John should like it. Ben foresaw the time when the stables would be full and himself in authority; it would not be like Mr Last to get anyone in from outside. Ben had got two posts bored for iron pegs, and a white-washed rail. With these he erected a two-foot jump in the middle of the field. "Now take it quite easy. Canter up slow and when she takes off lean forward in the saddle and you'll be over like a bird. Keep her head straight at it." Thunderclap trotted forwards, cantered two paces, thought better of it and, just before the jump, fell into a trot again and swerved round the obstacle. John recovered his balance by dropping the reins and gripping the mane with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said, "What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!" He handed John a switch. Nanny sat by the gate re-reading a letter from her sister. John took Thunderclap back and tried the jump again. This time they made straight for the rail. Ben shouted "Legs!" and John kicked sturdily, losing his stirrups. Ben raised his arms as if scaring crows. Thunderclap jumped; John rose from the saddle and landed on his back in the grass. Nanny rose in alarm. "Oh, what's happened, Mr Hacket, is he hurt?" "He's all right," said Ben. "I'm all right," said John, "I think she put in a short step." "Short step my grandmother. You just opened your bloody legs and took an arser. Keep hold on to the reins next time. You can lose a hunt that way." At the third attempt John got over and found himself breathless and insecure, one stirrup swinging loose and one hand grabbing its old support in the mane, but still in the saddle.<|quote|>"There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?"</|quote|>Twice more John and Thunderclap went over the little rail, then nanny called that it was time to go indoors for his milk. They walked the pony back to the stable. Nanny said, "Oh dear, look at all the mud on your coat." Ben said, "We'll have you riding the winner at Aintree soon." "Good morning, Mr Hacket." "Good morning, miss." "Good-bye, Ben, may I come and see you doing the farm horses this evening?" "That's not for me to say. You must ask nanny. Tell you what though, the grey carthorse has got worms. Would you like to see me give him a pill?" "Oh yes; please, nanny, may I?" "You must ask mother. Come along now, you've had quite enough of horses for one day." "Can't have enough of horses," said John, "ever." On the way back to the house he said, "Can I have my milk in mummy's room?" "That depends." Nanny's replies were always evasive, like that--" "We'll see" or "That's asking" or "Those that ask no questions hear no lies" "--altogether unlike Ben's decisive and pungent judgments. "What does it depend on?" "Lots of things." "Tell me one of them." "On your not asking a lot of silly questions." "Silly old tart." "_John!_ How dare you? What do you mean?" Delighted by the effect of this sally, John broke away from her hand and danced in front of her, saying, "Silly old tart, silly old tart" all the way to the side entrance. When they entered the porch his nurse silently took off his leggings; he was sobered a little by her grimness. "Go straight up to the nursery," she said. "I am going to speak to your mother about you." "Please, nanny. I don't know what it means, but I didn't mean it." "Go straight to the nursery." * * * * * Brenda was doing her face. "It's been the same ever since Ben Hacket started teaching him to ride, my lady, there's been no doing anything with him." Brenda spat in the eye-black. "But, nanny, what exactly did he say?" "Oh, I couldn't repeat it, my lady." "Nonsense, you must tell me. Otherwise I shall be thinking it something far worse than it was." "It couldn't have been worse... he called me a silly old tart, my lady." Brenda choked slightly into her face towel. "He said _that_?" "Repeatedly. He danced in front of me all the way up the drive, _singing it_." "I see... well, you were quite right to tell me." "Thank you, my lady, and since we are talking about it I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning." "All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr Last about it." She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal. "Darling," she said, "_you_ must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am." * * * * * "I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart," John argued, "and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people." "Well, he's got no business to." "I like Ben more than anyone in the world. And I should think he's cleverer too." "Now, you know you don't like him more than your mother." "Yes I do. _Far_ more." Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and deliver the homily he had been preparing. "Now listen, John. It was very wrong of you to call nanny a silly old tart. First, because it was unkind to her. Think of all the things she does for you every day." "She's paid to." "Be quiet. And secondly, because you were using a word which people of your age and class do not use. Poor people use certain expressions which gentlemen do not. You are a gentleman. When you grow up all this house and lots of other things besides will belong to you. You must learn to speak like someone who is going to have these things and to be considerate to people less fortunate than you, particularly women. Do you understand?" "Is Ben less fortunate than me?" "That has nothing to do with it. Now you are to go upstairs and say you are sorry to nanny and promise never to use that word about anyone again." "All right." "And because you have been so naughty to-day you are not to ride to-morrow." "To-morrow's Sunday." "Well, next day then." "But you said" "to-morrow". "It isn't fair to change now." "John, don't argue. If you are not careful I shall send Thunderclap back to Uncle
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years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the company's rum ration. But John was not going to name his pony after a drunken mule. So in the end they had decided on Thunderclap, in spite of her imperturbable disposition. She was a dark bay, with long tail and mane. Ben had left her legs shaggy. She cropped the grass, resisting John's attempts to keep her head up. Before her arrival riding had been a very different thing. He had jogged round the paddock on a little Shetland pony called Bunny, with his nurse panting at the bridle. Now it was a man's business. Nanny sat at a distance, crocheting, on her camp stool; out of earshot. There had been a corresponding promotion in Ben's position. From being the hand who looked after the farm horses, he was now, perceptibly, assuming the air of a stud groom. The handkerchief round his neck gave place to a stock with a fox-head pin. He was a man of varied experience in other parts of the country. Neither Tony nor Brenda hunted but they were anxious that John should like it. Ben foresaw the time when the stables would be full and himself in authority; it would not be like Mr Last to get anyone in from outside. Ben had got two posts bored for iron pegs, and a white-washed rail. With these he erected a two-foot jump in the middle of the field. "Now take it quite easy. Canter up slow and when she takes off lean forward in the saddle and you'll be over like a bird. Keep her head straight at it." Thunderclap trotted forwards, cantered two paces, thought better of it and, just before the jump, fell into a trot again and swerved round the obstacle. John recovered his balance by dropping the reins and gripping the mane with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said, "What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!" He handed John a switch. Nanny sat by the gate re-reading a letter from her sister. John took Thunderclap back and tried the jump again. This time they made straight for the rail. Ben shouted "Legs!" and John kicked sturdily, losing his stirrups. Ben raised his arms as if scaring crows. Thunderclap jumped; John rose from the saddle and landed on his back in the grass. Nanny rose in alarm. "Oh, what's happened, Mr Hacket, is he hurt?" "He's all right," said Ben. "I'm all right," said John, "I think she put in a short step." "Short step my grandmother. You just opened your bloody legs and took an arser. Keep hold on to the reins next time. You can lose a hunt that way." At the third attempt John got over and found himself breathless and insecure, one stirrup swinging loose and one hand grabbing its old support in the mane, but still in the saddle.<|quote|>"There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?"</|quote|>Twice more John and Thunderclap went over the little rail, then nanny called that it was time to go indoors for his milk. They walked the pony back to the stable. Nanny said, "Oh dear, look at all the mud on your coat." Ben said, "We'll have you riding the winner at Aintree soon." "Good morning, Mr Hacket." "Good morning, miss." "Good-bye, Ben, may I come and see you doing the farm horses this evening?" "That's not for me to say. You must ask nanny. Tell you what though, the grey carthorse has got worms. Would you like to see me give him a pill?" "Oh yes; please, nanny, may I?" "You must ask mother. Come along now, you've had quite enough of horses for one day." "Can't have enough of horses," said John, "ever." On the way back to the house he said, "Can I have my milk in mummy's room?" "That depends." Nanny's replies were always evasive, like that--" "We'll see" or "That's asking" or "Those that ask no questions hear no lies" "--altogether unlike Ben's decisive and pungent judgments. "What does it depend on?" "Lots of things." "Tell me one of them." "On your not asking a lot of silly questions." "Silly old tart." "_John!_ How dare you? What do you mean?" Delighted by the effect of this sally, John broke away from her hand and danced in front of her, saying, "Silly old tart, silly old tart" all the way to the side entrance. When they entered the porch his nurse silently took off his leggings; he was sobered a little by her grimness. "Go straight up to the nursery," she said. "I am going to speak to your mother about you." "Please, nanny. I don't know what it means, but I didn't mean it." "Go straight to the nursery." * * * * * Brenda was doing her face. "It's been the same ever since Ben Hacket started teaching him to ride, my lady, there's been no doing anything with him." Brenda spat in the eye-black. "But, nanny, what exactly did he say?" "Oh, I couldn't repeat it, my lady." "Nonsense, you must tell me. Otherwise I shall be thinking it something far worse than it was." "It couldn't have been worse... he called me a silly old tart, my lady." Brenda choked slightly into her face towel. "He said _that_?" "Repeatedly. He danced in front of me all the way up the drive, _singing it_." "I see... well, you were quite right to tell me." "Thank you, my lady, and since we are talking about it I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this
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A Handful Of Dust
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"She hurried there last night. She arrived there in great agitation, and was insensible all through the night. I live at her father's, and was with her. You may be sure, sir, you will never see her again as long as you live."
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Cecilia Jupe
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see where we are going."<|quote|>"She hurried there last night. She arrived there in great agitation, and was insensible all through the night. I live at her father's, and was with her. You may be sure, sir, you will never see her again as long as you live."</|quote|>Mr. Harthouse drew a long
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certainly," he thought, "do _not_ see where we are going."<|quote|>"She hurried there last night. She arrived there in great agitation, and was insensible all through the night. I live at her father's, and was with her. You may be sure, sir, you will never see her again as long as you live."</|quote|>Mr. Harthouse drew a long breath; and, if ever man
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to form that you come from that lady, do not deceive me, I trust." "I left her within an hour." "At !" "At her father's." Mr. Harthouse's face lengthened in spite of his coolness, and his perplexity increased. "Then I certainly," he thought, "do _not_ see where we are going."<|quote|>"She hurried there last night. She arrived there in great agitation, and was insensible all through the night. I live at her father's, and was with her. You may be sure, sir, you will never see her again as long as you live."</|quote|>Mr. Harthouse drew a long breath; and, if ever man found himself in the position of not knowing what to say, made the discovery beyond all question that he was so circumstanced. The child-like ingenuousness with which his visitor spoke, her modest fearlessness, her truthfulness which put all artifice aside,
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see where we are going." "I think," said Sissy, "you have already guessed whom I left just now!" "I have been in the greatest concern and uneasiness during the last four-and-twenty hours (which have appeared as many years)," he returned, "on a lady's account. The hopes I have been encouraged to form that you come from that lady, do not deceive me, I trust." "I left her within an hour." "At !" "At her father's." Mr. Harthouse's face lengthened in spite of his coolness, and his perplexity increased. "Then I certainly," he thought, "do _not_ see where we are going."<|quote|>"She hurried there last night. She arrived there in great agitation, and was insensible all through the night. I live at her father's, and was with her. You may be sure, sir, you will never see her again as long as you live."</|quote|>Mr. Harthouse drew a long breath; and, if ever man found himself in the position of not knowing what to say, made the discovery beyond all question that he was so circumstanced. The child-like ingenuousness with which his visitor spoke, her modest fearlessness, her truthfulness which put all artifice aside, her entire forgetfulness of herself in her earnest quiet holding to the object with which she had come; all this, together with her reliance on his easily given promise which in itself shamed him presented something in which he was so inexperienced, and against which he knew any of his
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these words: "I am sure I may rely upon it to keep my visit secret, and to keep secret what I am going to say. I will rely upon it, if you will tell me I may so far trust" "You may, I assure you." "I am young, as you see; I am alone, as you see. In coming to you, sir, I have no advice or encouragement beyond my own hope." He thought, "But that is very strong," as he followed the momentary upward glance of her eyes. He thought besides, "This is a very odd beginning. I don't see where we are going." "I think," said Sissy, "you have already guessed whom I left just now!" "I have been in the greatest concern and uneasiness during the last four-and-twenty hours (which have appeared as many years)," he returned, "on a lady's account. The hopes I have been encouraged to form that you come from that lady, do not deceive me, I trust." "I left her within an hour." "At !" "At her father's." Mr. Harthouse's face lengthened in spite of his coolness, and his perplexity increased. "Then I certainly," he thought, "do _not_ see where we are going."<|quote|>"She hurried there last night. She arrived there in great agitation, and was insensible all through the night. I live at her father's, and was with her. You may be sure, sir, you will never see her again as long as you live."</|quote|>Mr. Harthouse drew a long breath; and, if ever man found himself in the position of not knowing what to say, made the discovery beyond all question that he was so circumstanced. The child-like ingenuousness with which his visitor spoke, her modest fearlessness, her truthfulness which put all artifice aside, her entire forgetfulness of herself in her earnest quiet holding to the object with which she had come; all this, together with her reliance on his easily given promise which in itself shamed him presented something in which he was so inexperienced, and against which he knew any of his usual weapons would fall so powerless; that not a word could he rally to his relief. At last he said: "So startling an announcement, so confidently made, and by such lips, is really disconcerting in the last degree. May I be permitted to inquire, if you are charged to convey that information to me in those hopeless words, by the lady of whom we speak?" "I have no charge from her." "The drowning man catches at the straw. With no disrespect for your judgment, and with no doubt of your sincerity, excuse my saying that I cling to the belief
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see you." "Outside? Where?" "Outside this door, sir." Giving the waiter to the personage before mentioned, as a block-head duly qualified for that consignment, Mr. Harthouse hurried into the gallery. A young woman whom he had never seen stood there. Plainly dressed, very quiet, very pretty. As he conducted her into the room and placed a chair for her, he observed, by the light of the candles, that she was even prettier than he had at first believed. Her face was innocent and youthful, and its expression remarkably pleasant. She was not afraid of him, or in any way disconcerted; she seemed to have her mind entirely preoccupied with the occasion of her visit, and to have substituted that consideration for herself. "I speak to Mr. Harthouse?" she said, when they were alone. "To Mr. Harthouse." He added in his mind, "And you speak to him with the most confiding eyes I ever saw, and the most earnest voice (though so quiet) I ever heard." "If I do not understand and I do not, sir'" said Sissy, "what your honour as a gentleman binds you to, in other matters:" the blood really rose in his face as she began in these words: "I am sure I may rely upon it to keep my visit secret, and to keep secret what I am going to say. I will rely upon it, if you will tell me I may so far trust" "You may, I assure you." "I am young, as you see; I am alone, as you see. In coming to you, sir, I have no advice or encouragement beyond my own hope." He thought, "But that is very strong," as he followed the momentary upward glance of her eyes. He thought besides, "This is a very odd beginning. I don't see where we are going." "I think," said Sissy, "you have already guessed whom I left just now!" "I have been in the greatest concern and uneasiness during the last four-and-twenty hours (which have appeared as many years)," he returned, "on a lady's account. The hopes I have been encouraged to form that you come from that lady, do not deceive me, I trust." "I left her within an hour." "At !" "At her father's." Mr. Harthouse's face lengthened in spite of his coolness, and his perplexity increased. "Then I certainly," he thought, "do _not_ see where we are going."<|quote|>"She hurried there last night. She arrived there in great agitation, and was insensible all through the night. I live at her father's, and was with her. You may be sure, sir, you will never see her again as long as you live."</|quote|>Mr. Harthouse drew a long breath; and, if ever man found himself in the position of not knowing what to say, made the discovery beyond all question that he was so circumstanced. The child-like ingenuousness with which his visitor spoke, her modest fearlessness, her truthfulness which put all artifice aside, her entire forgetfulness of herself in her earnest quiet holding to the object with which she had come; all this, together with her reliance on his easily given promise which in itself shamed him presented something in which he was so inexperienced, and against which he knew any of his usual weapons would fall so powerless; that not a word could he rally to his relief. At last he said: "So startling an announcement, so confidently made, and by such lips, is really disconcerting in the last degree. May I be permitted to inquire, if you are charged to convey that information to me in those hopeless words, by the lady of whom we speak?" "I have no charge from her." "The drowning man catches at the straw. With no disrespect for your judgment, and with no doubt of your sincerity, excuse my saying that I cling to the belief that there is yet hope that I am not condemned to perpetual exile from that lady's presence." "There is not the least hope. The first object of my coming here, sir, is to assure you that you must believe that there is no more hope of your ever speaking with her again, than there would be if she had died when she came home last night." "Must believe? But if I can't or if I should, by infirmity of nature, be obstinate and won't" "It is still true. There is no hope." James Harthouse looked at her with an incredulous smile upon his lips; but her mind looked over and beyond him, and the smile was quite thrown away. He bit his lip, and took a little time for consideration. "Well! If it should unhappily appear," he said, "after due pains and duty on my part, that I am brought to a position so desolate as this banishment, I shall not become the lady's persecutor. But you said you had no commission from her?" "I have only the commission of my love for her, and her love for me. I have no other trust, than that I have been with
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impromptu wrestle with my friend Bounderby in the Lancashire manner which would seem as likely as anything else in the present state of affairs I'll dine," said Mr. James Harthouse. "Bounderby has the advantage in point of weight; and if anything of a British nature is to come off between us, it may be as well to be in training." Therefore he rang the bell, and tossing himself negligently on a sofa, ordered "Some dinner at six with a beefsteak in it," and got through the intervening time as well as he could. That was not particularly well; for he remained in the greatest perplexity, and, as the hours went on, and no kind of explanation offered itself, his perplexity augmented at compound interest. However, he took affairs as coolly as it was in human nature to do, and entertained himself with the facetious idea of the training more than once. "It wouldn't be bad," he yawned at one time, "to give the waiter five shillings, and throw him." At another time it occurred to him, "Or a fellow of about thirteen or fourteen stone might be hired by the hour." But these jests did not tell materially on the afternoon, or his suspense; and, sooth to say, they both lagged fearfully. It was impossible, even before dinner, to avoid often walking about in the pattern of the carpet, looking out of the window, listening at the door for footsteps, and occasionally becoming rather hot when any steps approached that room. But, after dinner, when the day turned to twilight, and the twilight turned to night, and still no communication was made to him, it began to be as he expressed it, "like the Holy Office and slow torture." However, still true to his conviction that indifference was the genuine high-breeding (the only conviction he had), he seized this crisis as the opportunity for ordering candles and a newspaper. He had been trying in vain, for half an hour, to read this newspaper, when the waiter appeared and said, at once mysteriously and apologetically: "Beg your pardon, sir. You're wanted, sir, if you please." A general recollection that this was the kind of thing the Police said to the swell mob, caused Mr. Harthouse to ask the waiter in return, with bristling indignation, what the Devil he meant by "wanted'? "Beg your pardon, sir. Young lady outside, sir, wishes to see you." "Outside? Where?" "Outside this door, sir." Giving the waiter to the personage before mentioned, as a block-head duly qualified for that consignment, Mr. Harthouse hurried into the gallery. A young woman whom he had never seen stood there. Plainly dressed, very quiet, very pretty. As he conducted her into the room and placed a chair for her, he observed, by the light of the candles, that she was even prettier than he had at first believed. Her face was innocent and youthful, and its expression remarkably pleasant. She was not afraid of him, or in any way disconcerted; she seemed to have her mind entirely preoccupied with the occasion of her visit, and to have substituted that consideration for herself. "I speak to Mr. Harthouse?" she said, when they were alone. "To Mr. Harthouse." He added in his mind, "And you speak to him with the most confiding eyes I ever saw, and the most earnest voice (though so quiet) I ever heard." "If I do not understand and I do not, sir'" said Sissy, "what your honour as a gentleman binds you to, in other matters:" the blood really rose in his face as she began in these words: "I am sure I may rely upon it to keep my visit secret, and to keep secret what I am going to say. I will rely upon it, if you will tell me I may so far trust" "You may, I assure you." "I am young, as you see; I am alone, as you see. In coming to you, sir, I have no advice or encouragement beyond my own hope." He thought, "But that is very strong," as he followed the momentary upward glance of her eyes. He thought besides, "This is a very odd beginning. I don't see where we are going." "I think," said Sissy, "you have already guessed whom I left just now!" "I have been in the greatest concern and uneasiness during the last four-and-twenty hours (which have appeared as many years)," he returned, "on a lady's account. The hopes I have been encouraged to form that you come from that lady, do not deceive me, I trust." "I left her within an hour." "At !" "At her father's." Mr. Harthouse's face lengthened in spite of his coolness, and his perplexity increased. "Then I certainly," he thought, "do _not_ see where we are going."<|quote|>"She hurried there last night. She arrived there in great agitation, and was insensible all through the night. I live at her father's, and was with her. You may be sure, sir, you will never see her again as long as you live."</|quote|>Mr. Harthouse drew a long breath; and, if ever man found himself in the position of not knowing what to say, made the discovery beyond all question that he was so circumstanced. The child-like ingenuousness with which his visitor spoke, her modest fearlessness, her truthfulness which put all artifice aside, her entire forgetfulness of herself in her earnest quiet holding to the object with which she had come; all this, together with her reliance on his easily given promise which in itself shamed him presented something in which he was so inexperienced, and against which he knew any of his usual weapons would fall so powerless; that not a word could he rally to his relief. At last he said: "So startling an announcement, so confidently made, and by such lips, is really disconcerting in the last degree. May I be permitted to inquire, if you are charged to convey that information to me in those hopeless words, by the lady of whom we speak?" "I have no charge from her." "The drowning man catches at the straw. With no disrespect for your judgment, and with no doubt of your sincerity, excuse my saying that I cling to the belief that there is yet hope that I am not condemned to perpetual exile from that lady's presence." "There is not the least hope. The first object of my coming here, sir, is to assure you that you must believe that there is no more hope of your ever speaking with her again, than there would be if she had died when she came home last night." "Must believe? But if I can't or if I should, by infirmity of nature, be obstinate and won't" "It is still true. There is no hope." James Harthouse looked at her with an incredulous smile upon his lips; but her mind looked over and beyond him, and the smile was quite thrown away. He bit his lip, and took a little time for consideration. "Well! If it should unhappily appear," he said, "after due pains and duty on my part, that I am brought to a position so desolate as this banishment, I shall not become the lady's persecutor. But you said you had no commission from her?" "I have only the commission of my love for her, and her love for me. I have no other trust, than that I have been with her since she came home, and that she has given me her confidence. I have no further trust, than that I know something of her character and her marriage. O Mr. Harthouse, I think you had that trust too!" He was touched in the cavity where his heart should have been in that nest of addled eggs, where the birds of heaven would have lived if they had not been whistled away by the fervour of this reproach. "I am not a moral sort of fellow," he said, "and I never make any pretensions to the character of a moral sort of fellow. I am as immoral as need be. At the same time, in bringing any distress upon the lady who is the subject of the present conversation, or in unfortunately compromising her in any way, or in committing myself by any expression of sentiments towards her, not perfectly reconcilable with in fact with the domestic hearth; or in taking any advantage of her father's being a machine, or of her brother's being a whelp, or of her husband's being a bear; I beg to be allowed to assure you that I have had no particularly evil intentions, but have glided on from one step to another with a smoothness so perfectly diabolical, that I had not the slightest idea the catalogue was half so long until I began to turn it over. Whereas I find," said Mr. James Harthouse, in conclusion, "that it is really in several volumes." Though he said all this in his frivolous way, the way seemed, for that once, a conscious polishing of but an ugly surface. He was silent for a moment; and then proceeded with a more self-possessed air, though with traces of vexation and disappointment that would not be polished out. "After what has been just now represented to me, in a manner I find it impossible to doubt I know of hardly any other source from which I could have accepted it so readily I feel bound to say to you, in whom the confidence you have mentioned has been reposed, that I cannot refuse to contemplate the possibility (however unexpected) of my seeing the lady no more. I am solely to blame for the thing having come to this and and, I cannot say," he added, rather hard up for a general peroration, "that I have any sanguine expectation
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afraid of him, or in any way disconcerted; she seemed to have her mind entirely preoccupied with the occasion of her visit, and to have substituted that consideration for herself. "I speak to Mr. Harthouse?" she said, when they were alone. "To Mr. Harthouse." He added in his mind, "And you speak to him with the most confiding eyes I ever saw, and the most earnest voice (though so quiet) I ever heard." "If I do not understand and I do not, sir'" said Sissy, "what your honour as a gentleman binds you to, in other matters:" the blood really rose in his face as she began in these words: "I am sure I may rely upon it to keep my visit secret, and to keep secret what I am going to say. I will rely upon it, if you will tell me I may so far trust" "You may, I assure you." "I am young, as you see; I am alone, as you see. In coming to you, sir, I have no advice or encouragement beyond my own hope." He thought, "But that is very strong," as he followed the momentary upward glance of her eyes. He thought besides, "This is a very odd beginning. I don't see where we are going." "I think," said Sissy, "you have already guessed whom I left just now!" "I have been in the greatest concern and uneasiness during the last four-and-twenty hours (which have appeared as many years)," he returned, "on a lady's account. The hopes I have been encouraged to form that you come from that lady, do not deceive me, I trust." "I left her within an hour." "At !" "At her father's." Mr. Harthouse's face lengthened in spite of his coolness, and his perplexity increased. "Then I certainly," he thought, "do _not_ see where we are going."<|quote|>"She hurried there last night. She arrived there in great agitation, and was insensible all through the night. I live at her father's, and was with her. You may be sure, sir, you will never see her again as long as you live."</|quote|>Mr. Harthouse drew a long breath; and, if ever man found himself in the position of not knowing what to say, made the discovery beyond all question that he was so circumstanced. The child-like ingenuousness with which his visitor spoke, her modest fearlessness, her truthfulness which put all artifice aside, her entire forgetfulness of herself in her earnest quiet holding to the object with which she had come; all this, together with her reliance on his easily given promise which in itself shamed him presented something in which he was so inexperienced, and against which he knew any of his usual weapons would fall so powerless; that not a word could he rally to his relief. At last he said: "So startling an announcement, so confidently made, and by such lips, is really disconcerting in the last degree. May I be permitted to inquire, if you are charged to convey that information to me in those hopeless words, by the lady of whom we speak?" "I have no charge from her." "The drowning man catches at the straw. With no disrespect for your judgment, and with no doubt of your sincerity, excuse my saying that I cling to the belief that there is yet hope that I am not condemned to perpetual exile from that lady's presence." "There is not the least hope. The first object of my coming here, sir, is to assure you that you must believe that there is no more hope of your ever speaking with her again, than there would be if she had died when she
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Hard Times
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"No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea."
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Reggie St Cloud
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"I hadn't thought of that."<|quote|>"No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea."</|quote|>"You seem to have got
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to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that."<|quote|>"No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea."</|quote|>"You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless
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tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that."<|quote|>"No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea."</|quote|>"You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's
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it isn't quite all I wanted to say. In fact I think I must have put things rather badly. It comes from trying to respect people's feelings too much. You see, I wasn't so much asking you to agree to anything as explaining what our side propose to do. I've tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that."<|quote|>"No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea."</|quote|>"You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's at Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no
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hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda." "It's not how I should have put it," said Reggie. "Well, I'm not going to and that's the end of it. If that's all you wanted to say, I may as well leave you." "No, it isn't quite all I wanted to say. In fact I think I must have put things rather badly. It comes from trying to respect people's feelings too much. You see, I wasn't so much asking you to agree to anything as explaining what our side propose to do. I've tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that."<|quote|>"No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea."</|quote|>"You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's at Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?" "Yes, I'm here." "You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He
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go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England." "Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?" "Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I don't believe that Brenda ever expected or wanted me to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda." "It's not how I should have put it," said Reggie. "Well, I'm not going to and that's the end of it. If that's all you wanted to say, I may as well leave you." "No, it isn't quite all I wanted to say. In fact I think I must have put things rather badly. It comes from trying to respect people's feelings too much. You see, I wasn't so much asking you to agree to anything as explaining what our side propose to do. I've tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that."<|quote|>"No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea."</|quote|>"You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's at Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?" "Yes, I'm here." "You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver and went back to the smoking-room. His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief... there was now no armour glittering through the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the green sward; the cream and dappled unicorns had fled... Reggie sat expanded in his chair. "Well?" "I got on to her. You were quite right. I'm sorry I didn't believe you. It seemed so unlikely at first." "That's all right, my dear fellow." "I've decided exactly what's going to happen." "Good." "Brenda is not going to get her divorce. The evidence I provided at Brighton isn't worth anything. There happens to have been a child there all the time. She slept both nights in the room I am supposed to have occupied. If you care to bring the case I shall defend it and win, but I think when you have seen my evidence you will drop it. I am going away for six months or so. When I come back, if she wishes it, I shall divorce Brenda without settlements of any kind. Is that clear?" "But look here, my dear fellow." "Good
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want to say," continued Reggie blandly. "It's about money. I understand that when Brenda was in a very agitated state just after the death of her child, she consented to some verbal arrangement with you about settlements." "Yes, I'm allowing her five hundred a year." "Well, you know, I don't think that you have any right to take advantage of her generosity in that way. It was most imprudent of her to consider your proposal--she admits now that she was not really herself when she did so." "What does she suggest instead?" "Let's go outside and have coffee." When they were settled in front of the fire in the empty smoking-room, he answered, "Well, I've discussed it with the lawyers and with the family and we decided that the sum should be increased to two thousand." "That's quite out of the question. I couldn't begin to afford it." "Well, you know, I have to consider Brenda's interests. She has very little of her own and there will be no more coming to her. My mother's income is an allowance which I pay under my father's will. I shan't be able to give her anything. I am trying to raise everything I can for an expedition to one of the oases in the Libyan desert. This chap Beaver has got practically nothing and doesn't look like earning any. So you see--" "But, my dear Reggie, you know as well as I do that it's out of the question." "It's rather less than a third of your income." "Yes, but almost every penny goes straight back to the estate. Do you realize that Brenda and I together haven't spent half that amount a year on our personal expenses? It's all I can do to keep things going as it is." "I didn't expect you'd take this line, Tony. I think it's extremely unreasonable of you. After all, it's absurd to pretend in these days that a single man can't be perfectly comfortable on four thousand a year. It's as much as I've ever had." "It would mean giving up Hetton." "Well, I gave up Brakeleigh, and I assure you, my dear fellow, I never regret it. It was a nasty wrench at the time, of course, old association and everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England." "Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?" "Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I don't believe that Brenda ever expected or wanted me to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda." "It's not how I should have put it," said Reggie. "Well, I'm not going to and that's the end of it. If that's all you wanted to say, I may as well leave you." "No, it isn't quite all I wanted to say. In fact I think I must have put things rather badly. It comes from trying to respect people's feelings too much. You see, I wasn't so much asking you to agree to anything as explaining what our side propose to do. I've tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that."<|quote|>"No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea."</|quote|>"You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's at Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?" "Yes, I'm here." "You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver and went back to the smoking-room. His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief... there was now no armour glittering through the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the green sward; the cream and dappled unicorns had fled... Reggie sat expanded in his chair. "Well?" "I got on to her. You were quite right. I'm sorry I didn't believe you. It seemed so unlikely at first." "That's all right, my dear fellow." "I've decided exactly what's going to happen." "Good." "Brenda is not going to get her divorce. The evidence I provided at Brighton isn't worth anything. There happens to have been a child there all the time. She slept both nights in the room I am supposed to have occupied. If you care to bring the case I shall defend it and win, but I think when you have seen my evidence you will drop it. I am going away for six months or so. When I come back, if she wishes it, I shall divorce Brenda without settlements of any kind. Is that clear?" "But look here, my dear fellow." "Good night. Thank you for the dinner. Good luck to the excavations." On his way out of the club he noticed that John Beaver of Bratt's Club was up for election. * * * * * "Who on earth would have expected the old boy to turn up like that?" asked Polly Cockpurse. "Now I understand why they keep going on in the papers about divorce law reform," said Veronica. "It's _too_ monstrous that he should be allowed to get away with it." "The mistake they made was in telling him first," said Souki. "It's so like Brenda to trust everyone," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. * * * * * "I do think Tony comes out of this pretty poorly," said Marjorie. "Oh, I don't know," said Allan. "I expect your ass of a brother put the thing wrong." CHAPTER V IN SEARCH OF A CITY [I] "any idea how many times round the deck make a mile?" "None, I'm afraid," said Tony. "But I should think you must have walked a great distance." "Twenty-two times. One soon gets out of sorts at sea if you're used to an active life. She's not much of a boat. Travel with this line often?" "Never before." "Ah. Thought you might have been in business in the islands. Not many tourists going out this time of year. Just the other way about. All coming home, if you see what I mean. Going far?" "Demerara." "Ah. Looking for minerals perhaps?" "No, to tell you the truth I am looking for a city." The genial passenger was surprised and then laughed. "Sounded just like you said you were looking for a city." "Yes." "That _was_ what you said?" "Yes." "I thought it sounded like that... well, so long. I must do another few rounds before dinner." He paced off up the deck, straddling slightly in order to keep his balance and occasionally putting out a hand to the rail for support. Regularly every three minutes for the last hour or so, this man had come by. At first Tony had looked up at his approach and then turned away again, out to sea. Presently the man had taken to nodding, then to saying "Hullo" or "Bit choppy" or "Here we are again" "; finally he had stopped and began a conversation. Tony went aft to break this rather embarrassing sequence. He descended the companion way which
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goes straight back to the estate. Do you realize that Brenda and I together haven't spent half that amount a year on our personal expenses? It's all I can do to keep things going as it is." "I didn't expect you'd take this line, Tony. I think it's extremely unreasonable of you. After all, it's absurd to pretend in these days that a single man can't be perfectly comfortable on four thousand a year. It's as much as I've ever had." "It would mean giving up Hetton." "Well, I gave up Brakeleigh, and I assure you, my dear fellow, I never regret it. It was a nasty wrench at the time, of course, old association and everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England." "Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?" "Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I don't believe that Brenda ever expected or wanted me to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda." "It's not how I should have put it," said Reggie. "Well, I'm not going to and that's the end of it. If that's all you wanted to say, I may as well leave you." "No, it isn't quite all I wanted to say. In fact I think I must have put things rather badly. It comes from trying to respect people's feelings too much. You see, I wasn't so much asking you to agree to anything as explaining what our side propose to do. I've tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that."<|quote|>"No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea."</|quote|>"You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's at Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?" "Yes, I'm here." "You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver and went back to the smoking-room. His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief... there was now no armour glittering through the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the green sward; the cream and dappled unicorns had fled... Reggie sat expanded in his chair. "Well?" "I got on to her. You were quite right. I'm sorry I
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Yes,"
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Mr. Knightley
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your goings-on, is very great."<|quote|>"Yes,"</|quote|>said his brother quickly, "it
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Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your goings-on, is very great."<|quote|>"Yes,"</|quote|>said his brother quickly, "it is Randalls that does it
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any thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing, and you mix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole's, or balls at the Crown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your goings-on, is very great."<|quote|>"Yes,"</|quote|>said his brother quickly, "it is Randalls that does it all." "Very well--and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma, that Henry and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are, I only
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life." "Difference! No indeed I am not." "There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company than you used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come down for only one day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party!--When did it happen before, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing, and you mix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole's, or balls at the Crown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your goings-on, is very great."<|quote|>"Yes,"</|quote|>said his brother quickly, "it is Randalls that does it all." "Very well--and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma, that Henry and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are, I only beg you to send them home." "No," cried Mr. Knightley, "that need not be the consequence. Let them be sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure." "Upon my word," exclaimed Emma, "you amuse me! I should like to know how many of all my numerous engagements take place
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shall do all in my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic." "And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again." "That is very likely. You think so, do not you?" "I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father--or even may be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue to increase as much as they have done lately." "Increase!" "Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a great difference in your way of life." "Difference! No indeed I am not." "There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company than you used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come down for only one day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party!--When did it happen before, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing, and you mix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole's, or balls at the Crown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your goings-on, is very great."<|quote|>"Yes,"</|quote|>said his brother quickly, "it is Randalls that does it all." "Very well--and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma, that Henry and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are, I only beg you to send them home." "No," cried Mr. Knightley, "that need not be the consequence. Let them be sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure." "Upon my word," exclaimed Emma, "you amuse me! I should like to know how many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being of the party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure to attend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine--what have they been? Dining once with the Coles--and having a ball talked of, which never took place. I can understand you--" (nodding at Mr. John Knightley) "--your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed. But you," (turning to Mr. Knightley,) "who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from Hartfield, why you should foresee such
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purchase before his death." They were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston, having said all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking away. After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr. Woodhouse to cards. The remaining five were left to their own powers, and Emma doubted their getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed little disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which nobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of spirits which would have made her prefer being silent. Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother. He was to leave them early the next day; and he soon began with-- "Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say about the boys; but you have your sister's letter, and every thing is down at full length there we may be sure. My charge would be much more concise than her's, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have to recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic them." "I rather hope to satisfy you both," said Emma, "for I shall do all in my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic." "And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again." "That is very likely. You think so, do not you?" "I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father--or even may be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue to increase as much as they have done lately." "Increase!" "Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a great difference in your way of life." "Difference! No indeed I am not." "There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company than you used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come down for only one day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party!--When did it happen before, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing, and you mix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole's, or balls at the Crown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your goings-on, is very great."<|quote|>"Yes,"</|quote|>said his brother quickly, "it is Randalls that does it all." "Very well--and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma, that Henry and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are, I only beg you to send them home." "No," cried Mr. Knightley, "that need not be the consequence. Let them be sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure." "Upon my word," exclaimed Emma, "you amuse me! I should like to know how many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being of the party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure to attend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine--what have they been? Dining once with the Coles--and having a ball talked of, which never took place. I can understand you--" (nodding at Mr. John Knightley) "--your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed. But you," (turning to Mr. Knightley,) "who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of dissipation for me, I cannot imagine. And as to my dear little boys, I must say, that if Aunt Emma has not time for them, I do not think they would fare much better with Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home about five hours where she is absent one--and who, when he is at home, is either reading to himself or settling his accounts." Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and succeeded without difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton's beginning to talk to him. VOLUME III CHAPTER I A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the nature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill. She was soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all apprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment had really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;--but if he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the two, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he had taken away, it would be very distressing. If a separation of two months should not have
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make it difficult for me to speak of her with the forbearance I could wish. You cannot be ignorant, Mrs. Elton, of my connexion with the family, nor of the treatment I have met with; and, between ourselves, the whole blame of it is to be laid to her. She was the instigator. Frank's mother would never have been slighted as she was but for her. Mr. Churchill has pride; but his pride is nothing to his wife's: his is a quiet, indolent, gentlemanlike sort of pride that would harm nobody, and only make himself a little helpless and tiresome; but her pride is arrogance and insolence! And what inclines one less to bear, she has no fair pretence of family or blood. She was nobody when he married her, barely the daughter of a gentleman; but ever since her being turned into a Churchill she has out-Churchill'd them all in high and mighty claims: but in herself, I assure you, she is an upstart." "Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! I have quite a horror of upstarts. Maple Grove has given me a thorough disgust to people of that sort; for there is a family in that neighbourhood who are such an annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs they give themselves! Your description of Mrs. Churchill made me think of them directly. People of the name of Tupman, very lately settled there, and encumbered with many low connexions, but giving themselves immense airs, and expecting to be on a footing with the old established families. A year and a half is the very utmost that they can have lived at West Hall; and how they got their fortune nobody knows. They came from Birmingham, which is not a place to promise much, you know, Mr. Weston. One has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say there is something direful in the sound: but nothing more is positively known of the Tupmans, though a good many things I assure you are suspected; and yet by their manners they evidently think themselves equal even to my brother, Mr. Suckling, who happens to be one of their nearest neighbours. It is infinitely too bad. Mr. Suckling, who has been eleven years a resident at Maple Grove, and whose father had it before him--I believe, at least--I am almost sure that old Mr. Suckling had completed the purchase before his death." They were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston, having said all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking away. After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr. Woodhouse to cards. The remaining five were left to their own powers, and Emma doubted their getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed little disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which nobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of spirits which would have made her prefer being silent. Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother. He was to leave them early the next day; and he soon began with-- "Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say about the boys; but you have your sister's letter, and every thing is down at full length there we may be sure. My charge would be much more concise than her's, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have to recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic them." "I rather hope to satisfy you both," said Emma, "for I shall do all in my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic." "And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again." "That is very likely. You think so, do not you?" "I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father--or even may be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue to increase as much as they have done lately." "Increase!" "Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a great difference in your way of life." "Difference! No indeed I am not." "There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company than you used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come down for only one day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party!--When did it happen before, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing, and you mix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole's, or balls at the Crown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your goings-on, is very great."<|quote|>"Yes,"</|quote|>said his brother quickly, "it is Randalls that does it all." "Very well--and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma, that Henry and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are, I only beg you to send them home." "No," cried Mr. Knightley, "that need not be the consequence. Let them be sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure." "Upon my word," exclaimed Emma, "you amuse me! I should like to know how many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being of the party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure to attend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine--what have they been? Dining once with the Coles--and having a ball talked of, which never took place. I can understand you--" (nodding at Mr. John Knightley) "--your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed. But you," (turning to Mr. Knightley,) "who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of dissipation for me, I cannot imagine. And as to my dear little boys, I must say, that if Aunt Emma has not time for them, I do not think they would fare much better with Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home about five hours where she is absent one--and who, when he is at home, is either reading to himself or settling his accounts." Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and succeeded without difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton's beginning to talk to him. VOLUME III CHAPTER I A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the nature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill. She was soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all apprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment had really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;--but if he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the two, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he had taken away, it would be very distressing. If a separation of two months should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils before her:--caution for him and for herself would be necessary. She did not mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his. She wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration. That would be so very painful a conclusion of their present acquaintance! and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something decisive. She felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a crisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed and tranquil state. It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had foreseen, before she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank Churchill's feelings. The Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards. He rode down for a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he came from Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all her quick observation, and speedily determine how he was influenced, and how she must act. They met with the utmost friendliness. There could be no doubt of his great pleasure in seeing her. But she had an almost instant doubt of his caring for her as he had done, of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree. She watched him well. It was a clear thing he was less in love than he had been. Absence, with the conviction probably of her indifference, had produced this very natural and very desirable effect. He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and he was not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that she read his comparative difference. He was not calm; his spirits were evidently fluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he was, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her belief on the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying away to make other calls in Highbury. "He had seen a group of old acquaintance in the street as he passed--he had not stopped, he would not stop for more than a word--but he had the vanity to
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more to say about the boys; but you have your sister's letter, and every thing is down at full length there we may be sure. My charge would be much more concise than her's, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have to recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic them." "I rather hope to satisfy you both," said Emma, "for I shall do all in my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic." "And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again." "That is very likely. You think so, do not you?" "I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father--or even may be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue to increase as much as they have done lately." "Increase!" "Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a great difference in your way of life." "Difference! No indeed I am not." "There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company than you used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come down for only one day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party!--When did it happen before, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing, and you mix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole's, or balls at the Crown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your goings-on, is very great."<|quote|>"Yes,"</|quote|>said his brother quickly, "it is Randalls that does it all." "Very well--and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma, that Henry and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are, I only beg you to send them home." "No," cried Mr. Knightley, "that need not be the consequence. Let them be sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure." "Upon my word," exclaimed Emma, "you amuse me! I should like to know how many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being of the party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure to attend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine--what have they been? Dining once with the Coles--and having a ball talked of, which never took place. I can understand you--" (nodding at Mr. John Knightley) "--your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed. But you," (turning to Mr. Knightley,) "who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of dissipation for me, I cannot imagine. And as to my dear little boys, I
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Emma
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"Well good night, good night, it's time to go to sleep, after that."
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Cyril Fielding
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chance.' "Will she sign that?"<|quote|>"Well good night, good night, it's time to go to sleep, after that."</|quote|>"Good night, I suppose it
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and it is my last chance.' "Will she sign that?"<|quote|>"Well good night, good night, it's time to go to sleep, after that."</|quote|>"Good night, I suppose it is." "Oh, I wish you
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I'll bring it back signed. This is not instead of any public apology she may make you in law. It's an addition." " Dear Dr. Aziz, I wish you had come into the cave; I am an awful old hag, and it is my last chance.' "Will she sign that?"<|quote|>"Well good night, good night, it's time to go to sleep, after that."</|quote|>"Good night, I suppose it is." "Oh, I wish you wouldn't make that kind of remark," he continued after a pause. "It is the one thing in you I can't put up with." "I put up with all things in you, so what is to be done?" "Well, you hurt
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six Mogul Emperors, or all the six rolled into one." "Not even Mogul Emperors showed mercy until they received an apology." "She'll apologize if that's the trouble," he cried, sitting up. "Look, I'll make you an offer. Dictate to me whatever form of words you like, and this time to-morrow I'll bring it back signed. This is not instead of any public apology she may make you in law. It's an addition." " Dear Dr. Aziz, I wish you had come into the cave; I am an awful old hag, and it is my last chance.' "Will she sign that?"<|quote|>"Well good night, good night, it's time to go to sleep, after that."</|quote|>"Good night, I suppose it is." "Oh, I wish you wouldn't make that kind of remark," he continued after a pause. "It is the one thing in you I can't put up with." "I put up with all things in you, so what is to be done?" "Well, you hurt me by saying it; good night." There was silence, then dreamily but with deep feeling the voice said: "Cyril, I have had an idea which will satisfy your tender mind: I shall consult Mrs. Moore." Opening his eyes, and beholding thousands of stars, he could not reply, they silenced him.
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you to realize what that means. All her friends around her, the entire British Raj pushing her forward. She stops, sends the whole thing to smithereens. In her place I should have funked it. But she stopped, and almost did she become a national heroine, but my students ran us down a side street before the crowd caught flame. Do treat her considerately. She really mustn't get the worst of both worlds. I know what all these" he indicated the shrouded forms on the roof "will want, but you mustn't listen to them. Be merciful. Act like one of your six Mogul Emperors, or all the six rolled into one." "Not even Mogul Emperors showed mercy until they received an apology." "She'll apologize if that's the trouble," he cried, sitting up. "Look, I'll make you an offer. Dictate to me whatever form of words you like, and this time to-morrow I'll bring it back signed. This is not instead of any public apology she may make you in law. It's an addition." " Dear Dr. Aziz, I wish you had come into the cave; I am an awful old hag, and it is my last chance.' "Will she sign that?"<|quote|>"Well good night, good night, it's time to go to sleep, after that."</|quote|>"Good night, I suppose it is." "Oh, I wish you wouldn't make that kind of remark," he continued after a pause. "It is the one thing in you I can't put up with." "I put up with all things in you, so what is to be done?" "Well, you hurt me by saying it; good night." There was silence, then dreamily but with deep feeling the voice said: "Cyril, I have had an idea which will satisfy your tender mind: I shall consult Mrs. Moore." Opening his eyes, and beholding thousands of stars, he could not reply, they silenced him. "Her opinion will solve everything; I can trust her so absolutely. If she advises me to pardon this girl, I shall do so. She will counsel me nothing against my real and true honour, as you might." "Let us discuss that to-morrow morning." "Is it not strange? I keep on forgetting she has left India. During the shouting of her name in court I fancied she was present. I had shut my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away,
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when you all got so excited they would ruin her, they are perfectly preposterous. Look here . . ." "I am looking, though it gets a bit dark. I see Cyril Fielding to be a very nice chap indeed and my best friend, but in some ways a fool. You think that by letting Miss Quested off easily I shall make a better reputation for myself and Indians generally. No, no. It will be put down to weakness and the attempt to gain promotion officially. I have decided to have nothing more to do with British India, as a matter of fact. I shall seek service in some Moslem State, such as Hyderabad, Bhopal, where Englishmen cannot insult me any more. Don't counsel me otherwise." "In the course of a long talk with Miss Quested . . ." "I don't want to hear your long talks." "Be quiet. In the course of a long talk with Miss Quested I have begun to understand her character. It's not an easy one, she being a prig. But she is perfectly genuine and very brave. When she saw she was wrong, she pulled herself up with a jerk and said so. I want you to realize what that means. All her friends around her, the entire British Raj pushing her forward. She stops, sends the whole thing to smithereens. In her place I should have funked it. But she stopped, and almost did she become a national heroine, but my students ran us down a side street before the crowd caught flame. Do treat her considerately. She really mustn't get the worst of both worlds. I know what all these" he indicated the shrouded forms on the roof "will want, but you mustn't listen to them. Be merciful. Act like one of your six Mogul Emperors, or all the six rolled into one." "Not even Mogul Emperors showed mercy until they received an apology." "She'll apologize if that's the trouble," he cried, sitting up. "Look, I'll make you an offer. Dictate to me whatever form of words you like, and this time to-morrow I'll bring it back signed. This is not instead of any public apology she may make you in law. It's an addition." " Dear Dr. Aziz, I wish you had come into the cave; I am an awful old hag, and it is my last chance.' "Will she sign that?"<|quote|>"Well good night, good night, it's time to go to sleep, after that."</|quote|>"Good night, I suppose it is." "Oh, I wish you wouldn't make that kind of remark," he continued after a pause. "It is the one thing in you I can't put up with." "I put up with all things in you, so what is to be done?" "Well, you hurt me by saying it; good night." There was silence, then dreamily but with deep feeling the voice said: "Cyril, I have had an idea which will satisfy your tender mind: I shall consult Mrs. Moore." Opening his eyes, and beholding thousands of stars, he could not reply, they silenced him. "Her opinion will solve everything; I can trust her so absolutely. If she advises me to pardon this girl, I shall do so. She will counsel me nothing against my real and true honour, as you might." "Let us discuss that to-morrow morning." "Is it not strange? I keep on forgetting she has left India. During the shouting of her name in court I fancied she was present. I had shut my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children." "Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque." "I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did anything for you at all, and it's pure conjecture that she would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on servants' gossip. Your emotions never seem in proportion to their objects, Aziz." "Is emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to be measured out? Am I a machine? I shall be told I can use up my emotions by using them, next." "I should have thought you could. It sounds common sense. You can't eat your cake and have it, even in the world of the spirit." "If you are right, there is no point in any friendship; it all comes
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"You have won a great victory . . ." began Fielding. "I know, my dear chap, I know; your voice need not become so solemn and anxious. I know what you are going to say next: Let, oh let Miss Quested off paying, so that the English may say," Here is a native who has actually behaved like a gentleman; if it was not for his black face we would almost allow him to join our club.' "The approval of your compatriots no longer interests me, I have become anti-British, and ought to have done so sooner, it would have saved me numerous misfortunes." "Including knowing me." "I say, shall we go and pour water on to Mohammed Latif's face? He is so funny when this is done to him asleep." The remark was not a question but a full-stop. Fielding accepted it as such and there was a pause, pleasantly filled by a little wind which managed to brush the top of the house. The banquet, though riotous, had been agreeable, and now the blessings of leisure unknown to the West, which either works or idles descended on the motley company. Civilization strays about like a ghost here, revisiting the ruins of empire, and is to be found not in great works of art or mighty deeds, but in the gestures well-bred Indians make when they sit or lie down. Fielding, who had dressed up in native costume, learnt from his excessive awkwardness in it that all his motions were makeshifts, whereas when the Nawab Bahadur stretched out his hand for food or Nureddin applauded a song, something beautiful had been accomplished which needed no development. This restfulness of gesture it is the Peace that passeth Understanding, after all, it is the social equivalent of Yoga. When the whirring of action ceases, it becomes visible, and reveals a civilization which the West can disturb but will never acquire. The hand stretches out for ever, the lifted knee has the eternity though not the sadness of the grave. Aziz was full of civilization this evening, complete, dignified, rather hard, and it was with diffidence that the other said: "Yes, certainly you must let off Miss Quested easily. She must pay all your costs, that is only fair, but do not treat her like a conquered enemy." "Is she wealthy? I depute you to find out." "The sums mentioned at dinner when you all got so excited they would ruin her, they are perfectly preposterous. Look here . . ." "I am looking, though it gets a bit dark. I see Cyril Fielding to be a very nice chap indeed and my best friend, but in some ways a fool. You think that by letting Miss Quested off easily I shall make a better reputation for myself and Indians generally. No, no. It will be put down to weakness and the attempt to gain promotion officially. I have decided to have nothing more to do with British India, as a matter of fact. I shall seek service in some Moslem State, such as Hyderabad, Bhopal, where Englishmen cannot insult me any more. Don't counsel me otherwise." "In the course of a long talk with Miss Quested . . ." "I don't want to hear your long talks." "Be quiet. In the course of a long talk with Miss Quested I have begun to understand her character. It's not an easy one, she being a prig. But she is perfectly genuine and very brave. When she saw she was wrong, she pulled herself up with a jerk and said so. I want you to realize what that means. All her friends around her, the entire British Raj pushing her forward. She stops, sends the whole thing to smithereens. In her place I should have funked it. But she stopped, and almost did she become a national heroine, but my students ran us down a side street before the crowd caught flame. Do treat her considerately. She really mustn't get the worst of both worlds. I know what all these" he indicated the shrouded forms on the roof "will want, but you mustn't listen to them. Be merciful. Act like one of your six Mogul Emperors, or all the six rolled into one." "Not even Mogul Emperors showed mercy until they received an apology." "She'll apologize if that's the trouble," he cried, sitting up. "Look, I'll make you an offer. Dictate to me whatever form of words you like, and this time to-morrow I'll bring it back signed. This is not instead of any public apology she may make you in law. It's an addition." " Dear Dr. Aziz, I wish you had come into the cave; I am an awful old hag, and it is my last chance.' "Will she sign that?"<|quote|>"Well good night, good night, it's time to go to sleep, after that."</|quote|>"Good night, I suppose it is." "Oh, I wish you wouldn't make that kind of remark," he continued after a pause. "It is the one thing in you I can't put up with." "I put up with all things in you, so what is to be done?" "Well, you hurt me by saying it; good night." There was silence, then dreamily but with deep feeling the voice said: "Cyril, I have had an idea which will satisfy your tender mind: I shall consult Mrs. Moore." Opening his eyes, and beholding thousands of stars, he could not reply, they silenced him. "Her opinion will solve everything; I can trust her so absolutely. If she advises me to pardon this girl, I shall do so. She will counsel me nothing against my real and true honour, as you might." "Let us discuss that to-morrow morning." "Is it not strange? I keep on forgetting she has left India. During the shouting of her name in court I fancied she was present. I had shut my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children." "Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque." "I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did anything for you at all, and it's pure conjecture that she would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on servants' gossip. Your emotions never seem in proportion to their objects, Aziz." "Is emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to be measured out? Am I a machine? I shall be told I can use up my emotions by using them, next." "I should have thought you could. It sounds common sense. You can't eat your cake and have it, even in the world of the spirit." "If you are right, there is no point in any friendship; it all comes down to give and take, or give and return, which is disgusting, and we had better all leap over this parapet and kill ourselves. Is anything wrong with you this evening that you grow so materialistic?" "Your unfairness is worse than my materialism." "I see. Anything further to complain of?" He was good-tempered and affectionate but a little formidable. Imprisonment had made channels for his character, which would never fluctuate as widely now as in the past. "Because it is far better you put all your difficulties before me, if we are to be friends for ever. You do not like Mrs. Moore, and are annoyed because I do; however, you will like her in time." When a person, really dead, is supposed to be alive, an unhealthiness infects the conversation. Fielding could not stand the tension any longer and blurted out: "I'm sorry to say Mrs. Moore's dead." But Hamidullah, who had been listening to all their talk, and did not want the festive evening spoilt, cried from the adjoining bed: "Aziz, he is trying to pull your leg; don't believe him, the villain." "I do not believe him," said Aziz; he was inured to practical jokes, even of this type. Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone would learn of Mrs. Moore's death in the morning. But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunderstanding about them, they possess a sort of immortality. An experience of his own confirmed this. Many years ago he had lost a great friend, a woman, who believed in the Christian heaven, and assured him that after the changes and chances of this mortal life they would meet in it again. Fielding was a blank, frank atheist, but he respected every opinion his friend held: to do this is essential in friendship. And it seemed to him for a time that the dead awaited him, and when the illusion faded it left behind it an emptiness that was almost guilt: "This really is the end," he thought, "and I gave her the final blow." He had tried to kill Mrs. Moore this evening, on the roof of the Nawab Bahadur's house; but she still eluded him, and the atmosphere remained tranquil. Presently the moon rose the exhausted crescent that precedes the sun and shortly after men
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friend, but in some ways a fool. You think that by letting Miss Quested off easily I shall make a better reputation for myself and Indians generally. No, no. It will be put down to weakness and the attempt to gain promotion officially. I have decided to have nothing more to do with British India, as a matter of fact. I shall seek service in some Moslem State, such as Hyderabad, Bhopal, where Englishmen cannot insult me any more. Don't counsel me otherwise." "In the course of a long talk with Miss Quested . . ." "I don't want to hear your long talks." "Be quiet. In the course of a long talk with Miss Quested I have begun to understand her character. It's not an easy one, she being a prig. But she is perfectly genuine and very brave. When she saw she was wrong, she pulled herself up with a jerk and said so. I want you to realize what that means. All her friends around her, the entire British Raj pushing her forward. She stops, sends the whole thing to smithereens. In her place I should have funked it. But she stopped, and almost did she become a national heroine, but my students ran us down a side street before the crowd caught flame. Do treat her considerately. She really mustn't get the worst of both worlds. I know what all these" he indicated the shrouded forms on the roof "will want, but you mustn't listen to them. Be merciful. Act like one of your six Mogul Emperors, or all the six rolled into one." "Not even Mogul Emperors showed mercy until they received an apology." "She'll apologize if that's the trouble," he cried, sitting up. "Look, I'll make you an offer. Dictate to me whatever form of words you like, and this time to-morrow I'll bring it back signed. This is not instead of any public apology she may make you in law. It's an addition." " Dear Dr. Aziz, I wish you had come into the cave; I am an awful old hag, and it is my last chance.' "Will she sign that?"<|quote|>"Well good night, good night, it's time to go to sleep, after that."</|quote|>"Good night, I suppose it is." "Oh, I wish you wouldn't make that kind of remark," he continued after a pause. "It is the one thing in you I can't put up with." "I put up with all things in you, so what is to be done?" "Well, you hurt me by saying it; good night." There was silence, then dreamily but with deep feeling the voice said: "Cyril, I have had an idea which will satisfy your tender mind: I shall consult Mrs. Moore." Opening his eyes, and beholding thousands of stars, he could not reply, they silenced him. "Her opinion will solve everything; I can trust her so absolutely. If she advises me to pardon this girl, I shall do so. She will counsel me nothing against my real and true honour, as you might." "Let us discuss that to-morrow morning." "Is it not strange? I keep on forgetting she has left India. During the shouting of her name in court I fancied she was present. I had shut my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children." "Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque." "I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did anything for you at all, and it's pure conjecture that she would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on servants' gossip. Your emotions never seem in proportion to their objects, Aziz." "Is emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to be measured out? Am I a machine? I shall be told I can use up my emotions by using them, next." "I should have thought you could. It sounds common sense. You can't eat your cake and have it, even in the world of the spirit." "If you are right, there is no point in any friendship; it all comes down to give and take, or give and return, which is disgusting, and we had better all leap over this parapet and kill ourselves. Is anything wrong with you this evening that you grow
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A Passage To India
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"I could see from your sermon that you knew the East, Rector."
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Jenny Abdul Akbar
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* * * * *<|quote|>"I could see from your sermon that you knew the East, Rector."</|quote|>"Yes, yes, most of my
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much odder than you'd think." * * * * *<|quote|>"I could see from your sermon that you knew the East, Rector."</|quote|>"Yes, yes, most of my life." "It has an uncanny
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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." * * * * *<|quote|>"I could see from your sermon that you knew the East, Rector."</|quote|>"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
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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." * * * * *<|quote|>"I could see from your sermon that you knew the East, Rector."</|quote|>"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
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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." * * * * *<|quote|>"I could see from your sermon that you knew the East, Rector."</|quote|>"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; and help came.
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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." * * * * *<|quote|>"I could see from your sermon that you knew the East, Rector."</|quote|>"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; and help came. "Oh, there you are," said a firm, child's voice. "Come on. We're going down to the woods now. We must hurry, otherwise it will be dark." "Oh, Johnny-boy, must I really? I was just talking to daddy." "_Come on._ It's all arranged. And afterwards you're to be allowed to have tea with me upstairs." Tony crept into the library, habitable to-day, since the workmen were at rest. Brenda found him there two hours later. "_Tony_, here all alone? We thought you were with Jenny. What have you done with her?" "John took her off... just in time before I said something rude." "Oh dear... well there's only me and Polly in the smoking-room. Come and have some tea. You look all funny--have you been asleep?" * * * * * "We must write it down a failure, definitely." "What _does_ the old boy expect? It isn't as though he was everybody's money." "I daresay it would have been all right, if she hadn't got his name wrong." "Anyway, this lets _you_ out. You've done far more than most wives would to cheer the old boy up." "Yes, that's certainly true," said Brenda. [IV] Another five days; then Brenda came to
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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." * * * * * "Tired?" "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." * * * * *<|quote|>"I could see from your sermon that you knew the East, Rector."</|quote|>"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; and help came. "Oh, there you are," said a firm, child's voice. "Come on. We're going down to the woods now. We must hurry, otherwise it will be dark." "Oh, Johnny-boy, must I really? I was just talking to daddy." "_Come on._ It's all arranged. And afterwards you're to be allowed to have tea with me upstairs." Tony crept into the library, habitable to-day, since the workmen were at rest. Brenda found him there two hours later. "_Tony_, here all alone? We thought you were with Jenny. What have you done with her?" "John took her off... just in time before I said something rude." "Oh dear... well there's only me and Polly in the smoking-room. Come and have some tea. You look all funny--have you been asleep?" * * * * * "We must write it down a failure, definitely." "What _does_ the old boy expect? It isn't as though he was everybody's money." "I daresay it would have been all right, if she hadn't got his name wrong." "Anyway, this lets _you_ out. You've done far more than most wives would to cheer the old boy up." "Yes, that's certainly true," said Brenda. [IV] Another five days; then Brenda came to Hetton again. "I shan't be here next week-end," she said, "I'm going to stay with Veronica." "Am I asked?" "Well, you _were_, of course, but I refused for you. You know you always hate staying away." "I wouldn't mind coming." "Oh, darling, I wish I'd known. Veronica would have loved it so... but I'm afraid it will be too late now. She's only got a tiny house... to tell you the truth I didn't think you liked her much." "I hated her like hell." "Well, then...?" "Oh, it doesn't matter. I suppose you must go back on Monday? The hounds are meeting on Wednesday, you know." "Are we giving them a lawner?" "Yes, darling, you know we do every year." "So we do." "You couldn't stay down till then?" "Not possibly, darling. You see if I miss one lecture I get right behind and can't follow the next. Besides, I am not mad keen to see the hounds." "Ben was asking if we'd let John go out." "Oh, he's far too young." "Not to hunt. But I thought he might bring his pony to the meet and ride with them to the first covert. He'd love it so." "Is it quite safe?" "Oh, yes, surely?" "Bless his heart, I wish I could be here to see him." "Do change your mind." "Oh no, that's quite out of the question. Don't make a thing about it, Tony." That was when she first arrived; later everything got better. Jock was there that week-end, also Allan and Marjorie and another married couple whom Tony had known all his life. Brenda had arranged the party for him and he enjoyed it. He and Allan went out with rook rifles and shot rabbits in the twilight; after dinner the four men played billiard fives while one wife watched. "The old boy's happy as a lark," said Brenda to Marjorie. "He's settling down wonderfully to the new r?gime." They came in breathless and rather flushed for whisky and soda. "Tony nearly had one through the window," said Jock. That night Tony slept in Guinevere. "Everything _is_ all right, isn't it?" he said once. "Yes, of course, darling." "I get depressed down here all alone and imagine things." "You aren't to _brood_, Tony. You know that's one of the things that aren't allowed." "I won't brood any more," said Tony. Next day Brenda came to church with
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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." * * * * *<|quote|>"I could see from your sermon that you knew the East, Rector."</|quote|>"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; and help came. "Oh, there you are," said a firm, child's voice. "Come on. We're going down to the woods now. We must hurry, otherwise it will be dark." "Oh, Johnny-boy, must I really? I was just talking to daddy." "_Come on._ It's all arranged. And afterwards you're to be allowed to have tea with me upstairs." Tony crept into the library, habitable to-day, since the workmen were at rest. Brenda found him there two hours later. "_Tony_, here all alone? We thought you were with Jenny. What have you done with her?" "John took her off... just in time before I said something rude." "Oh dear... well there's only me and Polly in the smoking-room. Come and have some tea. You look all funny--have you been asleep?" * * * * * "We must write it down a failure, definitely." "What _does_ the old boy expect? It isn't as though he was everybody's money." "I daresay it would have been all right, if she hadn't got his name wrong." "Anyway, this lets _you_ out. You've done far more than most wives would to cheer the old boy up." "Yes, that's certainly true," said Brenda. [IV] Another five days;
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch,"
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Alice
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won't you join the dance?"<|quote|>"Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch,"</|quote|>said Alice, feeling very glad
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you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"<|quote|>"Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch,"</|quote|>said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at
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other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"<|quote|>"Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch,"</|quote|>said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: "and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!" "Oh, as to the whiting," said the Mock Turtle, "they--you've seen them, of course?" "Yes," said Alice, "I've often seen them at dinn--" she checked herself hastily. "I
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would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance." "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"<|quote|>"Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch,"</|quote|>said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: "and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!" "Oh, as to the whiting," said the Mock Turtle, "they--you've seen them, of course?" "Yes," said Alice, "I've often seen them at dinn--" she checked herself hastily. "I don't know where Dinn may be," said the Mock Turtle, "but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like." "I believe so," Alice replied thoughtfully. "They have their tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs." "You're wrong about the crumbs," said the Mock Turtle:
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and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" "But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance." "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"<|quote|>"Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch,"</|quote|>said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: "and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!" "Oh, as to the whiting," said the Mock Turtle, "they--you've seen them, of course?" "Yes," said Alice, "I've often seen them at dinn--" she checked herself hastily. "I don't know where Dinn may be," said the Mock Turtle, "but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like." "I believe so," Alice replied thoughtfully. "They have their tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs." "You're wrong about the crumbs," said the Mock Turtle: "crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they _have_ their tails in their mouths; and the reason is--" here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--" "Tell her about the reason and all that," he said to the Gryphon. "The reason is," said the Gryphon, "that they _would_ go with the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn't get them out again. That's all." "Thank you," said Alice, "it's very interesting. I never
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out to sea as you can--" "Swim after them!" screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a somersault in the sea!" cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. "Change lobsters again!" yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice. "Back to land again, and that's all the first figure," said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. "It must be a very pretty dance," said Alice timidly. "Would you like to see a little of it?" said the Mock Turtle. "Very much indeed," said Alice. "Come, let's try the first figure!" said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. "We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?" "Oh, _you_ sing," said the Gryphon. "I've forgotten the words." So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:-- "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail. "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" "But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance." "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"<|quote|>"Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch,"</|quote|>said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: "and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!" "Oh, as to the whiting," said the Mock Turtle, "they--you've seen them, of course?" "Yes," said Alice, "I've often seen them at dinn--" she checked herself hastily. "I don't know where Dinn may be," said the Mock Turtle, "but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like." "I believe so," Alice replied thoughtfully. "They have their tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs." "You're wrong about the crumbs," said the Mock Turtle: "crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they _have_ their tails in their mouths; and the reason is--" here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--" "Tell her about the reason and all that," he said to the Gryphon. "The reason is," said the Gryphon, "that they _would_ go with the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn't get them out again. That's all." "Thank you," said Alice, "it's very interesting. I never knew so much about a whiting before." "I can tell you more than that, if you like," said the Gryphon. "Do you know why it's called a whiting?" "I never thought about it," said Alice. "Why?" "_It does the boots and shoes_," the Gryphon replied very solemnly. Alice was thoroughly puzzled. "Does the boots and shoes!" she repeated in a wondering tone. "Why, what are _your_ shoes done with?" said the Gryphon. "I mean, what makes them so shiny?" Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her answer. "They're done with blacking, I believe." "Boots and shoes under the sea," the Gryphon went on in a deep voice, "are done with a whiting. Now you know." "And what are they made of?" Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity. "Soles and eels, of course," the Gryphon replied rather impatiently: "any shrimp could have told you that." "If I'd been the whiting," said Alice, whose thoughts were still running on the song, "I'd have said to the porpoise, 'Keep back, please: we don't want _you_ with us!'" "They were obliged to have him with them," the Mock Turtle said: "no wise fish would go anywhere
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used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. "Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never" ") "--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance twice, set to partners--" "--change lobsters, and retire in same order," continued the Gryphon. "Then, you know," the Mock Turtle went on, "you throw the--" "The lobsters!" shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. "--as far out to sea as you can--" "Swim after them!" screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a somersault in the sea!" cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. "Change lobsters again!" yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice. "Back to land again, and that's all the first figure," said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. "It must be a very pretty dance," said Alice timidly. "Would you like to see a little of it?" said the Mock Turtle. "Very much indeed," said Alice. "Come, let's try the first figure!" said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. "We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?" "Oh, _you_ sing," said the Gryphon. "I've forgotten the words." So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:-- "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail. "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" "But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance." "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"<|quote|>"Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch,"</|quote|>said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: "and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!" "Oh, as to the whiting," said the Mock Turtle, "they--you've seen them, of course?" "Yes," said Alice, "I've often seen them at dinn--" she checked herself hastily. "I don't know where Dinn may be," said the Mock Turtle, "but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like." "I believe so," Alice replied thoughtfully. "They have their tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs." "You're wrong about the crumbs," said the Mock Turtle: "crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they _have_ their tails in their mouths; and the reason is--" here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--" "Tell her about the reason and all that," he said to the Gryphon. "The reason is," said the Gryphon, "that they _would_ go with the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn't get them out again. That's all." "Thank you," said Alice, "it's very interesting. I never knew so much about a whiting before." "I can tell you more than that, if you like," said the Gryphon. "Do you know why it's called a whiting?" "I never thought about it," said Alice. "Why?" "_It does the boots and shoes_," the Gryphon replied very solemnly. Alice was thoroughly puzzled. "Does the boots and shoes!" she repeated in a wondering tone. "Why, what are _your_ shoes done with?" said the Gryphon. "I mean, what makes them so shiny?" Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her answer. "They're done with blacking, I believe." "Boots and shoes under the sea," the Gryphon went on in a deep voice, "are done with a whiting. Now you know." "And what are they made of?" Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity. "Soles and eels, of course," the Gryphon replied rather impatiently: "any shrimp could have told you that." "If I'd been the whiting," said Alice, whose thoughts were still running on the song, "I'd have said to the porpoise, 'Keep back, please: we don't want _you_ with us!'" "They were obliged to have him with them," the Mock Turtle said: "no wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise." "Wouldn't it really?" said Alice in a tone of great surprise. "Of course not," said the Mock Turtle: "why, if a fish came to _me_, and told me he was going a journey, I should say 'With what porpoise?'" "Don't you mean 'purpose'?" said Alice. "I mean what I say," the Mock Turtle replied in an offended tone. And the Gryphon added "Come, let's hear some of _your_ adventures." "I could tell you my adventures--beginning from this morning," said Alice a little timidly: "but it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then." "Explain all that," said the Mock Turtle. "No, no! The adventures first," said the Gryphon in an impatient tone: "explanations take such a dreadful time." So Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when she first saw the White Rabbit. She was a little nervous about it just at first, the two creatures got so close to her, one on each side, and opened their eyes and mouths so _very_ wide, but she gained courage as she went on. Her listeners were perfectly quiet till she got to the part about her repeating "_You are old, Father William_," to the Caterpillar, and the words all coming different, and then the Mock Turtle drew a long breath, and said "That's very curious." "It's all about as curious as it can be," said the Gryphon. "It all came different!" the Mock Turtle repeated thoughtfully. "I should like to hear her try and repeat something now. Tell her to begin." He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of authority over Alice. "Stand up and repeat ''_Tis the voice of the sluggard_,'" said the Gryphon. "How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!" thought Alice; "I might as well be at school at once." However, she got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came very queer indeed:-- "'Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare, "You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair." As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes." [later editions continued as follows When the sands are all dry,
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Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never" ") "--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance twice, set to partners--" "--change lobsters, and retire in same order," continued the Gryphon. "Then, you know," the Mock Turtle went on, "you throw the--" "The lobsters!" shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. "--as far out to sea as you can--" "Swim after them!" screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a somersault in the sea!" cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. "Change lobsters again!" yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice. "Back to land again, and that's all the first figure," said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. "It must be a very pretty dance," said Alice timidly. "Would you like to see a little of it?" said the Mock Turtle. "Very much indeed," said Alice. "Come, let's try the first figure!" said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. "We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?" "Oh, _you_ sing," said the Gryphon. "I've forgotten the words." So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:-- "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail. "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" "But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance." "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"<|quote|>"Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch,"</|quote|>said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: "and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!" "Oh, as to the whiting," said the Mock Turtle, "they--you've seen them, of course?" "Yes," said Alice, "I've often seen them at dinn--" she checked herself hastily. "I don't know where Dinn may be," said the Mock Turtle, "but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like." "I believe so," Alice replied thoughtfully. "They have their tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs." "You're wrong about the crumbs," said the Mock Turtle: "crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they _have_ their tails in their mouths; and the reason is--" here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--" "Tell her about the reason and all that," he said to the Gryphon. "The reason is," said the Gryphon, "that they _would_ go with the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn't get them out again. That's all." "Thank you," said Alice, "it's very interesting. I never knew so much about a whiting before." "I can tell you more than that, if you like," said the Gryphon. "Do you know why it's called a whiting?" "I never thought about it," said Alice. "Why?" "_It does the boots and shoes_," the Gryphon replied very solemnly. Alice was thoroughly puzzled. "Does the boots and shoes!" she repeated in a wondering tone. "Why, what are _your_ shoes done with?" said the Gryphon. "I mean, what makes them so shiny?" Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her answer. "They're done with blacking, I believe." "Boots and shoes under the sea," the Gryphon went on in a deep voice, "are done with a whiting. Now you know." "And what are they made of?" Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity. "Soles and eels, of course," the Gryphon replied rather impatiently: "any shrimp could have told you that." "If I'd been the whiting," said Alice, whose thoughts were still running on the song, "I'd have said to the porpoise, 'Keep back, please: we don't want _you_ with us!'" "They were obliged to have him with them," the Mock Turtle said: "no wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise." "Wouldn't it really?" said Alice in a tone of great surprise. "Of course not," said the Mock Turtle: "why, if a fish came to _me_, and told me he was going a journey, I should say 'With what porpoise?'" "Don't you mean 'purpose'?" said Alice. "I mean what I
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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Edna asked.
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No speaker
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me. "Is he all right?"<|quote|>Edna asked.</|quote|>"We'd better walk with him."
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I heard them talking about me. "Is he all right?"<|quote|>Edna asked.</|quote|>"We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said.
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everything back." "That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said. I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play. "I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talking about me. "Is he all right?"<|quote|>Edna asked.</|quote|>"We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later." I walked away from the caf . They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables
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you really a bankrupt?" "I'm a tremendous bankrupt," Mike said. "I owe money to everybody. Don't you owe any money?" "Tons." "I owe everybody money," Mike said. "I borrowed a hundred pesetas from Montoya to-night." "The hell you did," I said. "I'll pay it back," Mike said. "I always pay everything back." "That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said. I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play. "I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talking about me. "Is he all right?"<|quote|>Edna asked.</|quote|>"We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later." I walked away from the caf . They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands. Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all different. I felt as I felt once coming home
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wanted to see Bill knocked down. He's so big." "I was hoping he would knock down a waiter," Mike said, "and get arrested. I'd like to see Mr. Robert Cohn in jail." "No," I said. "Oh, no," said Edna. "You don't mean that." "I do, though," Mike said. "I'm not one of these chaps likes being knocked about. I never play games, even." Mike took a drink. "I never liked to hunt, you know. There was always the danger of having a horse fall on you. How do you feel, Jake?" "All right." "You're nice," Edna said to Mike. "Are you really a bankrupt?" "I'm a tremendous bankrupt," Mike said. "I owe money to everybody. Don't you owe any money?" "Tons." "I owe everybody money," Mike said. "I borrowed a hundred pesetas from Montoya to-night." "The hell you did," I said. "I'll pay it back," Mike said. "I always pay everything back." "That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said. I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play. "I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talking about me. "Is he all right?"<|quote|>Edna asked.</|quote|>"We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later." I walked away from the caf . They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands. Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all different. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town football game. I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in it, and I walked up the street from the station in the town I had lived in all my life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I
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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 boxer." "He is." "I wish Bill had been here," Edna said. "I'd like to have seen Bill knocked down, too. I've always wanted to see Bill knocked down. He's so big." "I was hoping he would knock down a waiter," Mike said, "and get arrested. I'd like to see Mr. Robert Cohn in jail." "No," I said. "Oh, no," said Edna. "You don't mean that." "I do, though," Mike said. "I'm not one of these chaps likes being knocked about. I never play games, even." Mike took a drink. "I never liked to hunt, you know. There was always the danger of having a horse fall on you. How do you feel, Jake?" "All right." "You're nice," Edna said to Mike. "Are you really a bankrupt?" "I'm a tremendous bankrupt," Mike said. "I owe money to everybody. Don't you owe any money?" "Tons." "I owe everybody money," Mike said. "I borrowed a hundred pesetas from Montoya to-night." "The hell you did," I said. "I'll pay it back," Mike said. "I always pay everything back." "That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said. I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play. "I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talking about me. "Is he all right?"<|quote|>Edna asked.</|quote|>"We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later." I walked away from the caf . They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands. Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all different. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town football game. I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in it, and I walked up the street from the station in the town I had lived in all my life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago," I said. "I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened
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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 boxer." "He is." "I wish Bill had been here," Edna said. "I'd like to have seen Bill knocked down, too. I've always wanted to see Bill knocked down. He's so big." "I was hoping he would knock down a waiter," Mike said, "and get arrested. I'd like to see Mr. Robert Cohn in jail." "No," I said. "Oh, no," said Edna. "You don't mean that." "I do, though," Mike said. "I'm not one of these chaps likes being knocked about. I never play games, even." Mike took a drink. "I never liked to hunt, you know. There was always the danger of having a horse fall on you. How do you feel, Jake?" "All right." "You're nice," Edna said to Mike. "Are you really a bankrupt?" "I'm a tremendous bankrupt," Mike said. "I owe money to everybody. Don't you owe any money?" "Tons." "I owe everybody money," Mike said. "I borrowed a hundred pesetas from Montoya to-night." "The hell you did," I said. "I'll pay it back," Mike said. "I always pay everything back." "That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said. I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play. "I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talking about me. "Is he all right?"<|quote|>Edna asked.</|quote|>"We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later." I walked away from the caf . They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands. Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all different. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town football game. I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in it, and I walked up the street from the station in the town I had lived in all my life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago," I said. "I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand it about Brett." "You called me a pimp." I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water. "I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy." "That's all right." He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. "I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more." He lay there on the bed. "Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath." "You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so." "Well," I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use." "What?" "Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake." "Sure," I said. "It's all right." "I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything." "Well," I said, "so long. I've got to go." He rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up. "So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?" "Sure. Why not?" We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well. "Well," I said, "see you in the morning." "I'm going away in
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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 boxer." "He is." "I wish Bill had been here," Edna said. "I'd like to have seen Bill knocked down, too. I've always wanted to see Bill knocked down. He's so big." "I was hoping he would knock down a waiter," Mike said, "and get arrested. I'd like to see Mr. Robert Cohn in jail." "No," I said. "Oh, no," said Edna. "You don't mean that." "I do, though," Mike said. "I'm not one of these chaps likes being knocked about. I never play games, even." Mike took a drink. "I never liked to hunt, you know. There was always the danger of having a horse fall on you. How do you feel, Jake?" "All right." "You're nice," Edna said to Mike. "Are you really a bankrupt?" "I'm a tremendous bankrupt," Mike said. "I owe money to everybody. Don't you owe any money?" "Tons." "I owe everybody money," Mike said. "I borrowed a hundred pesetas from Montoya to-night." "The hell you did," I said. "I'll pay it back," Mike said. "I always pay everything back." "That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said. I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play. "I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talking about me. "Is he all right?"<|quote|>Edna asked.</|quote|>"We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later." I walked away from the caf . They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands. Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all different. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town football game. I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in it, and I walked up the street from the station in the town I had lived in all my life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago," I said. "I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake.
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The Sun Also Rises
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"It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face."
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Emma
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defence of Miss Fairfax's complexion.<|quote|>"It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face."</|quote|>He listened with all due
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this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax's complexion.<|quote|>"It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face."</|quote|>He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had
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is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.--A most deplorable want of complexion." Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax's complexion.<|quote|>"It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face."</|quote|>He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had heard many people say the same--but yet he must confess, that to him nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where
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had been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour. The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before." "And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?" "Ill, very ill--that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.--A most deplorable want of complexion." Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax's complexion.<|quote|>"It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face."</|quote|>He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had heard many people say the same--but yet he must confess, that to him nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they were good, the effect was--fortunately he need not attempt to describe what the effect was. "Well," said Emma, "there is no disputing about taste.--At least you admire her except her complexion." He shook his head and laughed.--" "I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her complexion." "Did you see her
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the three ladies; and felt very much obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken me quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes would have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and I had told my father I should certainly be at home before him--but there was no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I found, when he (finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that I had been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour. The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before." "And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?" "Ill, very ill--that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.--A most deplorable want of complexion." Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax's complexion.<|quote|>"It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face."</|quote|>He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had heard many people say the same--but yet he must confess, that to him nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they were good, the effect was--fortunately he need not attempt to describe what the effect was. "Well," said Emma, "there is no disputing about taste.--At least you admire her except her complexion." He shook his head and laughed.--" "I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her complexion." "Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same society?" At this moment they were approaching Ford's, and he hastily exclaimed, "Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's. If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must buy something at Ford's. It will be taking
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given and families described, he was still unwilling to admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing, or that there would be the smallest difficulty in every body's returning into their proper place the next morning. He argued like a young man very much bent on dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to see the constitution of the Weston prevail so decidedly against the habits of the Churchills. He seemed to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was, perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank, bordered too much on inelegance of mind. He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding cheap. It was but an effusion of lively spirits. At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown; and being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had paid it. "Yes, oh! yes" "--he replied; "I was just going to mention it. A very successful visit:--I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken me quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes would have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and I had told my father I should certainly be at home before him--but there was no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I found, when he (finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that I had been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour. The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before." "And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?" "Ill, very ill--that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.--A most deplorable want of complexion." Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax's complexion.<|quote|>"It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face."</|quote|>He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had heard many people say the same--but yet he must confess, that to him nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they were good, the effect was--fortunately he need not attempt to describe what the effect was. "Well," said Emma, "there is no disputing about taste.--At least you admire her except her complexion." He shook his head and laughed.--" "I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her complexion." "Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same society?" At this moment they were approaching Ford's, and he hastily exclaimed, "Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's. If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must buy something at Ford's. It will be taking out my freedom.--I dare say they sell gloves." "Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues." They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers" and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said--" "But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_ _patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in private life." "I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth." "And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.--I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse
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of her cottage from one end of the street to the other; and though in some points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, they shewed, altogether, a good-will towards Highbury in general, which must be very like a merit to those he was with. Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now shewn, it could not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily absenting himself; that he had not been acting a part, or making a parade of insincere professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done him justice. Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house, though the principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of post-horses were kept, more for the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any run on the road; and his companions had not expected to be detained by any interest excited there; but in passing it they gave the history of the large room visibly added; it had been built many years ago for a ball-room, and while the neighbourhood had been in a particularly populous, dancing state, had been occasionally used as such;--but such brilliant days had long passed away, and now the highest purpose for which it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist club established among the gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was immediately interested. Its character as a ball-room caught him; and instead of passing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two superior sashed windows which were open, to look in and contemplate its capabilities, and lament that its original purpose should have ceased. He saw no fault in the room, he would acknowledge none which they suggested. No, it was long enough, broad enough, handsome enough. It would hold the very number for comfort. They ought to have balls there at least every fortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss Woodhouse revived the former good old days of the room?--She who could do any thing in Highbury! The want of proper families in the place, and the conviction that none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be tempted to attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could not be persuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him, could not furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even when particulars were given and families described, he was still unwilling to admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing, or that there would be the smallest difficulty in every body's returning into their proper place the next morning. He argued like a young man very much bent on dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to see the constitution of the Weston prevail so decidedly against the habits of the Churchills. He seemed to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was, perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank, bordered too much on inelegance of mind. He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding cheap. It was but an effusion of lively spirits. At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown; and being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had paid it. "Yes, oh! yes" "--he replied; "I was just going to mention it. A very successful visit:--I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken me quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes would have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and I had told my father I should certainly be at home before him--but there was no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I found, when he (finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that I had been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour. The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before." "And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?" "Ill, very ill--that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.--A most deplorable want of complexion." Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax's complexion.<|quote|>"It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face."</|quote|>He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had heard many people say the same--but yet he must confess, that to him nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they were good, the effect was--fortunately he need not attempt to describe what the effect was. "Well," said Emma, "there is no disputing about taste.--At least you admire her except her complexion." He shook his head and laughed.--" "I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her complexion." "Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same society?" At this moment they were approaching Ford's, and he hastily exclaimed, "Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's. If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must buy something at Ford's. It will be taking out my freedom.--I dare say they sell gloves." "Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues." They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers" and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said--" "But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_ _patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in private life." "I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth." "And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.--I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow." "Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any body, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her." "May I, indeed?--Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set. Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman. I like them all." "You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude; what she is destined to be?" "Yes--" (rather hesitatingly) "--I believe I do." "You get upon delicate subjects, Emma," said Mrs. Weston smiling; "remember that I am here.--Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little farther off." "I certainly do forget to think of _her_," said Emma, "as having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend." He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment. When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, "Did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?" said Frank Churchill. "Ever hear her!" repeated Emma. "You forget how much she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began. She plays charmingly." "You think so, do you?--I wanted the opinion of some one who could really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.--I am excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right of judging of any body's performance.--I have been used to hear her's admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:--a man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman--engaged to her--on the point of marriage--would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down instead--never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other. That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some
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environs could be tempted to attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could not be persuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him, could not furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even when particulars were given and families described, he was still unwilling to admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing, or that there would be the smallest difficulty in every body's returning into their proper place the next morning. He argued like a young man very much bent on dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to see the constitution of the Weston prevail so decidedly against the habits of the Churchills. He seemed to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was, perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank, bordered too much on inelegance of mind. He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding cheap. It was but an effusion of lively spirits. At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown; and being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had paid it. "Yes, oh! yes" "--he replied; "I was just going to mention it. A very successful visit:--I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken me quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes would have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and I had told my father I should certainly be at home before him--but there was no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I found, when he (finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that I had been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour. The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before." "And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?" "Ill, very ill--that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.--A most deplorable want of complexion." Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax's complexion.<|quote|>"It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face."</|quote|>He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had heard many people say the same--but yet he must confess, that to him nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they were good, the effect was--fortunately he need not attempt to describe what the effect was. "Well," said Emma, "there is no disputing about taste.--At least you admire her except her complexion." He shook his head and laughed.--" "I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her complexion." "Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same society?" At this moment they were approaching Ford's, and he hastily exclaimed, "Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's. If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must buy something at Ford's. It will be taking out my freedom.--I dare say they sell gloves." "Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues." They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers" and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said--" "But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_ _patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in private life." "I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth." "And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.--I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow." "Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any body, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her." "May I, indeed?--Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set. Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman. I like them all." "You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude; what she is destined to be?"
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Emma
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“Yes, that will do,”
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Harold Beecham
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to Mr Beecham, “zat anuff?<|quote|>“Yes, that will do,”</|quote|>he said; and she struggled
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I luz oo,” and turning to Mr Beecham, “zat anuff?<|quote|>“Yes, that will do,”</|quote|>he said; and she struggled to be put down. Three
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is Miss Melvyn, and you have to do the same to her as you do to me.” The little thing held out her arms to me. I took her up, and she hugged and kissed me, saying: “I luz oo, I luz oo,” and turning to Mr Beecham, “zat anuff?<|quote|>“Yes, that will do,”</|quote|>he said; and she struggled to be put down. Three jackeroos, an overseer, and two other young men came in, were introduced to me, and then we began dinner. O’Doolan sat on a high chair beside Mr Beecham, and he attended to all her wants. She did everything he did,
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sort of a day has it been?” Harold inquired, setting his human toy upon the floor. “Fine wezzer for yim duts,” she promptly replied. “Harold, it is shameful to teach a little innocent child such abominable slang; and you might give her a decent nickname,” said Miss Beecham. “O’Doolan, this is Miss Melvyn, and you have to do the same to her as you do to me.” The little thing held out her arms to me. I took her up, and she hugged and kissed me, saying: “I luz oo, I luz oo,” and turning to Mr Beecham, “zat anuff?<|quote|>“Yes, that will do,”</|quote|>he said; and she struggled to be put down. Three jackeroos, an overseer, and two other young men came in, were introduced to me, and then we began dinner. O’Doolan sat on a high chair beside Mr Beecham, and he attended to all her wants. She did everything he did, even taking mustard, and was very brave at quelling the tears that rose to the doll-like blue eyes. When Mr Beecham wiped his moustache, it was amusing to see her also wipe an imaginary one. After dinner the jackeroos and the three other men repaired to a sitting-room in the
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entertain us every night.” I learnt that what Harold pronounced good no one dared gainsay at Five-Bob Downs. We proceeded direct to the dining-room, and had not been there long when Mr Beecham entered with the little girl on his shoulder. Miss Beecham had told me she was Minnie Benson, daughter of Harold’s married overseer on Wyambeet, his adjoining station. Miss Beecham considered it would have been more seemly for her nephew to have selected a little boy as a play-thing, but his sentiments regarding boys were that they were machines invented for the torment of adults. “Well, O’Doolan, what sort of a day has it been?” Harold inquired, setting his human toy upon the floor. “Fine wezzer for yim duts,” she promptly replied. “Harold, it is shameful to teach a little innocent child such abominable slang; and you might give her a decent nickname,” said Miss Beecham. “O’Doolan, this is Miss Melvyn, and you have to do the same to her as you do to me.” The little thing held out her arms to me. I took her up, and she hugged and kissed me, saying: “I luz oo, I luz oo,” and turning to Mr Beecham, “zat anuff?<|quote|>“Yes, that will do,”</|quote|>he said; and she struggled to be put down. Three jackeroos, an overseer, and two other young men came in, were introduced to me, and then we began dinner. O’Doolan sat on a high chair beside Mr Beecham, and he attended to all her wants. She did everything he did, even taking mustard, and was very brave at quelling the tears that rose to the doll-like blue eyes. When Mr Beecham wiped his moustache, it was amusing to see her also wipe an imaginary one. After dinner the jackeroos and the three other men repaired to a sitting-room in the backyard, which was specially set apart for them, and where they amused themselves as they liked. My host and hostess, myself, and the child, spent the evening in a tiny sitting-room adjoining the dining-room. Miss Beecham entertained me with conversation and the family albums, and Harold amused himself entirely with the child. Once when they were absent for a few minutes, Miss Beecham told me it was ridiculous the way he fussed with the child, and that he had her with him more than half his time. She also asked me what I thought of her nephew. I evaded the
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Beecham continued, “Sybylla Penelope. Your mother used to be very dear to me, but I don’t know why she doesn’t write to me now. I have never seen her since her marriage. It seems strange to think of her as the mother of eight—five boys and three girls, is it not?” Miss Beecham had piloted me through a wide hall and along an extended passage out of which a row of bedrooms opened, into one of which we went. “I hope you will be comfortable here, child. You need not dress for dinner while you are here; we never do, only on very special occasions.” “Neither do we at Caddagat,” I replied. “Now, child, let me have a good look at you without your hat.” “Oh, please don’t!” I exclaimed, covering my face with my hands. “I am so dreadfully ugly that I cannot bear to have anyone look at me.” “What a silly little girl! You are not like your mother, but you are not at all plain-looking. Harold says you are the best style of girl he has seen yet, and sing beautifully. He got a tuner up from Sydney last week, so we will expect you to entertain us every night.” I learnt that what Harold pronounced good no one dared gainsay at Five-Bob Downs. We proceeded direct to the dining-room, and had not been there long when Mr Beecham entered with the little girl on his shoulder. Miss Beecham had told me she was Minnie Benson, daughter of Harold’s married overseer on Wyambeet, his adjoining station. Miss Beecham considered it would have been more seemly for her nephew to have selected a little boy as a play-thing, but his sentiments regarding boys were that they were machines invented for the torment of adults. “Well, O’Doolan, what sort of a day has it been?” Harold inquired, setting his human toy upon the floor. “Fine wezzer for yim duts,” she promptly replied. “Harold, it is shameful to teach a little innocent child such abominable slang; and you might give her a decent nickname,” said Miss Beecham. “O’Doolan, this is Miss Melvyn, and you have to do the same to her as you do to me.” The little thing held out her arms to me. I took her up, and she hugged and kissed me, saying: “I luz oo, I luz oo,” and turning to Mr Beecham, “zat anuff?<|quote|>“Yes, that will do,”</|quote|>he said; and she struggled to be put down. Three jackeroos, an overseer, and two other young men came in, were introduced to me, and then we began dinner. O’Doolan sat on a high chair beside Mr Beecham, and he attended to all her wants. She did everything he did, even taking mustard, and was very brave at quelling the tears that rose to the doll-like blue eyes. When Mr Beecham wiped his moustache, it was amusing to see her also wipe an imaginary one. After dinner the jackeroos and the three other men repaired to a sitting-room in the backyard, which was specially set apart for them, and where they amused themselves as they liked. My host and hostess, myself, and the child, spent the evening in a tiny sitting-room adjoining the dining-room. Miss Beecham entertained me with conversation and the family albums, and Harold amused himself entirely with the child. Once when they were absent for a few minutes, Miss Beecham told me it was ridiculous the way he fussed with the child, and that he had her with him more than half his time. She also asked me what I thought of her nephew. I evaded the question by querying if he was always so quiet and good-tempered. “Oh dear, no. He is considered a particularly bad-tempered man. Not one of the snarling nasty tempers, but—” Here the re-entry of the owner of the temper put a stop to this conversation. Harold gave O’Doolan rides on his back, going on all-fours. She shouted in childish glee, and wound up by curling her small proportions on his broad chest, and going to sleep there. Mrs Benson had sent for little O’Doolan, and Harold took her home next day. He invited me to accompany him, so we set out in the sulky with O’Doolan on my lap. It was a pleasant drive of twelve miles to and from Wyambeet. O’Doolan was much distressed at parting from Mr Beecham, but he promised to come for her again shortly. “One little girl at a time is enough for me to care for properly,” he said to me in the winning manner with which, and his wealth, unintentionally and unconsciously made slaughter among the hearts of the fair sex. CHAPTER SIXTEEN When Fortune Smiles “Now, Harold, you have compelled Sybylla to come here, you must not let the time drag with her,”
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fence on our left passed like magic as we went. Mr Beecham allowed me to drive after a time while he sat ready to take the reins should an emergency arise. It was sunset—most majestic hour of the twenty-four—when we drove up to the great white gates which opened into the avenue leading to the main homestead of Five-Bob Downs station—beautiful far-reaching Five-Bob Downs! Dreamy blue hills rose behind, and wide rich flats stretched before, through which the Yarrangung river, glazed with sunset, could be seen like a silver snake winding between shrubberied banks. The odour from the six-acred flower-garden was overpowering and delightful. A breeze gently swayed the crowd of trees amid the houses, and swept over the great orchard which sloped down from the south side of the houses. In the fading sunlight thirty iron roofs gleamed and glared, and seemed like a little town; and the yelp of many dogs went up at the sound of our wheels. Ah! beautiful, beautiful Five-Bob Downs! It seemed as though a hundred dogs leapt forth to greet us when that gate flew open, but I subsequently discovered there were but twenty-three. Two female figures came out to meet us—one nearly six feet high, the other, a tiny creature, seemed about eighteen inches, though, of course, was more than that. “I’ve brought her, aunt Gussie,” said Harold, jumping out of the sulky, though not relinquishing the reins, while he kissed the taller figure, and the small one attached itself to his leg saying, “Dimme wide.” “Hullo! Possum, why wasn’t old Spanker let go? I see he’s not among the dogs,” and my host picked the tiny individual up in his arms and got into the sulky to give her the desired ride, while after being embraced by Miss Beecham and lifted to the ground by her nephew, I went with the former over an asphalted tennis-court, through the wide garden, then across a broad veranda into the great, spreading, one-storeyed house from which gleamed many lights. “I am so glad you have come, my dear. I must have a good look at you when we get into the light. I hope you are like your mother.” This prospect discomfited me. I knew she would find a very ugly girl with not the least resemblance to her pretty mother, and I cursed my appearance under my breath. “Your name is Sybylla,” Miss Beecham continued, “Sybylla Penelope. Your mother used to be very dear to me, but I don’t know why she doesn’t write to me now. I have never seen her since her marriage. It seems strange to think of her as the mother of eight—five boys and three girls, is it not?” Miss Beecham had piloted me through a wide hall and along an extended passage out of which a row of bedrooms opened, into one of which we went. “I hope you will be comfortable here, child. You need not dress for dinner while you are here; we never do, only on very special occasions.” “Neither do we at Caddagat,” I replied. “Now, child, let me have a good look at you without your hat.” “Oh, please don’t!” I exclaimed, covering my face with my hands. “I am so dreadfully ugly that I cannot bear to have anyone look at me.” “What a silly little girl! You are not like your mother, but you are not at all plain-looking. Harold says you are the best style of girl he has seen yet, and sing beautifully. He got a tuner up from Sydney last week, so we will expect you to entertain us every night.” I learnt that what Harold pronounced good no one dared gainsay at Five-Bob Downs. We proceeded direct to the dining-room, and had not been there long when Mr Beecham entered with the little girl on his shoulder. Miss Beecham had told me she was Minnie Benson, daughter of Harold’s married overseer on Wyambeet, his adjoining station. Miss Beecham considered it would have been more seemly for her nephew to have selected a little boy as a play-thing, but his sentiments regarding boys were that they were machines invented for the torment of adults. “Well, O’Doolan, what sort of a day has it been?” Harold inquired, setting his human toy upon the floor. “Fine wezzer for yim duts,” she promptly replied. “Harold, it is shameful to teach a little innocent child such abominable slang; and you might give her a decent nickname,” said Miss Beecham. “O’Doolan, this is Miss Melvyn, and you have to do the same to her as you do to me.” The little thing held out her arms to me. I took her up, and she hugged and kissed me, saying: “I luz oo, I luz oo,” and turning to Mr Beecham, “zat anuff?<|quote|>“Yes, that will do,”</|quote|>he said; and she struggled to be put down. Three jackeroos, an overseer, and two other young men came in, were introduced to me, and then we began dinner. O’Doolan sat on a high chair beside Mr Beecham, and he attended to all her wants. She did everything he did, even taking mustard, and was very brave at quelling the tears that rose to the doll-like blue eyes. When Mr Beecham wiped his moustache, it was amusing to see her also wipe an imaginary one. After dinner the jackeroos and the three other men repaired to a sitting-room in the backyard, which was specially set apart for them, and where they amused themselves as they liked. My host and hostess, myself, and the child, spent the evening in a tiny sitting-room adjoining the dining-room. Miss Beecham entertained me with conversation and the family albums, and Harold amused himself entirely with the child. Once when they were absent for a few minutes, Miss Beecham told me it was ridiculous the way he fussed with the child, and that he had her with him more than half his time. She also asked me what I thought of her nephew. I evaded the question by querying if he was always so quiet and good-tempered. “Oh dear, no. He is considered a particularly bad-tempered man. Not one of the snarling nasty tempers, but—” Here the re-entry of the owner of the temper put a stop to this conversation. Harold gave O’Doolan rides on his back, going on all-fours. She shouted in childish glee, and wound up by curling her small proportions on his broad chest, and going to sleep there. Mrs Benson had sent for little O’Doolan, and Harold took her home next day. He invited me to accompany him, so we set out in the sulky with O’Doolan on my lap. It was a pleasant drive of twelve miles to and from Wyambeet. O’Doolan was much distressed at parting from Mr Beecham, but he promised to come for her again shortly. “One little girl at a time is enough for me to care for properly,” he said to me in the winning manner with which, and his wealth, unintentionally and unconsciously made slaughter among the hearts of the fair sex. CHAPTER SIXTEEN When Fortune Smiles “Now, Harold, you have compelled Sybylla to come here, you must not let the time drag with her,” said Miss Beecham. It was the second day after my arrival at Five-Bob. Lunch was over, and we had adjourned to the veranda. Miss Beecham was busy at her work-table; I was ensconced on a mat on the floor reading a book; Harold was stretched in a squatter’s chair some distance away. His big brown hands were clasped behind his head, his chin rested on his broad chest, his eyes were closed, he occasionally thrust his lower lip forward and sent a puff of breath upwards to scatter the flies from his face; he looked a big monument of comfort, and answered his aunt’s remarks lazily: “Yes, aunt, I’ll do my best;” and to me, “Miss Melvyn, while here, please bear in mind that it will be no end of pleasure to me to do anything for your enjoyment. Don’t fail to command me in any way.” “Thank you, Mr Beecham. I will not fail to avail myself of your offer.” “The absurdity of you two children addressing each other so formally,” said Miss Beecham. “Why, you are a sort of cousins almost, by right of old friendship between the families. You must call me aunt.” After this Mr Beecham and I called each other nothing when in Miss Beecham’s hearing, but adhered to formality on other occasions. Harold looked so comfortable and lazy that I longed to test how far he meant the offer he had made me. “I’m just dying for a row on the river. Would you oblige me?” I said. “Just look at the thermometer!” exclaimed Miss Augusta. “Wait till it gets cooler, child.” “Oh, I love the heat!” I replied. “And I am sure it won’t hurt his lordship. He’s used to the sun, to judge from all appearances.” “Yes, I don’t think it can destroy my complexion,” he said good-humouredly, rubbing his finger and thumb along his stubble-covered chin. The bushmen up-country shaved regularly every Sunday morning, but never during the week for anything less than a ball. They did this to obviate the blue—what they termed “scraped pig” —appearance of the faces of city men in the habit of using the razor daily, and to which they preferred the stubble of a seven-days’ beard. “I’ll take you to the river in half an hour,” he said, rising from his seat. “First I must stick on one of Warrigal’s shoes that he’s flung. I
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through the wide garden, then across a broad veranda into the great, spreading, one-storeyed house from which gleamed many lights. “I am so glad you have come, my dear. I must have a good look at you when we get into the light. I hope you are like your mother.” This prospect discomfited me. I knew she would find a very ugly girl with not the least resemblance to her pretty mother, and I cursed my appearance under my breath. “Your name is Sybylla,” Miss Beecham continued, “Sybylla Penelope. Your mother used to be very dear to me, but I don’t know why she doesn’t write to me now. I have never seen her since her marriage. It seems strange to think of her as the mother of eight—five boys and three girls, is it not?” Miss Beecham had piloted me through a wide hall and along an extended passage out of which a row of bedrooms opened, into one of which we went. “I hope you will be comfortable here, child. You need not dress for dinner while you are here; we never do, only on very special occasions.” “Neither do we at Caddagat,” I replied. “Now, child, let me have a good look at you without your hat.” “Oh, please don’t!” I exclaimed, covering my face with my hands. “I am so dreadfully ugly that I cannot bear to have anyone look at me.” “What a silly little girl! You are not like your mother, but you are not at all plain-looking. Harold says you are the best style of girl he has seen yet, and sing beautifully. He got a tuner up from Sydney last week, so we will expect you to entertain us every night.” I learnt that what Harold pronounced good no one dared gainsay at Five-Bob Downs. We proceeded direct to the dining-room, and had not been there long when Mr Beecham entered with the little girl on his shoulder. Miss Beecham had told me she was Minnie Benson, daughter of Harold’s married overseer on Wyambeet, his adjoining station. Miss Beecham considered it would have been more seemly for her nephew to have selected a little boy as a play-thing, but his sentiments regarding boys were that they were machines invented for the torment of adults. “Well, O’Doolan, what sort of a day has it been?” Harold inquired, setting his human toy upon the floor. “Fine wezzer for yim duts,” she promptly replied. “Harold, it is shameful to teach a little innocent child such abominable slang; and you might give her a decent nickname,” said Miss Beecham. “O’Doolan, this is Miss Melvyn, and you have to do the same to her as you do to me.” The little thing held out her arms to me. I took her up, and she hugged and kissed me, saying: “I luz oo, I luz oo,” and turning to Mr Beecham, “zat anuff?<|quote|>“Yes, that will do,”</|quote|>he said; and she struggled to be put down. Three jackeroos, an overseer, and two other young men came in, were introduced to me, and then we began dinner. O’Doolan sat on a high chair beside Mr Beecham, and he attended to all her wants. She did everything he did, even taking mustard, and was very brave at quelling the tears that rose to the doll-like blue eyes. When Mr Beecham wiped his moustache, it was amusing to see her also wipe an imaginary one. After dinner the jackeroos and the three other men repaired to a sitting-room in the backyard, which was specially set apart for them, and where they amused themselves as they liked. My host and hostess, myself, and the child, spent the evening in a tiny sitting-room adjoining the dining-room. Miss Beecham entertained me with conversation and the family albums, and Harold amused himself entirely with the child. Once when they were absent for a few minutes, Miss Beecham told me it was ridiculous the way he fussed with the child, and that he had her with him more than half his time. She also asked me what I thought of her nephew. I evaded the question by querying if he was always so quiet and good-tempered. “Oh dear, no. He is considered a particularly bad-tempered man. Not one of the snarling nasty tempers, but—” Here the re-entry of the owner of the temper put a stop to this conversation. Harold gave O’Doolan rides on his back, going on all-fours. She shouted in childish glee, and wound up by curling her small proportions on his broad chest, and going to sleep there. Mrs Benson had sent for little O’Doolan, and Harold took her home next day. He invited me to accompany him, so we set out in the sulky with O’Doolan on my lap. It was a pleasant drive of twelve miles to and from Wyambeet. O’Doolan was much distressed at parting from Mr Beecham, but he promised to come for her again shortly. “One little girl at a time is enough for me to care for properly,” he said to me in the winning manner with which, and his wealth, unintentionally and unconsciously made slaughter among the hearts of the fair sex. CHAPTER SIXTEEN When Fortune Smiles “Now, Harold, you have compelled Sybylla to come here, you must not let the time drag with her,” said Miss Beecham. It was the second day after my arrival at Five-Bob. Lunch was over, and we had adjourned to the veranda. Miss Beecham was busy at her work-table; I was ensconced on a mat on the floor reading a book; Harold was stretched in a squatter’s chair some distance away. His big brown hands were clasped behind his head, his chin rested on his broad chest, his eyes were closed, he occasionally thrust his lower lip forward and sent a puff of breath upwards to scatter the flies from his face; he looked a big monument of comfort, and answered his aunt’s remarks lazily: “Yes, aunt, I’ll do my best;” and to me, “Miss Melvyn, while here, please bear in mind that it will be no end of pleasure to me to do anything for your enjoyment. Don’t fail to command me in any way.” “Thank you, Mr Beecham. I will not fail to avail myself of your offer.” “The absurdity of you two children addressing each other so formally,” said Miss Beecham.
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My Brilliant Career
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“You’ll mount!”
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Grace
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But I aspire!” Hugh laughed.<|quote|>“You’ll mount!”</|quote|>said Lady Grace with friendly
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lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed.<|quote|>“You’ll mount!”</|quote|>said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took it again
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as her manner had been virtually an introduction of that gentleman, an introduction which Lord John’s mere noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed.<|quote|>“You’ll mount!”</|quote|>said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took it again with gay deprecation. “Ah, if by that time there’s anything left here to mount _on!_” “Let us hope there will be at least what Mr. Bender, poor man, won’t have been able to carry off.” To which Lady Grace added,
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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 noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed.<|quote|>“You’ll mount!”</|quote|>said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took it again with gay deprecation. “Ah, if by that time there’s anything left here to mount _on!_” “Let us hope there will be at least what Mr. Bender, poor man, won’t have been able to carry off.” To which Lady Grace added, as to strike a helpful spark from the personage who had just joined them, but who had the air of wishing to preserve his detachment: “It’s to Lord John that we owe Mr. Bender’s acquaintance.” Hugh looked at the gentleman to whom they were so indebted. “Then do you happen
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“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 noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed.<|quote|>“You’ll mount!”</|quote|>said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took it again with gay deprecation. “Ah, if by that time there’s anything left here to mount _on!_” “Let us hope there will be at least what Mr. Bender, poor man, won’t have been able to carry off.” To which Lady Grace added, as to strike a helpful spark from the personage who had just joined them, but who had the air of wishing to preserve his detachment: “It’s to Lord John that we owe Mr. Bender’s acquaintance.” Hugh looked at the gentleman to whom they were so indebted. “Then do you happen to know, sir, what your friend means to _do_ with his spoil?” The question got itself but dryly treated, as if it might be a commercially calculating or interested one. “Oh, not sell it again.” “Then ship it to New York?” the inquirer pursued, defining himself somehow as not snubbed and, from this point, not snubbable. That appearance failed none the less to deprive Lord John of a betrayed relish for being able to displease Lady Grace’s odd guest by large assent. “As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four
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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 noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed.<|quote|>“You’ll mount!”</|quote|>said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took it again with gay deprecation. “Ah, if by that time there’s anything left here to mount _on!_” “Let us hope there will be at least what Mr. Bender, poor man, won’t have been able to carry off.” To which Lady Grace added, as to strike a helpful spark from the personage who had just joined them, but who had the air of wishing to preserve his detachment: “It’s to Lord John that we owe Mr. Bender’s acquaintance.” Hugh looked at the gentleman to whom they were so indebted. “Then do you happen to know, sir, what your friend means to _do_ with his spoil?” The question got itself but dryly treated, as if it might be a commercially calculating or interested one. “Oh, not sell it again.” “Then ship it to New York?” the inquirer pursued, defining himself somehow as not snubbed and, from this point, not snubbable. That appearance failed none the less to deprive Lord John of a betrayed relish for being able to displease Lady Grace’s odd guest by large assent. “As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four days.” “I dare say. But can’t he be induced to have a little mercy?” Hugh sturdily pursued. Lord John pushed out his lips. “A ‘little’? How much do you want?” “Well, one wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine. “To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.” Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first of all, won’t you? the Moretto of Brescia.” “You know then about the Moretto of Brescia?” “Why, didn’t you tell me yourself?” It went on between them for the moment quite as if there had been no Lord John. “Probably, yes,” she recalled; “so how I must have swaggered!” After which she turned to
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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 noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed.<|quote|>“You’ll mount!”</|quote|>said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took it again with gay deprecation. “Ah, if by that time there’s anything left here to mount _on!_” “Let us hope there will be at least what Mr. Bender, poor man, won’t have been able to carry off.” To which Lady Grace added, as to strike a helpful spark from the personage who had just joined them, but who had the air of wishing to preserve his detachment: “It’s to Lord John that we owe Mr. Bender’s acquaintance.” Hugh looked at the gentleman to whom they were so indebted. “Then do you happen to know, sir, what your friend means to _do_ with his spoil?” The question got itself but dryly treated, as if it might be a commercially calculating or interested one. “Oh, not sell it again.” “Then ship it to New York?” the inquirer pursued, defining himself somehow as not snubbed and, from this point, not snubbable. That appearance failed none the less to deprive Lord John of a betrayed relish for being able to displease Lady Grace’s odd guest by large assent. “As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four days.” “I dare say. But can’t he be induced to have a little mercy?” Hugh sturdily pursued. Lord John pushed out his lips. “A ‘little’? How much do you want?” “Well, one wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine. “To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.” Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first of all, won’t you? the Moretto of Brescia.” “You know then about the Moretto of Brescia?” “Why, didn’t you tell me yourself?” It went on between them for the moment quite as if there had been no Lord John. “Probably, yes,” she recalled; “so how I must have swaggered!” After which she turned to the other visitor with a kindness strained clear of urgency. “Will you also come?” He confessed to a difficulty--which his whole face begged her also to take account of. “I hoped you’d be at leisure--for something I’ve so at heart!” This had its effect; she took a rapid decision and turned persuasively to Crimble--for whom, in like manner, there must have been something in _her_ face. “Let Mr. Bender himself then show you. And there are things in the library too.” “Oh yes, there are things in the library.” Lord John, happy in his gained advantage and addressing Hugh from the strong ground of an initiation already complete, quite sped him on the way. Hugh clearly made no attempt to veil the penetration with which he was moved to look from one of these counsellors to the other, though with a ready “Thank-you!” for Lady Grace he the next instant started in pursuit of Mr. Bender. V “Your friend seems remarkably hot!” Lord John remarked to his young hostess as soon as they had been left together. “He has cycled twenty miles. And indeed,” she smiled, “he does appear to care for what he cares for!” Her companion then, during a moment’s silence, might have been noting the emphasis of her assent. “Have you known him long?” “No--not long.” “Nor seen him often?” “Only once--till now.” “Oh!” said Lord John with another pause. But he soon proceeded. “Let us leave him then to cool! I haven’t cycled twenty miles, but I’ve motored forty very much in the hope of _this_, Lady Grace--the chance of being able to assure you that I too care very much for what I care for.” To which he added on an easier note, as to carry off a slight awkwardness while she only waited: “You certainly mustn’t let yourself--between us all--be worked to death.” “Oh, such days as this--I” She made light enough of her burden. “They don’t come often to _me_ at least, Lady Grace! I hadn’t grasped in advance the scale of your fête,” he went on; “but since I’ve the great luck to find you alone--!” He paused for breath, however, before the full sequence. She helped him out as through common kindness, but it was a trifle colourless. “Alone or in company, Lord John, I’m always very glad to see you.” “Then that assurance helps me to wonder if you don’t
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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 noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed.<|quote|>“You’ll mount!”</|quote|>said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took it again with gay deprecation. “Ah, if by that time there’s anything left here to mount _on!_” “Let us hope there will be at least what Mr. Bender, poor man, won’t have been able to carry off.” To which Lady Grace added, as to strike a helpful spark from the personage who had just joined them, but who had the air of wishing to preserve his detachment: “It’s to Lord John that we owe Mr. Bender’s acquaintance.” Hugh looked at the gentleman to whom they were so indebted. “Then do you happen to know, sir, what your friend means to _do_ with his spoil?” The question got itself but dryly treated, as if it might be a commercially calculating or interested one. “Oh, not sell it again.” “Then ship it to New York?” the inquirer pursued, defining himself somehow as not snubbed and, from this point, not snubbable. That appearance failed none the less to deprive Lord John of a betrayed relish for being able to displease Lady Grace’s odd guest by large assent. “As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four days.” “I dare say. But can’t he be induced to have a little mercy?” Hugh sturdily pursued. Lord John pushed out his lips. “A ‘little’? How much do you want?” “Well, one wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine. “To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.” Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first of all, won’t you? the Moretto of Brescia.” “You know then about the Moretto of Brescia?” “Why, didn’t you tell me yourself?” It went on between them for the moment quite as if there had been no Lord John. “Probably, yes,” she recalled; “so how I must have swaggered!” After which she turned to the other visitor with a kindness strained clear of urgency. “Will you also come?” He confessed to a difficulty--which his whole face begged her also to take account of. “I hoped you’d be at leisure--for something I’ve so at heart!” This had its effect; she took a rapid decision and turned persuasively to Crimble--for whom, in like manner, there must have been something in _her_ face. “Let Mr. Bender himself then show you. And
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The Outcry
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Syme laid down his knife and fork.
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No speaker
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much about him personally, because"<|quote|>Syme laid down his knife and fork.</|quote|>"I know," he said, "because
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but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because"<|quote|>Syme laid down his knife and fork.</|quote|>"I know," he said, "because you talked to him in
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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"<|quote|>Syme laid down his knife and fork.</|quote|>"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
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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"<|quote|>Syme laid down his knife and fork.</|quote|>"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
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myself under the shadow of an enormous policeman. He told me I was wanted. I struck a 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"<|quote|>Syme laid down his knife and fork.</|quote|>"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
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like the hedgehog in Montaigne.' "Need I say that there is no hedgehog in Montaigne?" Your claptrap comes off,' "he said;" so would your beard.' "I had no intelligent answer to this, which was quite true and rather witty. But I laughed heartily, answered," Like the Pantheist's boots,' "at random, and turned on my heel with all the honours of victory. The real Professor was thrown out, but not with violence, though one man tried very patiently to pull off his nose. He is now, I believe, received everywhere in Europe as a delightful impostor. His apparent earnestness and anger, you see, make him all the more entertaining." "Well," said Syme, "I can understand your putting on his dirty old beard for a night's practical joke, but I don't understand your never taking it off again." "That is the rest of the story," said the impersonator. "When I myself left the company, followed by reverent applause, I went limping down the dark street, hoping that I should soon be far enough away to be able to walk like a human being. To my astonishment, as I was turning the corner, I felt a touch on the shoulder, and turning, found myself under the shadow of an enormous policeman. He told me I was wanted. I struck a 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"<|quote|>Syme laid down his knife and fork.</|quote|>"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
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artist had fallen upon me. I had been too subtle, I had been too true. They thought I really was the great Nihilist Professor. I was a healthy-minded young man at the time, and I confess that it was a blow. Before I could fully recover, however, two or three of these admirers ran up to me radiating indignation, and told me that a public insult had been put upon me in the next room. I inquired its nature. It seemed that an impertinent fellow had dressed himself up as a preposterous parody of myself. I had drunk more champagne than was good for me, and in a flash of folly I decided to see the situation through. Consequently it was to meet the glare of the company and my own lifted eyebrows and freezing eyes that the real Professor came into the room." "I need hardly say there was a collision. The pessimists all round me looked anxiously from one Professor to the other Professor to see which was really the more feeble. But I won. An old man in poor health, like my rival, could not be expected to be so impressively feeble as a young actor in the prime of life. You see, he really had paralysis, and working within this definite limitation, he couldn't be so jolly paralytic as I was. Then he tried to blast my claims intellectually. I countered that by a very simple dodge. Whenever he said something that nobody but he could understand, I replied with something which I could not even understand myself." I don't fancy,' "he said," that you could have worked out the principle that evolution is only negation, since there inheres in it the introduction of lacuna, which are an essential of differentiation.' "I replied quite scornfully," You read all that up in Pinckwerts; the notion that involution functioned eugenically was exposed long ago by Glumpe.' "It is unnecessary for me to say that there never were such people as Pinckwerts and Glumpe. But the people all round (rather to my surprise) seemed to remember them quite well, and the Professor, finding that the learned and mysterious method left him rather at the mercy of an enemy slightly deficient in scruples, fell back upon a more popular form of wit." I see,' "he sneered," you prevail like the false pig in sop.' And you fail,' "I answered, smiling," like the hedgehog in Montaigne.' "Need I say that there is no hedgehog in Montaigne?" Your claptrap comes off,' "he said;" so would your beard.' "I had no intelligent answer to this, which was quite true and rather witty. But I laughed heartily, answered," Like the Pantheist's boots,' "at random, and turned on my heel with all the honours of victory. The real Professor was thrown out, but not with violence, though one man tried very patiently to pull off his nose. He is now, I believe, received everywhere in Europe as a delightful impostor. His apparent earnestness and anger, you see, make him all the more entertaining." "Well," said Syme, "I can understand your putting on his dirty old beard for a night's practical joke, but I don't understand your never taking it off again." "That is the rest of the story," said the impersonator. "When I myself left the company, followed by reverent applause, I went limping down the dark street, hoping that I should soon be far enough away to be able to walk like a human being. To my astonishment, as I was turning the corner, I felt a touch on the shoulder, and turning, found myself under the shadow of an enormous policeman. He told me I was wanted. I struck a 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"<|quote|>Syme laid down his knife and fork.</|quote|>"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." 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. "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,
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couldn't be so jolly paralytic as I was. Then he tried to blast my claims intellectually. I countered that by a very simple dodge. Whenever he said something that nobody but he could understand, I replied with something which I could not even understand myself." I don't fancy,' "he said," that you could have worked out the principle that evolution is only negation, since there inheres in it the introduction of lacuna, which are an essential of differentiation.' "I replied quite scornfully," You read all that up in Pinckwerts; the notion that involution functioned eugenically was exposed long ago by Glumpe.' "It is unnecessary for me to say that there never were such people as Pinckwerts and Glumpe. But the people all round (rather to my surprise) seemed to remember them quite well, and the Professor, finding that the learned and mysterious method left him rather at the mercy of an enemy slightly deficient in scruples, fell back upon a more popular form of wit." I see,' "he sneered," you prevail like the false pig in sop.' And you fail,' "I answered, smiling," like the hedgehog in Montaigne.' "Need I say that there is no hedgehog in Montaigne?" Your claptrap comes off,' "he said;" so would your beard.' "I had no intelligent answer to this, which was quite true and rather witty. But I laughed heartily, answered," Like the Pantheist's boots,' "at random, and turned on my heel with all the honours of victory. The real Professor was thrown out, but not with violence, though one man tried very patiently to pull off his nose. He is now, I believe, received everywhere in Europe as a delightful impostor. His apparent earnestness and anger, you see, make him all the more entertaining." "Well," said Syme, "I can understand your putting on his dirty old beard for a night's practical joke, but I don't understand your never taking it off again." "That is the rest of the story," said the impersonator. "When I myself left the company, followed by reverent applause, I went limping down the dark street, hoping that I should soon be far enough away to be able to walk like a human being. To my astonishment, as I was turning the corner, I felt a touch on the shoulder, and turning, found myself under the shadow of an enormous policeman. He told me I was wanted. I struck a 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"<|quote|>Syme laid down his knife and fork.</|quote|>"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
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The Man Who Was Thursday
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“I’ll tell you God’s truth.”
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Gatsby
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flavoured conversation in his halls.<|quote|>“I’ll tell you God’s truth.”</|quote|>His right hand suddenly ordered
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of the bizarre accusations that flavoured conversation in his halls.<|quote|>“I’ll tell you God’s truth.”</|quote|>His right hand suddenly ordered divine retribution to stand by.
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the generalized evasions which that question deserves. “Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life,” he interrupted. “I don’t want you to get a wrong idea of me from all these stories you hear.” So he was aware of the bizarre accusations that flavoured conversation in his halls.<|quote|>“I’ll tell you God’s truth.”</|quote|>His right hand suddenly ordered divine retribution to stand by. “I am the son of some wealthy people in the Middle West—all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at Oxford, because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years. It is a family tradition.”
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And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn’t reached West Egg village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-coloured suit. “Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly, “what’s your opinion of me, anyhow?” A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions which that question deserves. “Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life,” he interrupted. “I don’t want you to get a wrong idea of me from all these stories you hear.” So he was aware of the bizarre accusations that flavoured conversation in his halls.<|quote|>“I’ll tell you God’s truth.”</|quote|>His right hand suddenly ordered divine retribution to stand by. “I am the son of some wealthy people in the Middle West—all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at Oxford, because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years. It is a family tradition.” He looked at me sideways—and I knew why Jordan Baker had believed he was lying. He hurried the phrase “educated at Oxford,” or swallowed it, or choked on it, as though it had bothered him before. And with this doubt, his whole statement fell to pieces, and I wondered if
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nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with triumphant hatboxes and supper-boxes and toolboxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory, we started to town. I had talked with him perhaps half a dozen times in the past month and found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say. So my first impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an elaborate roadhouse next door. And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn’t reached West Egg village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-coloured suit. “Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly, “what’s your opinion of me, anyhow?” A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions which that question deserves. “Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life,” he interrupted. “I don’t want you to get a wrong idea of me from all these stories you hear.” So he was aware of the bizarre accusations that flavoured conversation in his halls.<|quote|>“I’ll tell you God’s truth.”</|quote|>His right hand suddenly ordered divine retribution to stand by. “I am the son of some wealthy people in the Middle West—all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at Oxford, because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years. It is a family tradition.” He looked at me sideways—and I knew why Jordan Baker had believed he was lying. He hurried the phrase “educated at Oxford,” or swallowed it, or choked on it, as though it had bothered him before. And with this doubt, his whole statement fell to pieces, and I wondered if there wasn’t something a little sinister about him, after all. “What part of the Middle West?” I inquired casually. “San Francisco.” “I see.” “My family all died and I came into a good deal of money.” His voice was solemn, as if the memory of that sudden extinction of a clan still haunted him. For a moment I suspected that he was pulling my leg, but a glance at him convinced me otherwise. “After that I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of Europe—Paris, Venice, Rome—collecting jewels, chiefly rubies, hunting big game, painting a little, things for
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morning late in July, Gatsby’s gorgeous car lurched up the rocky drive to my door and gave out a burst of melody from its three-noted horn. It was the first time he had called on me, though I had gone to two of his parties, mounted in his hydroplane, and, at his urgent invitation, made frequent use of his beach. “Good morning, old sport. You’re having lunch with me today and I thought we’d ride up together.” He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American—that comes, I suppose, with the absence of lifting work in youth and, even more, with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games. This quality was continually breaking through his punctilious manner in the shape of restlessness. He was never quite still; there was always a tapping foot somewhere or the impatient opening and closing of a hand. He saw me looking with admiration at his car. “It’s pretty, isn’t it, old sport?” He jumped off to give me a better view. “Haven’t you ever seen it before?” I’d seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream colour, bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with triumphant hatboxes and supper-boxes and toolboxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory, we started to town. I had talked with him perhaps half a dozen times in the past month and found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say. So my first impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an elaborate roadhouse next door. And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn’t reached West Egg village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-coloured suit. “Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly, “what’s your opinion of me, anyhow?” A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions which that question deserves. “Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life,” he interrupted. “I don’t want you to get a wrong idea of me from all these stories you hear.” So he was aware of the bizarre accusations that flavoured conversation in his halls.<|quote|>“I’ll tell you God’s truth.”</|quote|>His right hand suddenly ordered divine retribution to stand by. “I am the son of some wealthy people in the Middle West—all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at Oxford, because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years. It is a family tradition.” He looked at me sideways—and I knew why Jordan Baker had believed he was lying. He hurried the phrase “educated at Oxford,” or swallowed it, or choked on it, as though it had bothered him before. And with this doubt, his whole statement fell to pieces, and I wondered if there wasn’t something a little sinister about him, after all. “What part of the Middle West?” I inquired casually. “San Francisco.” “I see.” “My family all died and I came into a good deal of money.” His voice was solemn, as if the memory of that sudden extinction of a clan still haunted him. For a moment I suspected that he was pulling my leg, but a glance at him convinced me otherwise. “After that I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of Europe—Paris, Venice, Rome—collecting jewels, chiefly rubies, hunting big game, painting a little, things for myself only, and trying to forget something very sad that had happened to me long ago.” With an effort I managed to restrain my incredulous laughter. The very phrases were worn so threadbare that they evoked no image except that of a turbaned “character” leaking sawdust at every pore as he pursued a tiger through the Bois de Boulogne. “Then came the war, old sport. It was a great relief, and I tried very hard to die, but I seemed to bear an enchanted life. I accepted a commission as first lieutenant when it began. In the Argonne Forest I took the remains of my machine-gun battalion so far forward that there was a half mile gap on either side of us where the infantry couldn’t advance. We stayed there two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty men with sixteen Lewis guns, and when the infantry came up at last they found the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of dead. I was promoted to be a major, and every Allied government gave me a decoration—even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the Adriatic Sea!” Little Montenegro! He lifted up the words and nodded at them—with his
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came the Poles and the Mulreadys and Cecil Roebuck and Cecil Schoen and Gulick the State senator and Newton Orchid, who controlled Films Par Excellence, and Eckhaust and Clyde Cohen and Don S. Schwartz (the son) and Arthur McCarty, all connected with the movies in one way or another. And the Catlips and the Bembergs and G. Earl Muldoon, brother to that Muldoon who afterward strangled his wife. Da Fontano the promoter came there, and Ed Legros and James B. ( “Rot-Gut” ) Ferret and the De Jongs and Ernest Lilly—they came to gamble, and when Ferret wandered into the garden it meant he was cleaned out and Associated Traction would have to fluctuate profitably next day. A man named Klipspringer was there so often that he became known as “the boarder” —I doubt if he had any other home. Of theatrical people there were Gus Waize and Horace O’Donavan and Lester Myer and George Duckweed and Francis Bull. Also from New York were the Chromes and the Backhyssons and the Dennickers and Russel Betty and the Corrigans and the Kellehers and the Dewars and the Scullys and S. W. Belcher and the Smirkes and the young Quinns, divorced now, and Henry L. Palmetto, who killed himself by jumping in front of a subway train in Times Square. Benny McClenahan arrived always with four girls. They were never quite the same ones in physical person, but they were so identical one with another that it inevitably seemed they had been there before. I have forgotten their names—Jaqueline, I think, or else Consuela, or Gloria or Judy or June, and their last names were either the melodious names of flowers and months or the sterner ones of the great American capitalists whose cousins, if pressed, they would confess themselves to be. In addition to all these I can remember that Faustina O’Brien came there at least once and the Baedeker girls and young Brewer, who had his nose shot off in the war, and Mr. Albrucksburger and Miss Haag, his fiancée, and Ardita Fitz-Peters and Mr. P. Jewett, once head of the American Legion, and Miss Claudia Hip, with a man reputed to be her chauffeur, and a prince of something, whom we called Duke, and whose name, if I ever knew it, I have forgotten. All these people came to Gatsby’s house in the summer. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ At nine o’clock, one morning late in July, Gatsby’s gorgeous car lurched up the rocky drive to my door and gave out a burst of melody from its three-noted horn. It was the first time he had called on me, though I had gone to two of his parties, mounted in his hydroplane, and, at his urgent invitation, made frequent use of his beach. “Good morning, old sport. You’re having lunch with me today and I thought we’d ride up together.” He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American—that comes, I suppose, with the absence of lifting work in youth and, even more, with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games. This quality was continually breaking through his punctilious manner in the shape of restlessness. He was never quite still; there was always a tapping foot somewhere or the impatient opening and closing of a hand. He saw me looking with admiration at his car. “It’s pretty, isn’t it, old sport?” He jumped off to give me a better view. “Haven’t you ever seen it before?” I’d seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream colour, bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with triumphant hatboxes and supper-boxes and toolboxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory, we started to town. I had talked with him perhaps half a dozen times in the past month and found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say. So my first impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an elaborate roadhouse next door. And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn’t reached West Egg village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-coloured suit. “Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly, “what’s your opinion of me, anyhow?” A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions which that question deserves. “Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life,” he interrupted. “I don’t want you to get a wrong idea of me from all these stories you hear.” So he was aware of the bizarre accusations that flavoured conversation in his halls.<|quote|>“I’ll tell you God’s truth.”</|quote|>His right hand suddenly ordered divine retribution to stand by. “I am the son of some wealthy people in the Middle West—all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at Oxford, because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years. It is a family tradition.” He looked at me sideways—and I knew why Jordan Baker had believed he was lying. He hurried the phrase “educated at Oxford,” or swallowed it, or choked on it, as though it had bothered him before. And with this doubt, his whole statement fell to pieces, and I wondered if there wasn’t something a little sinister about him, after all. “What part of the Middle West?” I inquired casually. “San Francisco.” “I see.” “My family all died and I came into a good deal of money.” His voice was solemn, as if the memory of that sudden extinction of a clan still haunted him. For a moment I suspected that he was pulling my leg, but a glance at him convinced me otherwise. “After that I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of Europe—Paris, Venice, Rome—collecting jewels, chiefly rubies, hunting big game, painting a little, things for myself only, and trying to forget something very sad that had happened to me long ago.” With an effort I managed to restrain my incredulous laughter. The very phrases were worn so threadbare that they evoked no image except that of a turbaned “character” leaking sawdust at every pore as he pursued a tiger through the Bois de Boulogne. “Then came the war, old sport. It was a great relief, and I tried very hard to die, but I seemed to bear an enchanted life. I accepted a commission as first lieutenant when it began. In the Argonne Forest I took the remains of my machine-gun battalion so far forward that there was a half mile gap on either side of us where the infantry couldn’t advance. We stayed there two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty men with sixteen Lewis guns, and when the infantry came up at last they found the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of dead. I was promoted to be a major, and every Allied government gave me a decoration—even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the Adriatic Sea!” Little Montenegro! He lifted up the words and nodded at them—with his smile. The smile comprehended Montenegro’s troubled history and sympathized with the brave struggles of the Montenegrin people. It appreciated fully the chain of national circumstances which had elicited this tribute from Montenegro’s warm little heart. My incredulity was submerged in fascination now; it was like skimming hastily through a dozen magazines. He reached in his pocket, and a piece of metal, slung on a ribbon, fell into my palm. “That’s the one from Montenegro.” To my astonishment, the thing had an authentic look. “Orderi di Danilo,” ran the circular legend, “Montenegro, Nicolas Rex.” “Turn it.” “Major Jay Gatsby,” I read, “For Valour Extraordinary.” “Here’s another thing I always carry. A souvenir of Oxford days. It was taken in Trinity Quad—the man on my left is now the Earl of Doncaster.” It was a photograph of half a dozen young men in blazers loafing in an archway through which were visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby, looking a little, not much, younger—with a cricket bat in his hand. Then it was all true. I saw the skins of tigers flaming in his palace on the Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with their crimson-lighted depths, the gnawings of his broken heart. “I’m going to make a big request of you today,” he said, pocketing his souvenirs with satisfaction, “so I thought you ought to know something about me. I didn’t want you to think I was just some nobody. You see, I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad things that happened to me.” He hesitated. “You’ll hear about it this afternoon.” “At lunch?” “No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that you’re taking Miss Baker to tea.” “Do you mean you’re in love with Miss Baker?” “No, old sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak to you about this matter.” I hadn’t the faintest idea what “this matter” was, but I was more annoyed than interested. I hadn’t asked Jordan to tea in order to discuss Mr. Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something utterly fantastic, and for a moment I was sorry I’d ever set foot upon his overpopulated lawn. He wouldn’t say another word. His correctness grew on him as we neared the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse
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in the summer. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ At nine o’clock, one morning late in July, Gatsby’s gorgeous car lurched up the rocky drive to my door and gave out a burst of melody from its three-noted horn. It was the first time he had called on me, though I had gone to two of his parties, mounted in his hydroplane, and, at his urgent invitation, made frequent use of his beach. “Good morning, old sport. You’re having lunch with me today and I thought we’d ride up together.” He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American—that comes, I suppose, with the absence of lifting work in youth and, even more, with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games. This quality was continually breaking through his punctilious manner in the shape of restlessness. He was never quite still; there was always a tapping foot somewhere or the impatient opening and closing of a hand. He saw me looking with admiration at his car. “It’s pretty, isn’t it, old sport?” He jumped off to give me a better view. “Haven’t you ever seen it before?” I’d seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream colour, bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with triumphant hatboxes and supper-boxes and toolboxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory, we started to town. I had talked with him perhaps half a dozen times in the past month and found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say. So my first impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an elaborate roadhouse next door. And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn’t reached West Egg village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-coloured suit. “Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly, “what’s your opinion of me, anyhow?” A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions which that question deserves. “Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life,” he interrupted. “I don’t want you to get a wrong idea of me from all these stories you hear.” So he was aware of the bizarre accusations that flavoured conversation in his halls.<|quote|>“I’ll tell you God’s truth.”</|quote|>His right hand suddenly ordered divine retribution to stand by. “I am the son of some wealthy people in the Middle West—all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at Oxford, because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years. It is a family tradition.” He looked at me sideways—and I knew why Jordan Baker had believed he was lying. He hurried the phrase “educated at Oxford,” or swallowed it, or choked on it, as though it had bothered him before. And with this doubt, his whole statement fell to pieces, and I wondered if there wasn’t something a little sinister about him, after all. “What part of the Middle West?” I inquired casually. “San Francisco.” “I see.” “My family all died and I came into a good deal of money.” His voice was solemn, as if the memory of that sudden extinction of a clan still haunted him. For a moment I suspected that he was pulling my leg, but a glance at him convinced me otherwise. “After that I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of Europe—Paris, Venice, Rome—collecting jewels, chiefly rubies, hunting big game, painting a little, things for myself only, and trying to forget something very sad that had happened to me long ago.” With an effort I managed to restrain my incredulous laughter. The very phrases were worn so threadbare that they evoked no image except that of a turbaned “character” leaking sawdust at every pore as he pursued a tiger through the Bois de Boulogne. “Then came the war, old sport. It was a great relief, and I tried very hard to die, but I seemed to bear an enchanted life. I accepted a commission as first lieutenant when it began. In the Argonne Forest I took the remains of my machine-gun battalion so far forward that there was a half mile gap on either side of us where the infantry couldn’t advance. We stayed there two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty men with sixteen Lewis guns, and when the infantry came up at last they found the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of dead. I was promoted to be a major, and every Allied government gave me a decoration—even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the Adriatic Sea!” Little Montenegro! He lifted up the words and nodded at them—with his smile. The smile comprehended Montenegro’s troubled history and sympathized with the brave struggles of the Montenegrin people. It appreciated fully the chain of national circumstances which had elicited this tribute from Montenegro’s warm little heart. My incredulity was submerged in fascination now; it was like skimming hastily through a dozen magazines. He reached in his pocket, and a piece of metal, slung on a ribbon, fell into my palm. “That’s the one from Montenegro.” To my astonishment, the thing had an authentic look. “Orderi di Danilo,” ran the circular legend, “Montenegro,
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The Great Gatsby
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"and, indeed, I can scarcely follow you. Now, just imagine if you said anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I understand it, but most good people would think you mad. Imagine how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a person who will go slowly, slowly in this business, and see how things are and where they are likely to lead to."
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Aunt Juley
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think so," said Mrs. Munt;<|quote|>"and, indeed, I can scarcely follow you. Now, just imagine if you said anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I understand it, but most good people would think you mad. Imagine how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a person who will go slowly, slowly in this business, and see how things are and where they are likely to lead to."</|quote|>Margaret was down on this.
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I must say." "I should think so," said Mrs. Munt;<|quote|>"and, indeed, I can scarcely follow you. Now, just imagine if you said anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I understand it, but most good people would think you mad. Imagine how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a person who will go slowly, slowly in this business, and see how things are and where they are likely to lead to."</|quote|>Margaret was down on this. "But you implied just now
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aunt that she was not mad really, and convinced observers of another type that she was not a barren theorist, she added: "Though in the case of Carter Paterson I should want it to be a very long engagement indeed, I must say." "I should think so," said Mrs. Munt;<|quote|>"and, indeed, I can scarcely follow you. Now, just imagine if you said anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I understand it, but most good people would think you mad. Imagine how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a person who will go slowly, slowly in this business, and see how things are and where they are likely to lead to."</|quote|>Margaret was down on this. "But you implied just now that the engagement must be broken off." "I think probably it must; but slowly." "Can you break an engagement off slowly?" Her eyes lit up. "What s an engagement made of, do you suppose? I think it s made of
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a penniless clerk--" "Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut the door. Your good maids are dusting the banisters." "--or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls for Carter Paterson, I should have said the same." Then, with one of those turns that convinced her aunt that she was not mad really, and convinced observers of another type that she was not a barren theorist, she added: "Though in the case of Carter Paterson I should want it to be a very long engagement indeed, I must say." "I should think so," said Mrs. Munt;<|quote|>"and, indeed, I can scarcely follow you. Now, just imagine if you said anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I understand it, but most good people would think you mad. Imagine how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a person who will go slowly, slowly in this business, and see how things are and where they are likely to lead to."</|quote|>Margaret was down on this. "But you implied just now that the engagement must be broken off." "I think probably it must; but slowly." "Can you break an engagement off slowly?" Her eyes lit up. "What s an engagement made of, do you suppose? I think it s made of some hard stuff that may snap, but can t break. It is different to the other ties of life. They stretch or bend. They admit of degree. They re different." "Exactly so. But won t you let me just run down to Howards House, and save you all the discomfort?
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s writing that she and a man are in love. There is no question to ask as long as she keeps to that. All the rest isn t worth a straw. A long engagement if you like, but inquiries, questions, plans, lines of action--no, Aunt Juley, no." Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely brilliant, but filled with something that took the place of both qualities--something best described as a profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that she encountered in her path through life. "If Helen had written the same to me about a shop assistant or a penniless clerk--" "Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut the door. Your good maids are dusting the banisters." "--or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls for Carter Paterson, I should have said the same." Then, with one of those turns that convinced her aunt that she was not mad really, and convinced observers of another type that she was not a barren theorist, she added: "Though in the case of Carter Paterson I should want it to be a very long engagement indeed, I must say." "I should think so," said Mrs. Munt;<|quote|>"and, indeed, I can scarcely follow you. Now, just imagine if you said anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I understand it, but most good people would think you mad. Imagine how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a person who will go slowly, slowly in this business, and see how things are and where they are likely to lead to."</|quote|>Margaret was down on this. "But you implied just now that the engagement must be broken off." "I think probably it must; but slowly." "Can you break an engagement off slowly?" Her eyes lit up. "What s an engagement made of, do you suppose? I think it s made of some hard stuff that may snap, but can t break. It is different to the other ties of life. They stretch or bend. They admit of degree. They re different." "Exactly so. But won t you let me just run down to Howards House, and save you all the discomfort? I will really not interfere, but I do so thoroughly understand the kind of thing you Schlegels want that one quiet look round will be enough for me." Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and then ran upstairs to see her brother. He was not so well. The hay fever had worried him a good deal all night. His head ached, his eyes were wet, his mucous membrane, he informed her, in a most unsatisfactory condition. The only thing that made life worth living was the thought of Walter Savage Landor, from whose Imaginary Conversations she had promised to
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but as she loved only a sister she used the voiceless language of sympathy. "I consider you odd girls," continued Mrs. Munt, "and very wonderful girls, and in many ways far older than your years. But--you won t be offended? frankly, I feel you are not up to this business. It requires an older person. Dear, I have nothing to call me back to Swanage." She spread out her plump arms. "I am all at your disposal. Let me go down to this house whose name I forget instead of you." "Aunt Juley" "--she jumped up and kissed her--" "I must, must go to Howards End myself. You don t exactly understand, though I can never thank you properly for offering." "I do understand," retorted Mrs. Munt, with immense confidence. "I go down in no spirit of interference, but to make inquiries. Inquiries are necessary. Now, I am going to be rude. You would say the wrong thing; to a certainty you would. In your anxiety for Helen s happiness you would offend the whole of these Wilcoxes by asking one of your impetuous questions--not that one minds offending them." "I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen s writing that she and a man are in love. There is no question to ask as long as she keeps to that. All the rest isn t worth a straw. A long engagement if you like, but inquiries, questions, plans, lines of action--no, Aunt Juley, no." Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely brilliant, but filled with something that took the place of both qualities--something best described as a profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that she encountered in her path through life. "If Helen had written the same to me about a shop assistant or a penniless clerk--" "Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut the door. Your good maids are dusting the banisters." "--or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls for Carter Paterson, I should have said the same." Then, with one of those turns that convinced her aunt that she was not mad really, and convinced observers of another type that she was not a barren theorist, she added: "Though in the case of Carter Paterson I should want it to be a very long engagement indeed, I must say." "I should think so," said Mrs. Munt;<|quote|>"and, indeed, I can scarcely follow you. Now, just imagine if you said anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I understand it, but most good people would think you mad. Imagine how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a person who will go slowly, slowly in this business, and see how things are and where they are likely to lead to."</|quote|>Margaret was down on this. "But you implied just now that the engagement must be broken off." "I think probably it must; but slowly." "Can you break an engagement off slowly?" Her eyes lit up. "What s an engagement made of, do you suppose? I think it s made of some hard stuff that may snap, but can t break. It is different to the other ties of life. They stretch or bend. They admit of degree. They re different." "Exactly so. But won t you let me just run down to Howards House, and save you all the discomfort? I will really not interfere, but I do so thoroughly understand the kind of thing you Schlegels want that one quiet look round will be enough for me." Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and then ran upstairs to see her brother. He was not so well. The hay fever had worried him a good deal all night. His head ached, his eyes were wet, his mucous membrane, he informed her, in a most unsatisfactory condition. The only thing that made life worth living was the thought of Walter Savage Landor, from whose Imaginary Conversations she had promised to read at frequent intervals during the day. It was rather difficult. Something must be done about Helen. She must be assured that it is not a criminal offence to love at first sight. A telegram to this effect would be cold and cryptic, a personal visit seemed each moment more impossible. Now the doctor arrived, and said that Tibby was quite bad. Might it really be best to accept Aunt Juley s kind offer, and to send her down to Howards End with a note? Certainly Margaret was impulsive. She did swing rapidly from one decision to another. Running downstairs into the library, she cried: "Yes, I have changed my mind; I do wish that you would go." There was a train from King s Cross at eleven. At half-past ten Tibby, with rare self-effacement, fell asleep, and Margaret was able to drive her aunt to the station. "You will remember, Aunt Juley, not to be drawn into discussing the engagement. Give my letter to Helen, and say whatever you feel yourself, but do keep clear of the relatives. We have scarcely got their names straight yet, and, besides, that sort of thing is so uncivilised and wrong." "So uncivilised?"
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Munt had her own method of interpreting her nieces. She decided that Margaret was a little hysterical, and was trying to gain time by a torrent of talk. Feeling very diplomatic, she lamented the fate of Speyer, and declared that never, never should she be so misguided as to visit it, and added of her own accord that the principles of restoration were ill understood in Germany. "The Germans," she said, "are too thorough, and this is all very well sometimes, but at other times it does not do." "Exactly," said Margaret; "Germans are too thorough." And her eyes began to shine. "Of course I regard you Schlegels as English," said Mrs. Munt hastily--" "English to the backbone." Margaret leaned forward and stroked her hand. "And that reminds me--Helen s letter." "Oh yes, Aunt Juley, I am thinking all right about Helen s letter. I know--I must go down and see her. I am thinking about her all right. I am meaning to go down." "But go with some plan," said Mrs. Munt, admitting into her kindly voice a note of exasperation. "Margaret, if I may interfere, don t be taken by surprise. What do you think of the Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are they likely people? Could they appreciate Helen, who is to my mind a very special sort of person? Do they care about Literature and Art? That is most important when you come to think of it. Literature and Art. Most important. How old would the son be? She says younger son. Would he be in a position to marry? Is he likely to make Helen happy? Did you gather--" "I gathered nothing." They began to talk at once. "Then in that case--" "In that case I can make no plans, don t you see." "On the contrary--" "I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn t a baby." "Then in that case, my dear, why go down?" Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why she must go down, she was not going to tell her. She was not going to say, "I love my dear sister; I must be near her at this crisis of her life." The affections are more reticent than the passions, and their expression more subtle. If she herself should ever fall in love with a man, she, like Helen, would proclaim it from the housetops, but as she loved only a sister she used the voiceless language of sympathy. "I consider you odd girls," continued Mrs. Munt, "and very wonderful girls, and in many ways far older than your years. But--you won t be offended? frankly, I feel you are not up to this business. It requires an older person. Dear, I have nothing to call me back to Swanage." She spread out her plump arms. "I am all at your disposal. Let me go down to this house whose name I forget instead of you." "Aunt Juley" "--she jumped up and kissed her--" "I must, must go to Howards End myself. You don t exactly understand, though I can never thank you properly for offering." "I do understand," retorted Mrs. Munt, with immense confidence. "I go down in no spirit of interference, but to make inquiries. Inquiries are necessary. Now, I am going to be rude. You would say the wrong thing; to a certainty you would. In your anxiety for Helen s happiness you would offend the whole of these Wilcoxes by asking one of your impetuous questions--not that one minds offending them." "I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen s writing that she and a man are in love. There is no question to ask as long as she keeps to that. All the rest isn t worth a straw. A long engagement if you like, but inquiries, questions, plans, lines of action--no, Aunt Juley, no." Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely brilliant, but filled with something that took the place of both qualities--something best described as a profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that she encountered in her path through life. "If Helen had written the same to me about a shop assistant or a penniless clerk--" "Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut the door. Your good maids are dusting the banisters." "--or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls for Carter Paterson, I should have said the same." Then, with one of those turns that convinced her aunt that she was not mad really, and convinced observers of another type that she was not a barren theorist, she added: "Though in the case of Carter Paterson I should want it to be a very long engagement indeed, I must say." "I should think so," said Mrs. Munt;<|quote|>"and, indeed, I can scarcely follow you. Now, just imagine if you said anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I understand it, but most good people would think you mad. Imagine how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a person who will go slowly, slowly in this business, and see how things are and where they are likely to lead to."</|quote|>Margaret was down on this. "But you implied just now that the engagement must be broken off." "I think probably it must; but slowly." "Can you break an engagement off slowly?" Her eyes lit up. "What s an engagement made of, do you suppose? I think it s made of some hard stuff that may snap, but can t break. It is different to the other ties of life. They stretch or bend. They admit of degree. They re different." "Exactly so. But won t you let me just run down to Howards House, and save you all the discomfort? I will really not interfere, but I do so thoroughly understand the kind of thing you Schlegels want that one quiet look round will be enough for me." Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and then ran upstairs to see her brother. He was not so well. The hay fever had worried him a good deal all night. His head ached, his eyes were wet, his mucous membrane, he informed her, in a most unsatisfactory condition. The only thing that made life worth living was the thought of Walter Savage Landor, from whose Imaginary Conversations she had promised to read at frequent intervals during the day. It was rather difficult. Something must be done about Helen. She must be assured that it is not a criminal offence to love at first sight. A telegram to this effect would be cold and cryptic, a personal visit seemed each moment more impossible. Now the doctor arrived, and said that Tibby was quite bad. Might it really be best to accept Aunt Juley s kind offer, and to send her down to Howards End with a note? Certainly Margaret was impulsive. She did swing rapidly from one decision to another. Running downstairs into the library, she cried: "Yes, I have changed my mind; I do wish that you would go." There was a train from King s Cross at eleven. At half-past ten Tibby, with rare self-effacement, fell asleep, and Margaret was able to drive her aunt to the station. "You will remember, Aunt Juley, not to be drawn into discussing the engagement. Give my letter to Helen, and say whatever you feel yourself, but do keep clear of the relatives. We have scarcely got their names straight yet, and, besides, that sort of thing is so uncivilised and wrong." "So uncivilised?" queried Mrs. Munt, fearing that she was losing the point of some brilliant remark. "Oh, I used an affected word. I only meant would you please talk the thing over only with Helen." "Only with Helen." "Because--" But it was no moment to expound the personal nature of love. Even Margaret shrank from it, and contented herself with stroking her good aunt s hand, and with meditating, half sensibly and half poetically, on the journey that was about to begin from King s Cross. Like many others who have lived long in a great capital, she had strong feelings about the various railway termini. They are our gates to the glorious and the unknown. Through them we pass out into adventure and sunshine, to them, alas! we return. In Paddington all Cornwall is latent and the remoter west; down the inclines of Liverpool Street lie fenlands and the illimitable Broads; Scotland is through the pylons of Euston; Wessex behind the poised chaos of Waterloo. Italians realise this, as is natural; those of them who are so unfortunate as to serve as waiters in Berlin call the Anhalt Bahnhof the Stazione d Italia, because by it they must return to their homes. And he is a chilly Londoner who does not endow his stations with some personality, and extend to them, however shyly, the emotions of fear and love. To Margaret--I hope that it will not set the reader against her--the station of King s Cross had always suggested Infinity. Its very situation--withdrawn a little behind the facile splendours of St. Pancras--implied a comment on the materialism of life. Those two great arches, colourless, indifferent, shouldering between them an unlovely clock, were fit portals for some eternal adventure, whose issue might be prosperous, but would certainly not be expressed in the ordinary language of prosperity. If you think this ridiculous, remember that it is not Margaret who is telling you about it; and let me hasten to add that they were in plenty of time for the train; that Mrs. Munt, though she took a second-class ticket, was put by the guard into a first (only two "seconds" on the train, one smoking and the other babies--one cannot be expected to travel with babies); and that Margaret, on her return to Wickham Place, was confronted with the following telegram: "All over. Wish I had never written. Tell no one--, HELEN." But
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I am going to be rude. You would say the wrong thing; to a certainty you would. In your anxiety for Helen s happiness you would offend the whole of these Wilcoxes by asking one of your impetuous questions--not that one minds offending them." "I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen s writing that she and a man are in love. There is no question to ask as long as she keeps to that. All the rest isn t worth a straw. A long engagement if you like, but inquiries, questions, plans, lines of action--no, Aunt Juley, no." Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely brilliant, but filled with something that took the place of both qualities--something best described as a profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that she encountered in her path through life. "If Helen had written the same to me about a shop assistant or a penniless clerk--" "Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut the door. Your good maids are dusting the banisters." "--or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls for Carter Paterson, I should have said the same." Then, with one of those turns that convinced her aunt that she was not mad really, and convinced observers of another type that she was not a barren theorist, she added: "Though in the case of Carter Paterson I should want it to be a very long engagement indeed, I must say." "I should think so," said Mrs. Munt;<|quote|>"and, indeed, I can scarcely follow you. Now, just imagine if you said anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I understand it, but most good people would think you mad. Imagine how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a person who will go slowly, slowly in this business, and see how things are and where they are likely to lead to."</|quote|>Margaret was down on this. "But you implied just now that the engagement must be broken off." "I think probably it must; but slowly." "Can you break an engagement off slowly?" Her eyes lit up. "What s an engagement made of, do you suppose? I think it s made of some hard stuff that may snap, but can t break. It is different to the other ties of life. They stretch or bend. They admit of degree. They re different." "Exactly so. But won t you let me just run down to Howards House, and save you all the discomfort? I will really not interfere, but I do so thoroughly understand the kind of thing you Schlegels want that one quiet look round will be enough for me." Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and then ran upstairs to see her brother. He was not so well. The hay fever had worried him a good deal all night. His head ached, his eyes were wet, his mucous membrane, he informed her, in a most unsatisfactory condition. The only thing that made life worth living was the thought of Walter Savage Landor, from whose Imaginary Conversations she had promised to read at frequent intervals during the day. It was rather difficult. Something must be done about Helen. She must be assured that it is not a criminal offence to love at first sight. A telegram to this effect would be cold and cryptic, a personal visit seemed each moment more impossible. Now the doctor arrived, and said that Tibby was quite bad. Might it really be best to accept Aunt Juley s kind offer, and to send her down to Howards End with a note? Certainly Margaret was impulsive. She did swing rapidly from one decision to another. Running downstairs into the library, she cried: "Yes, I have changed my mind; I do wish that you would go." There was a train from King s Cross at eleven. At half-past ten Tibby, with rare self-effacement, fell asleep, and Margaret was able to drive her aunt to the station. "You will remember, Aunt Juley, not to be drawn into discussing the engagement. Give my letter to Helen, and say whatever you feel yourself, but do keep clear of the relatives. We have scarcely got their names straight yet, and, besides, that sort of thing is so uncivilised and wrong." "So uncivilised?" queried Mrs. Munt, fearing that she was losing the point of some brilliant remark. "Oh, I used an affected word. I only meant would you please talk the thing over only with Helen." "Only with Helen." "Because--" But it was no moment to expound the personal nature of love. Even Margaret shrank from it, and contented herself with stroking her good aunt s hand, and with meditating, half sensibly and half poetically, on the journey that was about to begin from King s Cross. Like many others who have lived long in a great capital, she had strong feelings about the various railway termini. They are our gates to the glorious and the unknown. Through them we pass out into adventure and sunshine, to them, alas! we return. In Paddington all Cornwall is latent and the remoter west; down the inclines of Liverpool Street lie fenlands and the
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Howards End
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--he at once pursued--
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No speaker
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to the worst--” “The thing”<|quote|>--he at once pursued--</|quote|>“will always be at the
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that if the worst comes to the worst--” “The thing”<|quote|>--he at once pursued--</|quote|>“will always be at the least the greatest of Morettos?
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father to the thought. Well, I do wish to be right as much as I believe I am. Only give me time!” he sublimely insisted. “How can we prevent your using it?” Lady Grace again interrupted; “or the fact either that if the worst comes to the worst--” “The thing”<|quote|>--he at once pursued--</|quote|>“will always be at the least the greatest of Morettos? Ah,” he cried so cheerily that there was still a freedom in it toward any it might concern, “the worst sha’n’t come to the worst, but the best to the best: my conviction of which it is that supports me
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small--though,” he pulled up with a drop to the comparative dismal, which he offered as an almost familiar tribute to Lord Theign, “you’ll retort upon me naturally that I promised you the possibility of Pappendick’s veto would be: all on the poor dear old basis, you’ll claim, of the wish father to the thought. Well, I do wish to be right as much as I believe I am. Only give me time!” he sublimely insisted. “How can we prevent your using it?” Lady Grace again interrupted; “or the fact either that if the worst comes to the worst--” “The thing”<|quote|>--he at once pursued--</|quote|>“will always be at the least the greatest of Morettos? Ah,” he cried so cheerily that there was still a freedom in it toward any it might concern, “the worst sha’n’t come to the worst, but the best to the best: my conviction of which it is that supports me in the deep regret I have to express” --and he faced Lord Theign again-- “for any inconvenience I may have caused you by my abortive undertaking. That, I vow here before Lady Grace, I will yet more than make up!” Lord Theign, after the longest but the blankest contemplation of
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see, is the ripping _interest_ of it all; since,” he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered, “when we’re really ‘hit’ over a case we’ll do almost anything in life.” Lady Grace, recklessly throbbing in the breath of it all, immediately appropriated what her father let alone. “It must be so lovely to _feel_ so hit!” “It does spoil one,” Hugh laughed, “for milder joys. Of course what I have to consider is the chance--putting it at the _merest_ chance--of Bardi’s own wet blanket! But that’s again so very small--though,” he pulled up with a drop to the comparative dismal, which he offered as an almost familiar tribute to Lord Theign, “you’ll retort upon me naturally that I promised you the possibility of Pappendick’s veto would be: all on the poor dear old basis, you’ll claim, of the wish father to the thought. Well, I do wish to be right as much as I believe I am. Only give me time!” he sublimely insisted. “How can we prevent your using it?” Lady Grace again interrupted; “or the fact either that if the worst comes to the worst--” “The thing”<|quote|>--he at once pursued--</|quote|>“will always be at the least the greatest of Morettos? Ah,” he cried so cheerily that there was still a freedom in it toward any it might concern, “the worst sha’n’t come to the worst, but the best to the best: my conviction of which it is that supports me in the deep regret I have to express” --and he faced Lord Theign again-- “for any inconvenience I may have caused you by my abortive undertaking. That, I vow here before Lady Grace, I will yet more than make up!” Lord Theign, after the longest but the blankest contemplation of him, broke hereupon, for the first time, that attitude of completely sustained and separate silence which he had yet made compatible with his air of having deeply noted every element of the scene--so that it was of this full view his participation had effectively consisted, “I haven’t the least idea, sir, what you’re talking about!” And he squarely turned his back, strolling toward the other room, the threshold of which he the next moment had passed, remaining scantily within, however, and in sight of the others, not to say of ourselves; even though averted and ostensibly lost in some scrutiny
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such curious effects have been!--that the Dedborough picture seen _after_ the Verona will point a different moral from the Verona seen after the Dedborough.” “And so awfully _long_ after--wasn’t it?” Lady Grace asked. “Awfully long after--it was years ago that Pappen-dick, being in this country for such purposes, was kindly admitted to your house when none of you were there, or at least visible.” “Oh of course we don’t see _every one!_” --she heroically kept it up. “You don’t see every one,” Hugh bravely laughed, “and that makes it all the more charming that you did, and that you still do, see me. I shall really get Bardi,” he pursued, “to go again to Verona----” “The last thing before coming here?” --she had guessed before he could say it; and still she sustained it, so that he could shine at her for assent. “How happy they should like so to work for you!” “Ah, we’re a band of brothers,” he returned-- “‘we few, we happy few’--from country to country” ; to which he added, gaining more ease for an eye at Lord Theign: “though we do have our little rubs and disputes, like Pappendick and me now. The thing, you see, is the ripping _interest_ of it all; since,” he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered, “when we’re really ‘hit’ over a case we’ll do almost anything in life.” Lady Grace, recklessly throbbing in the breath of it all, immediately appropriated what her father let alone. “It must be so lovely to _feel_ so hit!” “It does spoil one,” Hugh laughed, “for milder joys. Of course what I have to consider is the chance--putting it at the _merest_ chance--of Bardi’s own wet blanket! But that’s again so very small--though,” he pulled up with a drop to the comparative dismal, which he offered as an almost familiar tribute to Lord Theign, “you’ll retort upon me naturally that I promised you the possibility of Pappendick’s veto would be: all on the poor dear old basis, you’ll claim, of the wish father to the thought. Well, I do wish to be right as much as I believe I am. Only give me time!” he sublimely insisted. “How can we prevent your using it?” Lady Grace again interrupted; “or the fact either that if the worst comes to the worst--” “The thing”<|quote|>--he at once pursued--</|quote|>“will always be at the least the greatest of Morettos? Ah,” he cried so cheerily that there was still a freedom in it toward any it might concern, “the worst sha’n’t come to the worst, but the best to the best: my conviction of which it is that supports me in the deep regret I have to express” --and he faced Lord Theign again-- “for any inconvenience I may have caused you by my abortive undertaking. That, I vow here before Lady Grace, I will yet more than make up!” Lord Theign, after the longest but the blankest contemplation of him, broke hereupon, for the first time, that attitude of completely sustained and separate silence which he had yet made compatible with his air of having deeply noted every element of the scene--so that it was of this full view his participation had effectively consisted, “I haven’t the least idea, sir, what you’re talking about!” And he squarely turned his back, strolling toward the other room, the threshold of which he the next moment had passed, remaining scantily within, however, and in sight of the others, not to say of ourselves; even though averted and ostensibly lost in some scrutiny that might have had for its object the great enshrined Lawrence. There ensued upon his words and movement a vivid mute passage, the richest of commentaries, between his companions; who, deeply divided by the width of the ample room, followed him with their eyes and then used for their own interchange these organs of remark, eloquent now over Hugh’s unmistakable dismissal at short order, on which obviously he must at once act. Lady Grace’s young arms conveyed to him by a despairing contrite motion of surrender that she had done for him all she could do in his presence and that, however sharply doubtful the result, he was to leave the rest to herself. They communicated thus, the strenuous pair, for their full moment, without speaking; only with the prolonged, the charged give and take of their gaze and, it might well have been imagined, of their passion. Hugh had for an instant a show of hesitation--of the arrested impulse, while he kept her father within range, to launch at that personage before going some final remonstrance. It was the girl’s raised hand and gesture of warning that waved away for him such a mistake; he decided, under her pressure,
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this, colder than any mere social ignoring, upon a sense of the damnably poor figure he did offer; so that, while he straightened himself and kept a mastery of his manner and a control of his reply, we should yet have felt his cheek tingle. “I backed my own judgment strongly, I know--and I’ve got my snub. But I don’t in the least knock under.” “Only the first authority in Europe doesn’t care, I suppose, whether you do or not!” “He isn’t _the_ first authority in Europe, thank God,” the young man returned-- “though he is, I admit, one of the three or four first. And I mean to appeal--I’ve another shot in my locker,” he went on with his rather painfully forced smile to Lady Grace. “I had already written, you see, to dear old Bardi.” “Bardi of Milan?” --she recognised, it was admirably manifest, the appeal of his directness to her generosity, awkward as their predicament was also for her herself, and spoke to him as she might have spoken without her father’s presence. It would have shown for beautiful, on the spot, had there been any one to perceive it, that he devoutly recorded her intelligence. “You know of him?--how delightful of you! For the Italians, I now feel,” he quickly explained, “he must have _most_ the instinct--and it has come over me since that he’d have been more our man. Besides of course his so knowing the Verona picture.” She had fairly hung on his lips. “But does he know ours?” “No--not ours yet. That is” --he consciously and quickly took himself up-- “not yours! But as Pap-pendick went to Verona for us I’ve asked Bardi to do us the great favour to come here--if Lord Theign will be so good,” he said, bethinking himself with a turn, “as to let him examine the Moretto.” He faced again to the personage he mentioned, who, simply standing off and watching, in concentrated interest as well as detachment, this interview of his cool daughter and her still cooler guest, had plainly “elected,” as it were, to give them rope to hang themselves. Staring very hard at Hugh he met his appeal, but in a silence clearly calculated; against which, however, the young man, bearing up, made such head as he could. He offered his next word, that is, equally to the two companions. “It’s not at all impossible--for such curious effects have been!--that the Dedborough picture seen _after_ the Verona will point a different moral from the Verona seen after the Dedborough.” “And so awfully _long_ after--wasn’t it?” Lady Grace asked. “Awfully long after--it was years ago that Pappen-dick, being in this country for such purposes, was kindly admitted to your house when none of you were there, or at least visible.” “Oh of course we don’t see _every one!_” --she heroically kept it up. “You don’t see every one,” Hugh bravely laughed, “and that makes it all the more charming that you did, and that you still do, see me. I shall really get Bardi,” he pursued, “to go again to Verona----” “The last thing before coming here?” --she had guessed before he could say it; and still she sustained it, so that he could shine at her for assent. “How happy they should like so to work for you!” “Ah, we’re a band of brothers,” he returned-- “‘we few, we happy few’--from country to country” ; to which he added, gaining more ease for an eye at Lord Theign: “though we do have our little rubs and disputes, like Pappendick and me now. The thing, you see, is the ripping _interest_ of it all; since,” he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered, “when we’re really ‘hit’ over a case we’ll do almost anything in life.” Lady Grace, recklessly throbbing in the breath of it all, immediately appropriated what her father let alone. “It must be so lovely to _feel_ so hit!” “It does spoil one,” Hugh laughed, “for milder joys. Of course what I have to consider is the chance--putting it at the _merest_ chance--of Bardi’s own wet blanket! But that’s again so very small--though,” he pulled up with a drop to the comparative dismal, which he offered as an almost familiar tribute to Lord Theign, “you’ll retort upon me naturally that I promised you the possibility of Pappendick’s veto would be: all on the poor dear old basis, you’ll claim, of the wish father to the thought. Well, I do wish to be right as much as I believe I am. Only give me time!” he sublimely insisted. “How can we prevent your using it?” Lady Grace again interrupted; “or the fact either that if the worst comes to the worst--” “The thing”<|quote|>--he at once pursued--</|quote|>“will always be at the least the greatest of Morettos? Ah,” he cried so cheerily that there was still a freedom in it toward any it might concern, “the worst sha’n’t come to the worst, but the best to the best: my conviction of which it is that supports me in the deep regret I have to express” --and he faced Lord Theign again-- “for any inconvenience I may have caused you by my abortive undertaking. That, I vow here before Lady Grace, I will yet more than make up!” Lord Theign, after the longest but the blankest contemplation of him, broke hereupon, for the first time, that attitude of completely sustained and separate silence which he had yet made compatible with his air of having deeply noted every element of the scene--so that it was of this full view his participation had effectively consisted, “I haven’t the least idea, sir, what you’re talking about!” And he squarely turned his back, strolling toward the other room, the threshold of which he the next moment had passed, remaining scantily within, however, and in sight of the others, not to say of ourselves; even though averted and ostensibly lost in some scrutiny that might have had for its object the great enshrined Lawrence. There ensued upon his words and movement a vivid mute passage, the richest of commentaries, between his companions; who, deeply divided by the width of the ample room, followed him with their eyes and then used for their own interchange these organs of remark, eloquent now over Hugh’s unmistakable dismissal at short order, on which obviously he must at once act. Lady Grace’s young arms conveyed to him by a despairing contrite motion of surrender that she had done for him all she could do in his presence and that, however sharply doubtful the result, he was to leave the rest to herself. They communicated thus, the strenuous pair, for their full moment, without speaking; only with the prolonged, the charged give and take of their gaze and, it might well have been imagined, of their passion. Hugh had for an instant a show of hesitation--of the arrested impulse, while he kept her father within range, to launch at that personage before going some final remonstrance. It was the girl’s raised hand and gesture of warning that waved away for him such a mistake; he decided, under her pressure, and after a last searching and answering look at her reached the door and let himself out. The stillness was then prolonged a minute by the further wait of the two others, Lord Theign where he had been standing and his daughter on the spot from which she had not moved. It presently ended in his lordship’s turn about as if inferring by the silence that the intruder had withdrawn. “Is that young man your lover?” he said as he drew again near. Lady Grace waited a little, but spoke as quietly as if she had been prepared. “Has the question a bearing on the promise you a short time ago demanded of me?” “It has a bearing on the so extraordinary appearance of your intimacy with him!” “You mean that if he _should_ be--what you ask me about--your exaction would then be modified?” “My request that you break it short off? That request would, on the contrary,” Lord Theign pronounced, “rest on an immense new ground. Therefore I insist on your telling me the truth.” “Won’t the truth be before you, father, if you’ll _think_ a moment--without extravagance?” After which, while, as stiffly as ever--and it probably seemed to her impatience as stupidly--he didn’t rise to it, she went on: “If I _offered_ you not again to see him, does that make for you the appearance--?” “If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,” said Lord Theign, “absolutely nothing at all!” She took him up with all expression. “So I promised as little! But that I should have been able to say what I did sufficiently meets your curiosity.” She might, wronged as she held herself, have felt him stupid not to see _how_ wronged; but he was in any case acute for an evasion. “You risked your offer for the great equivalent over which you’ve so wildly worked yourself up.” “Yes, I’ve worked myself--that, I grant you and don’t blush for! But hardly so much as to renounce my ‘lover’--if,” she prodigiously smiled, “I were so fortunate as to have one!” “You renounced poor John mightily easily--whom you were so fortunate as to have!” Her brows rose as high as his own had ever done. “Do you call Lord John my lover?” “He was your suitor most assuredly,” Lord Theign inimitably said, though without looking at her; “and as strikingly encouraged
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Grace asked. “Awfully long after--it was years ago that Pappen-dick, being in this country for such purposes, was kindly admitted to your house when none of you were there, or at least visible.” “Oh of course we don’t see _every one!_” --she heroically kept it up. “You don’t see every one,” Hugh bravely laughed, “and that makes it all the more charming that you did, and that you still do, see me. I shall really get Bardi,” he pursued, “to go again to Verona----” “The last thing before coming here?” --she had guessed before he could say it; and still she sustained it, so that he could shine at her for assent. “How happy they should like so to work for you!” “Ah, we’re a band of brothers,” he returned-- “‘we few, we happy few’--from country to country” ; to which he added, gaining more ease for an eye at Lord Theign: “though we do have our little rubs and disputes, like Pappendick and me now. The thing, you see, is the ripping _interest_ of it all; since,” he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered, “when we’re really ‘hit’ over a case we’ll do almost anything in life.” Lady Grace, recklessly throbbing in the breath of it all, immediately appropriated what her father let alone. “It must be so lovely to _feel_ so hit!” “It does spoil one,” Hugh laughed, “for milder joys. Of course what I have to consider is the chance--putting it at the _merest_ chance--of Bardi’s own wet blanket! But that’s again so very small--though,” he pulled up with a drop to the comparative dismal, which he offered as an almost familiar tribute to Lord Theign, “you’ll retort upon me naturally that I promised you the possibility of Pappendick’s veto would be: all on the poor dear old basis, you’ll claim, of the wish father to the thought. Well, I do wish to be right as much as I believe I am. Only give me time!” he sublimely insisted. “How can we prevent your using it?” Lady Grace again interrupted; “or the fact either that if the worst comes to the worst--” “The thing”<|quote|>--he at once pursued--</|quote|>“will always be at the least the greatest of Morettos? Ah,” he cried so cheerily that there was still a freedom in it toward any it might concern, “the worst sha’n’t come to the worst, but the best to the best: my conviction of which it is that supports me in the deep regret I have to express” --and he faced Lord Theign again-- “for any inconvenience I may have caused you by my abortive undertaking. That, I vow here before Lady Grace, I will yet more than make up!” Lord Theign, after the longest but the blankest contemplation of him, broke hereupon, for the first time, that attitude of completely sustained and separate silence which he had yet made compatible with his air of having deeply noted every element of the scene--so that it was of this full view his participation had effectively consisted, “I haven’t the least idea, sir, what you’re talking about!” And he squarely turned his back, strolling toward the other room, the threshold of which he the next moment had passed, remaining scantily within, however, and in sight of the others, not to say of ourselves; even though averted and ostensibly lost in some scrutiny that might have had for its object the great enshrined Lawrence. There ensued upon his words and movement a vivid mute passage, the richest of commentaries, between his companions; who, deeply divided by the width of the ample room, followed him with their eyes and then used for their own interchange these organs of remark, eloquent now over Hugh’s unmistakable dismissal at short order, on which obviously he must at once act. Lady Grace’s young arms conveyed to him by a despairing contrite motion of surrender that she had done for him all she could do in
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The Outcry
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The princess, who had not the smallest intention to offend her brothers, would not suffer them to entertain such a thought, but said:
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No speaker
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has hitherto subsisted between us."<|quote|>The princess, who had not the smallest intention to offend her brothers, would not suffer them to entertain such a thought, but said:</|quote|>"When I told you nothing
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renounce the strict union which has hitherto subsisted between us."<|quote|>The princess, who had not the smallest intention to offend her brothers, would not suffer them to entertain such a thought, but said:</|quote|>"When I told you nothing disturbed me, I meant nothing
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impossible we could observe so sudden a change if nothing was the matter with you. You would not have us satisfied with the evasive answer you have given; do not conceal anything, unless you would have us suspect that you renounce the strict union which has hitherto subsisted between us."<|quote|>The princess, who had not the smallest intention to offend her brothers, would not suffer them to entertain such a thought, but said:</|quote|>"When I told you nothing disturbed me, I meant nothing that was of importance to you, but to me it is of some consequence; and since you press me to tell you by our strict union and friendship, which are so dear to me, I will. You think, and I
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remained in the same posture some time without answering, but at last lifted up her eyes to look at her brothers, and then held them down again, telling them nothing disturbed her. "Sister," said Prince Bahman, "you conceal the truth from us; there must be something of consequence. It is impossible we could observe so sudden a change if nothing was the matter with you. You would not have us satisfied with the evasive answer you have given; do not conceal anything, unless you would have us suspect that you renounce the strict union which has hitherto subsisted between us."<|quote|>The princess, who had not the smallest intention to offend her brothers, would not suffer them to entertain such a thought, but said:</|quote|>"When I told you nothing disturbed me, I meant nothing that was of importance to you, but to me it is of some consequence; and since you press me to tell you by our strict union and friendship, which are so dear to me, I will. You think, and I always believed so too, that this house was so complete that nothing was wanting. But this day I have learned that it lacks three rarities which would render it so perfect that no country seat in the world could be compared with it. These three things are the Talking Bird,
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uneasy. She was absorbed in these thoughts when her brothers returned from hunting, who, when they entered the great hall, instead of finding her lively and gay, as she was wont to be, were amazed to see her so pensive and hanging down her head as if something troubled her. "Sister," said Prince Bahman, "what is become of all your mirth and gaiety? Are you not well? or has some misfortune befallen you? Tell us, that we may know how to act, and give you some relief. If any one has affronted you, we will resent his insolence." The princess remained in the same posture some time without answering, but at last lifted up her eyes to look at her brothers, and then held them down again, telling them nothing disturbed her. "Sister," said Prince Bahman, "you conceal the truth from us; there must be something of consequence. It is impossible we could observe so sudden a change if nothing was the matter with you. You would not have us satisfied with the evasive answer you have given; do not conceal anything, unless you would have us suspect that you renounce the strict union which has hitherto subsisted between us."<|quote|>The princess, who had not the smallest intention to offend her brothers, would not suffer them to entertain such a thought, but said:</|quote|>"When I told you nothing disturbed me, I meant nothing that was of importance to you, but to me it is of some consequence; and since you press me to tell you by our strict union and friendship, which are so dear to me, I will. You think, and I always believed so too, that this house was so complete that nothing was wanting. But this day I have learned that it lacks three rarities which would render it so perfect that no country seat in the world could be compared with it. These three things are the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water." After she had informed them wherein consisted the excellency of these rarities, "A devout woman," added she, "has made this discovery to me, told me the place where they are to be found, and the way thither. Perhaps you may imagine these things of little consequence; that without these additions our house will always be thought sufficiently elegant, and that we can do without them. You may think as you please, but I cannot help telling you that I am persuaded they are absolutely necessary, and I shall not be easy without them.
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that these curiosities are all to be met with in the same spot on the confines of this kingdom, toward India. The road lies before your house, and whoever you send needs but follow it for twenty days, and on the twentieth only let him ask the first person he meets where the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water are, and he will be informed." After saying this, she rose from her seat, took her leave, and went her way. The Princess Periezade's thoughts were so taken up with the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water, that she never perceived the devout woman's departure, till she wanted to ask her some question for her better information; for she thought that what she had been told was not a sufficient reason for exposing herself by undertaking a long journey. However, she would not send after her visitor, but endeavoured to remember all the directions, and when she thought she had recollected every word, took real pleasure in thinking of the satisfaction she should have if she could get these curiosities into her possession; but the difficulties she apprehended and the fear of not succeeding made her very uneasy. She was absorbed in these thoughts when her brothers returned from hunting, who, when they entered the great hall, instead of finding her lively and gay, as she was wont to be, were amazed to see her so pensive and hanging down her head as if something troubled her. "Sister," said Prince Bahman, "what is become of all your mirth and gaiety? Are you not well? or has some misfortune befallen you? Tell us, that we may know how to act, and give you some relief. If any one has affronted you, we will resent his insolence." The princess remained in the same posture some time without answering, but at last lifted up her eyes to look at her brothers, and then held them down again, telling them nothing disturbed her. "Sister," said Prince Bahman, "you conceal the truth from us; there must be something of consequence. It is impossible we could observe so sudden a change if nothing was the matter with you. You would not have us satisfied with the evasive answer you have given; do not conceal anything, unless you would have us suspect that you renounce the strict union which has hitherto subsisted between us."<|quote|>The princess, who had not the smallest intention to offend her brothers, would not suffer them to entertain such a thought, but said:</|quote|>"When I told you nothing disturbed me, I meant nothing that was of importance to you, but to me it is of some consequence; and since you press me to tell you by our strict union and friendship, which are so dear to me, I will. You think, and I always believed so too, that this house was so complete that nothing was wanting. But this day I have learned that it lacks three rarities which would render it so perfect that no country seat in the world could be compared with it. These three things are the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water." After she had informed them wherein consisted the excellency of these rarities, "A devout woman," added she, "has made this discovery to me, told me the place where they are to be found, and the way thither. Perhaps you may imagine these things of little consequence; that without these additions our house will always be thought sufficiently elegant, and that we can do without them. You may think as you please, but I cannot help telling you that I am persuaded they are absolutely necessary, and I shall not be easy without them. Therefore, whether you value them or not, I desire you to consider what person you may think proper for me to send in search of the curiosities I have mentioned." "Sister," replied Prince Bahman, "nothing can concern you in which we have not an equal interest. It is enough that you desire these things to oblige us to take the same interest; but if you had not, we feel ourselves inclined of our own accord and for our own individual satisfaction. I am persuaded my brother is of the same opinion, and therefore we ought to undertake this conquest, for the importance and singularity of the undertaking deserve that name. I will take the charge upon myself; only tell me the place and the way to it, and I will defer my journey no longer than till to-morrow." "Brother," said Prince Perviz, "it is not proper that you, who are the head of our family, should be absent. I desire my sister should join with me to oblige you to abandon your design, and allow me to undertake it. I hope to acquit myself as well as you, and it will be a more regular proceeding." "I am persuaded of
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woman, "I am not used to eat such delicacies, but will not refuse what God has sent me by so liberal a hand as yours." While the devout woman was eating, the princess ate a little too, to bear her company, and asked her many questions upon the exercise of devotion which she practised and how she lived; all of which she answered with great modesty. Talking of various things, at last the princess asked her what she thought of the house, and how she liked it. "Madam," answered the devout woman, "I must certainly have very bad taste to disapprove anything in it, since it is beautiful, regular, and magnificently furnished with exactness and judgment, and all its ornaments adjusted in the best manner. Its situation is an agreeable spot, and no garden can be more delightful; but yet, if you will give me leave to speak my mind freely, I will take the liberty to tell you that this house would be incomparable if it had three things which are wanting to complete it." "My good mother," replied the Princess Periezade, "what are those? I entreat you to tell me what they are; I will spare nothing to get them." "Madam," replied the devout woman, "the first of these three things is the Talking Bird, so singular a creature, that it draws round it all the songsters of the neighbourhood which come to accompany its voice. The second is the Singing Tree, the leaves of which are so many mouths which form an harmonious concert of different voices and never cease. The third is the Golden Water, a single drop of which being poured into a vessel properly prepared, it increases so as to fill it immediately, and rises up in the middle like a fountain, which continually plays, and yet the basin never overflows." "Ah! my good mother," cried the princess, "how much am I obliged to you for the knowledge of these curiosities! I never before heard there were such rarities in the world; but as I am persuaded that you know, I expect that you should do me the favour to inform me where they are to be found." "Madam," replied the good woman, "I should be unworthy the hospitality you have shown me if I should refuse to satisfy your curiosity on that point, and am glad to have the honour to tell you that these curiosities are all to be met with in the same spot on the confines of this kingdom, toward India. The road lies before your house, and whoever you send needs but follow it for twenty days, and on the twentieth only let him ask the first person he meets where the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water are, and he will be informed." After saying this, she rose from her seat, took her leave, and went her way. The Princess Periezade's thoughts were so taken up with the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water, that she never perceived the devout woman's departure, till she wanted to ask her some question for her better information; for she thought that what she had been told was not a sufficient reason for exposing herself by undertaking a long journey. However, she would not send after her visitor, but endeavoured to remember all the directions, and when she thought she had recollected every word, took real pleasure in thinking of the satisfaction she should have if she could get these curiosities into her possession; but the difficulties she apprehended and the fear of not succeeding made her very uneasy. She was absorbed in these thoughts when her brothers returned from hunting, who, when they entered the great hall, instead of finding her lively and gay, as she was wont to be, were amazed to see her so pensive and hanging down her head as if something troubled her. "Sister," said Prince Bahman, "what is become of all your mirth and gaiety? Are you not well? or has some misfortune befallen you? Tell us, that we may know how to act, and give you some relief. If any one has affronted you, we will resent his insolence." The princess remained in the same posture some time without answering, but at last lifted up her eyes to look at her brothers, and then held them down again, telling them nothing disturbed her. "Sister," said Prince Bahman, "you conceal the truth from us; there must be something of consequence. It is impossible we could observe so sudden a change if nothing was the matter with you. You would not have us satisfied with the evasive answer you have given; do not conceal anything, unless you would have us suspect that you renounce the strict union which has hitherto subsisted between us."<|quote|>The princess, who had not the smallest intention to offend her brothers, would not suffer them to entertain such a thought, but said:</|quote|>"When I told you nothing disturbed me, I meant nothing that was of importance to you, but to me it is of some consequence; and since you press me to tell you by our strict union and friendship, which are so dear to me, I will. You think, and I always believed so too, that this house was so complete that nothing was wanting. But this day I have learned that it lacks three rarities which would render it so perfect that no country seat in the world could be compared with it. These three things are the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water." After she had informed them wherein consisted the excellency of these rarities, "A devout woman," added she, "has made this discovery to me, told me the place where they are to be found, and the way thither. Perhaps you may imagine these things of little consequence; that without these additions our house will always be thought sufficiently elegant, and that we can do without them. You may think as you please, but I cannot help telling you that I am persuaded they are absolutely necessary, and I shall not be easy without them. Therefore, whether you value them or not, I desire you to consider what person you may think proper for me to send in search of the curiosities I have mentioned." "Sister," replied Prince Bahman, "nothing can concern you in which we have not an equal interest. It is enough that you desire these things to oblige us to take the same interest; but if you had not, we feel ourselves inclined of our own accord and for our own individual satisfaction. I am persuaded my brother is of the same opinion, and therefore we ought to undertake this conquest, for the importance and singularity of the undertaking deserve that name. I will take the charge upon myself; only tell me the place and the way to it, and I will defer my journey no longer than till to-morrow." "Brother," said Prince Perviz, "it is not proper that you, who are the head of our family, should be absent. I desire my sister should join with me to oblige you to abandon your design, and allow me to undertake it. I hope to acquit myself as well as you, and it will be a more regular proceeding." "I am persuaded of your goodwill, brother," replied Prince Bahman, "and that you would succeed as well as myself in this journey; but I have resolved and will undertake it. You shall stay at home with our sister, and I need not recommend her to you." The next morning Bahman mounted his horse, and Perviz and the princess embraced and wished him a good journey. But in the midst of their adieus, the princess recollected what she had not thought of before. "Brother," said she, "I had quite forgotten the accidents which attend travellers. Who knows whether I shall ever see you again? Alight, I beseech you, and give up this journey. I would rather be deprived of the sight and possession of the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water, than run the risk of never seeing you more." "Sister," replied Bahman, smiling at her sudden fears, "my resolution is fixed. The accidents you speak of befall only those who are unfortunate; but there are more who are not so. However, as events are uncertain, and I may fail in this undertaking, all I can do is to leave you this knife." Bahman pulling a knife from his vestband, and presenting it to the princess in the sheath, said: "Take this knife, sister, and give yourself the trouble sometimes to pull it out of the sheath; while you see it clean as it is now, it will be a sign that I am alive; but if you find it stained with blood, then you may believe me dead and indulge me with your prayers." The princess could obtain nothing more of Bahman. He bade adieu to her and Prince Perviz for the last time and rode away. When he got into the road, he never turned to the right hand nor to the left, but went directly forward toward India. The twentieth day he perceived on the roadside a hideous old man, who sat under a tree near a thatched house, which was his retreat from the weather. His eyebrows were as white as snow, as was also the hair of his head; his whiskers covered his mouth, and his beard and hair reached down to his feet. The nails of his hands and feet were grown to an extensive length, while a flat, broad umbrella covered his head. He had no clothes, but only a mat thrown round his body.
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these curiosities are all to be met with in the same spot on the confines of this kingdom, toward India. The road lies before your house, and whoever you send needs but follow it for twenty days, and on the twentieth only let him ask the first person he meets where the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water are, and he will be informed." After saying this, she rose from her seat, took her leave, and went her way. The Princess Periezade's thoughts were so taken up with the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water, that she never perceived the devout woman's departure, till she wanted to ask her some question for her better information; for she thought that what she had been told was not a sufficient reason for exposing herself by undertaking a long journey. However, she would not send after her visitor, but endeavoured to remember all the directions, and when she thought she had recollected every word, took real pleasure in thinking of the satisfaction she should have if she could get these curiosities into her possession; but the difficulties she apprehended and the fear of not succeeding made her very uneasy. She was absorbed in these thoughts when her brothers returned from hunting, who, when they entered the great hall, instead of finding her lively and gay, as she was wont to be, were amazed to see her so pensive and hanging down her head as if something troubled her. "Sister," said Prince Bahman, "what is become of all your mirth and gaiety? Are you not well? or has some misfortune befallen you? Tell us, that we may know how to act, and give you some relief. If any one has affronted you, we will resent his insolence." The princess remained in the same posture some time without answering, but at last lifted up her eyes to look at her brothers, and then held them down again, telling them nothing disturbed her. "Sister," said Prince Bahman, "you conceal the truth from us; there must be something of consequence. It is impossible we could observe so sudden a change if nothing was the matter with you. You would not have us satisfied with the evasive answer you have given; do not conceal anything, unless you would have us suspect that you renounce the strict union which has hitherto subsisted between us."<|quote|>The princess, who had not the smallest intention to offend her brothers, would not suffer them to entertain such a thought, but said:</|quote|>"When I told you nothing disturbed me, I meant nothing that was of importance to you, but to me it is of some consequence; and since you press me to tell you by our strict union and friendship, which are so dear to me, I will. You think, and I always believed so too, that this house was so complete that nothing was wanting. But this day I have learned that it lacks three rarities which would render it so perfect that no country seat in the world could be compared with it. These three things are the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water." After she had informed them wherein consisted the excellency of these rarities, "A devout woman," added she, "has made this discovery to me, told me the place where they are to be found, and the way thither. Perhaps you may imagine these things of little consequence; that without these additions our house will always be thought sufficiently elegant, and that we can do without them. You may think as you please, but I cannot help telling you that I am persuaded they are absolutely necessary, and I shall not be easy without them. Therefore, whether you value them or not, I desire you to consider what person you may think proper for me to send in search of the curiosities I have mentioned." "Sister," replied Prince Bahman, "nothing can concern you in which we have not an equal interest. It is enough that you desire these things to oblige us to take the same interest; but if you had not, we feel ourselves inclined of our own accord and for our own individual satisfaction. I am persuaded my brother is of the same opinion, and therefore we ought to undertake this conquest, for the importance and singularity of the undertaking deserve that name. I will take the charge upon myself; only tell me the place and the way to it, and I will defer my journey no longer than till to-morrow." "Brother," said Prince Perviz, "it is not proper that you, who are the head of our family, should be absent. I desire my sister should join with me to oblige you to abandon your design, and allow me to undertake it. I hope to acquit myself as well as you, and it will be a more regular proceeding." "I am persuaded of your goodwill, brother," replied Prince Bahman, "and that you would succeed as well as myself in this journey; but I have resolved and will undertake it. You shall stay at home with our sister, and I need not recommend her to you." The next morning Bahman mounted his horse, and Perviz and the princess embraced and wished him a good journey. But in the midst of their adieus, the princess recollected what she had not thought of before. "Brother," said she, "I had quite forgotten the accidents which attend travellers. Who knows whether I shall ever see you again? Alight, I beseech you, and give up this journey. I would rather be deprived of the sight and possession of the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water, than run the risk of never seeing you more." "Sister," replied Bahman, smiling at her sudden fears, "my resolution is fixed. The accidents you speak of befall only those who are unfortunate; but there are more who are not so. However, as
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Arabian Nights (1)
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"Poor soul!"
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Mrs. Jennings
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hurried out of the room.<|quote|>"Poor soul!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon
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she directly got up and hurried out of the room.<|quote|>"Poor soul!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how
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a good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.<|quote|>"Poor soul!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any
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by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings s endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.<|quote|>"Poor soul!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord
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were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings s endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.<|quote|>"Poor soul!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless you! they care no more about such things!" "The lady then Miss Grey I think you called her is very rich?" "Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart, stylish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won t come before it s wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don t signify talking;
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of the room, as if she supposed her young friend s affliction could be increased by noise. Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. Elinor even advised her against it. But "no, she would go down; she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less." Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could, while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it. When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings s well-meant but ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her. Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings s kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings s endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.<|quote|>"Poor soul!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless you! they care no more about such things!" "The lady then Miss Grey I think you called her is very rich?" "Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart, stylish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won t come before it s wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don t signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him. Why don t he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came round. But that won t do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age." "Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be amiable?" "I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could never agree." "And who are the Ellisons?" "Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for herself; and
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that!" Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless. CHAPTER XXX. Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a look of real concern. "How do you do my dear?" said she in a voice of great compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer. "How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing! she looks very bad. No wonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon a good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was." Well, "said I," all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out. "And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I have no notion of men s going on in this way; and if ever I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won t disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know, and that will amuse her." She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed her young friend s affliction could be increased by noise. Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. Elinor even advised her against it. But "no, she would go down; she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less." Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could, while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it. When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings s well-meant but ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her. Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings s kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings s endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.<|quote|>"Poor soul!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless you! they care no more about such things!" "The lady then Miss Grey I think you called her is very rich?" "Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart, stylish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won t come before it s wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don t signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him. Why don t he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came round. But that won t do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age." "Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be amiable?" "I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could never agree." "And who are the Ellisons?" "Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for herself; and a pretty choice she has made! What now," after pausing a moment "your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-by we shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at? She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for?" "Dear ma am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare say, will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her if I can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest." "Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came today finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have joked her about it for all my money. But then you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when they hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them tomorrow." "It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest allusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe." "Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word
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s kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings s endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.<|quote|>"Poor soul!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless you! they care no more about such things!" "The lady then Miss Grey I think you called her is very rich?" "Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart, stylish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won t come before it s wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don t signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him. Why don t he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came round. But that won t do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age." "Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be amiable?" "I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could never agree." "And who are the Ellisons?" "Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for herself; and a pretty choice she has made! What now," after pausing a moment "your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-by we shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at? She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for?" "Dear ma am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare say, will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her if I can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest." "Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging over her
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Sense And Sensibility
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"Girl number twenty,"
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Thomas Gradgrind
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were to be stormed away.<|quote|>"Girl number twenty,"</|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, squarely pointing
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the tender young imaginations that were to be stormed away.<|quote|>"Girl number twenty,"</|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, squarely pointing with his square forefinger, "I
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he seemed a kind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts, and prepared to blow them clean out of the regions of childhood at one discharge. He seemed a galvanizing apparatus, too, charged with a grim mechanical substitute for the tender young imaginations that were to be stormed away.<|quote|>"Girl number twenty,"</|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, squarely pointing with his square forefinger, "I don't know that girl. Who is that girl?" "Sissy Jupe, sir," explained number twenty, blushing, standing up, and curtseying. "Sissy is not a name," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Don't call yourself Sissy. Call yourself Cecilia." "It's father as calls me Sissy,
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the public in general. In such terms, no doubt, substituting the words "boys and girls," for "sir," Thomas Gradgrind now presented Thomas Gradgrind to the little pitchers before him, who were to be filled so full of facts. Indeed, as he eagerly sparkled at them from the cellarage before mentioned, he seemed a kind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts, and prepared to blow them clean out of the regions of childhood at one discharge. He seemed a galvanizing apparatus, too, charged with a grim mechanical substitute for the tender young imaginations that were to be stormed away.<|quote|>"Girl number twenty,"</|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, squarely pointing with his square forefinger, "I don't know that girl. Who is that girl?" "Sissy Jupe, sir," explained number twenty, blushing, standing up, and curtseying. "Sissy is not a name," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Don't call yourself Sissy. Call yourself Cecilia." "It's father as calls me Sissy, sir," returned the young girl in a trembling voice, and with another curtsey. "Then he has no business to do it," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Tell him he mustn't. Cecilia Jupe. Let me see. What is your father?" "He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please, sir." Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and
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rule and a pair of scales, and the multiplication table always in his pocket, sir, ready to weigh and measure any parcel of human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to. It is a mere question of figures, a case of simple arithmetic. You might hope to get some other nonsensical belief into the head of George Gradgrind, or Augustus Gradgrind, or John Gradgrind, or Joseph Gradgrind (all supposititious, non-existent persons), but into the head of Thomas Gradgrind no, sir! In such terms Mr. Gradgrind always mentally introduced himself, whether to his private circle of acquaintance, or to the public in general. In such terms, no doubt, substituting the words "boys and girls," for "sir," Thomas Gradgrind now presented Thomas Gradgrind to the little pitchers before him, who were to be filled so full of facts. Indeed, as he eagerly sparkled at them from the cellarage before mentioned, he seemed a kind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts, and prepared to blow them clean out of the regions of childhood at one discharge. He seemed a galvanizing apparatus, too, charged with a grim mechanical substitute for the tender young imaginations that were to be stormed away.<|quote|>"Girl number twenty,"</|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, squarely pointing with his square forefinger, "I don't know that girl. Who is that girl?" "Sissy Jupe, sir," explained number twenty, blushing, standing up, and curtseying. "Sissy is not a name," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Don't call yourself Sissy. Call yourself Cecilia." "It's father as calls me Sissy, sir," returned the young girl in a trembling voice, and with another curtsey. "Then he has no business to do it," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Tell him he mustn't. Cecilia Jupe. Let me see. What is your father?" "He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please, sir." Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved off the objectionable calling with his hand. "We don't want to know anything about that, here. You mustn't tell us about that, here. Your father breaks horses, don't he?" "If you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they do break horses in the ring, sir." "You mustn't tell us about the ring, here. Very well, then. Describe your father as a horsebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I dare say?" "Oh yes, sir." "Very well, then. He is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier, and horsebreaker. Give me your definition of a horse." (Sissy Jupe thrown into the
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the speaker's hair, which bristled on the skirts of his bald head, a plantation of firs to keep the wind from its shining surface, all covered with knobs, like the crust of a plum pie, as if the head had scarcely warehouse-room for the hard facts stored inside. The speaker's obstinate carriage, square coat, square legs, square shoulders, nay, his very neckcloth, trained to take him by the throat with an unaccommodating grasp, like a stubborn fact, as it was, all helped the emphasis. "In this life, we want nothing but Facts, sir; nothing but Facts!" The speaker, and the schoolmaster, and the third grown person present, all backed a little, and swept with their eyes the inclined plane of little vessels then and there arranged in order, ready to have imperial gallons of facts poured into them until they were full to the brim. CHAPTER II MURDERING THE INNOCENTS THOMAS GRADGRIND, sir. A man of realities. A man of facts and calculations. A man who proceeds upon the principle that two and two are four, and nothing over, and who is not to be talked into allowing for anything over. Thomas Gradgrind, sir peremptorily Thomas Thomas Gradgrind. With a rule and a pair of scales, and the multiplication table always in his pocket, sir, ready to weigh and measure any parcel of human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to. It is a mere question of figures, a case of simple arithmetic. You might hope to get some other nonsensical belief into the head of George Gradgrind, or Augustus Gradgrind, or John Gradgrind, or Joseph Gradgrind (all supposititious, non-existent persons), but into the head of Thomas Gradgrind no, sir! In such terms Mr. Gradgrind always mentally introduced himself, whether to his private circle of acquaintance, or to the public in general. In such terms, no doubt, substituting the words "boys and girls," for "sir," Thomas Gradgrind now presented Thomas Gradgrind to the little pitchers before him, who were to be filled so full of facts. Indeed, as he eagerly sparkled at them from the cellarage before mentioned, he seemed a kind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts, and prepared to blow them clean out of the regions of childhood at one discharge. He seemed a galvanizing apparatus, too, charged with a grim mechanical substitute for the tender young imaginations that were to be stormed away.<|quote|>"Girl number twenty,"</|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, squarely pointing with his square forefinger, "I don't know that girl. Who is that girl?" "Sissy Jupe, sir," explained number twenty, blushing, standing up, and curtseying. "Sissy is not a name," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Don't call yourself Sissy. Call yourself Cecilia." "It's father as calls me Sissy, sir," returned the young girl in a trembling voice, and with another curtsey. "Then he has no business to do it," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Tell him he mustn't. Cecilia Jupe. Let me see. What is your father?" "He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please, sir." Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved off the objectionable calling with his hand. "We don't want to know anything about that, here. You mustn't tell us about that, here. Your father breaks horses, don't he?" "If you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they do break horses in the ring, sir." "You mustn't tell us about the ring, here. Very well, then. Describe your father as a horsebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I dare say?" "Oh yes, sir." "Very well, then. He is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier, and horsebreaker. Give me your definition of a horse." (Sissy Jupe thrown into the greatest alarm by this demand.) "Girl number twenty unable to define a horse!" said Mr. Gradgrind, for the general behoof of all the little pitchers. "Girl number twenty possessed of no facts, in reference to one of the commonest of animals! Some boy's definition of a horse. Bitzer, yours." The square finger, moving here and there, lighted suddenly on Bitzer, perhaps because he chanced to sit in the same ray of sunlight which, darting in at one of the bare windows of the intensely white-washed room, irradiated Sissy. For, the boys and girls sat on the face of the inclined plane in two compact bodies, divided up the centre by a narrow interval; and Sissy, being at the corner of a row on the sunny side, came in for the beginning of a sunbeam, of which Bitzer, being at the corner of a row on the other side, a few rows in advance, caught the end. But, whereas the girl was so dark-eyed and dark-haired, that she seemed to receive a deeper and more lustrous colour from the sun, when it shone upon her, the boy was so light-eyed and light-haired that the self-same rays appeared to draw out of
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Title: Hard Times Author: Charles Dickens BOOK THE FIRST _SOWING_ CHAPTER I THE ONE THING NEEDFUL "NOW, what I want is, Facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and root out everything else. You can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts: nothing else will ever be of any service to them. This is the principle on which I bring up my own children, and this is the principle on which I bring up these children. Stick to Facts, sir!" The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous vault of a school-room, and the speaker's square forefinger emphasized his observations by underscoring every sentence with a line on the schoolmaster's sleeve. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's square wall of a forehead, which had his eyebrows for its base, while his eyes found commodious cellarage in two dark caves, overshadowed by the wall. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's mouth, which was wide, thin, and hard set. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's voice, which was inflexible, dry, and dictatorial. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's hair, which bristled on the skirts of his bald head, a plantation of firs to keep the wind from its shining surface, all covered with knobs, like the crust of a plum pie, as if the head had scarcely warehouse-room for the hard facts stored inside. The speaker's obstinate carriage, square coat, square legs, square shoulders, nay, his very neckcloth, trained to take him by the throat with an unaccommodating grasp, like a stubborn fact, as it was, all helped the emphasis. "In this life, we want nothing but Facts, sir; nothing but Facts!" The speaker, and the schoolmaster, and the third grown person present, all backed a little, and swept with their eyes the inclined plane of little vessels then and there arranged in order, ready to have imperial gallons of facts poured into them until they were full to the brim. CHAPTER II MURDERING THE INNOCENTS THOMAS GRADGRIND, sir. A man of realities. A man of facts and calculations. A man who proceeds upon the principle that two and two are four, and nothing over, and who is not to be talked into allowing for anything over. Thomas Gradgrind, sir peremptorily Thomas Thomas Gradgrind. With a rule and a pair of scales, and the multiplication table always in his pocket, sir, ready to weigh and measure any parcel of human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to. It is a mere question of figures, a case of simple arithmetic. You might hope to get some other nonsensical belief into the head of George Gradgrind, or Augustus Gradgrind, or John Gradgrind, or Joseph Gradgrind (all supposititious, non-existent persons), but into the head of Thomas Gradgrind no, sir! In such terms Mr. Gradgrind always mentally introduced himself, whether to his private circle of acquaintance, or to the public in general. In such terms, no doubt, substituting the words "boys and girls," for "sir," Thomas Gradgrind now presented Thomas Gradgrind to the little pitchers before him, who were to be filled so full of facts. Indeed, as he eagerly sparkled at them from the cellarage before mentioned, he seemed a kind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts, and prepared to blow them clean out of the regions of childhood at one discharge. He seemed a galvanizing apparatus, too, charged with a grim mechanical substitute for the tender young imaginations that were to be stormed away.<|quote|>"Girl number twenty,"</|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, squarely pointing with his square forefinger, "I don't know that girl. Who is that girl?" "Sissy Jupe, sir," explained number twenty, blushing, standing up, and curtseying. "Sissy is not a name," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Don't call yourself Sissy. Call yourself Cecilia." "It's father as calls me Sissy, sir," returned the young girl in a trembling voice, and with another curtsey. "Then he has no business to do it," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Tell him he mustn't. Cecilia Jupe. Let me see. What is your father?" "He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please, sir." Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved off the objectionable calling with his hand. "We don't want to know anything about that, here. You mustn't tell us about that, here. Your father breaks horses, don't he?" "If you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they do break horses in the ring, sir." "You mustn't tell us about the ring, here. Very well, then. Describe your father as a horsebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I dare say?" "Oh yes, sir." "Very well, then. He is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier, and horsebreaker. Give me your definition of a horse." (Sissy Jupe thrown into the greatest alarm by this demand.) "Girl number twenty unable to define a horse!" said Mr. Gradgrind, for the general behoof of all the little pitchers. "Girl number twenty possessed of no facts, in reference to one of the commonest of animals! Some boy's definition of a horse. Bitzer, yours." The square finger, moving here and there, lighted suddenly on Bitzer, perhaps because he chanced to sit in the same ray of sunlight which, darting in at one of the bare windows of the intensely white-washed room, irradiated Sissy. For, the boys and girls sat on the face of the inclined plane in two compact bodies, divided up the centre by a narrow interval; and Sissy, being at the corner of a row on the sunny side, came in for the beginning of a sunbeam, of which Bitzer, being at the corner of a row on the other side, a few rows in advance, caught the end. But, whereas the girl was so dark-eyed and dark-haired, that she seemed to receive a deeper and more lustrous colour from the sun, when it shone upon her, the boy was so light-eyed and light-haired that the self-same rays appeared to draw out of him what little colour he ever possessed. His cold eyes would hardly have been eyes, but for the short ends of lashes which, by bringing them into immediate contrast with something paler than themselves, expressed their form. His short-cropped hair might have been a mere continuation of the sandy freckles on his forehead and face. His skin was so unwholesomely deficient in the natural tinge, that he looked as though, if he were cut, he would bleed white. "Bitzer," said Thomas Gradgrind. "Your definition of a horse." "Quadruped. Graminivorous. Forty teeth, namely twenty-four grinders, four eye-teeth, and twelve incisive. Sheds coat in the spring; in marshy countries, sheds hoofs, too. Hoofs hard, but requiring to be shod with iron. Age known by marks in mouth." Thus (and much more) Bitzer. "Now girl number twenty," said Mr. Gradgrind. "You know what a horse is." She curtseyed again, and would have blushed deeper, if she could have blushed deeper than she had blushed all this time. Bitzer, after rapidly blinking at Thomas Gradgrind with both eyes at once, and so catching the light upon his quivering ends of lashes that they looked like the antenn of busy insects, put his knuckles to his freckled forehead, and sat down again. The third gentleman now stepped forth. A mighty man at cutting and drying, he was; a government officer; in his way (and in most other people's too), a professed pugilist; always in training, always with a system to force down the general throat like a bolus, always to be heard of at the bar of his little Public-office, ready to fight all England. To continue in fistic phraseology, he had a genius for coming up to the scratch, wherever and whatever it was, and proving himself an ugly customer. He would go in and damage any subject whatever with his right, follow up with his left, stop, exchange, counter, bore his opponent (he always fought All England) to the ropes, and fall upon him neatly. He was certain to knock the wind out of common sense, and render that unlucky adversary deaf to the call of time. And he had it in charge from high authority to bring about the great public-office Millennium, when Commissioners should reign upon earth. "Very well," said this gentleman, briskly smiling, and folding his arms. "That's a horse. Now, let me ask you girls and boys, Would you
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CHAPTER II MURDERING THE INNOCENTS THOMAS GRADGRIND, sir. A man of realities. A man of facts and calculations. A man who proceeds upon the principle that two and two are four, and nothing over, and who is not to be talked into allowing for anything over. Thomas Gradgrind, sir peremptorily Thomas Thomas Gradgrind. With a rule and a pair of scales, and the multiplication table always in his pocket, sir, ready to weigh and measure any parcel of human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to. It is a mere question of figures, a case of simple arithmetic. You might hope to get some other nonsensical belief into the head of George Gradgrind, or Augustus Gradgrind, or John Gradgrind, or Joseph Gradgrind (all supposititious, non-existent persons), but into the head of Thomas Gradgrind no, sir! In such terms Mr. Gradgrind always mentally introduced himself, whether to his private circle of acquaintance, or to the public in general. In such terms, no doubt, substituting the words "boys and girls," for "sir," Thomas Gradgrind now presented Thomas Gradgrind to the little pitchers before him, who were to be filled so full of facts. Indeed, as he eagerly sparkled at them from the cellarage before mentioned, he seemed a kind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts, and prepared to blow them clean out of the regions of childhood at one discharge. He seemed a galvanizing apparatus, too, charged with a grim mechanical substitute for the tender young imaginations that were to be stormed away.<|quote|>"Girl number twenty,"</|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, squarely pointing with his square forefinger, "I don't know that girl. Who is that girl?" "Sissy Jupe, sir," explained number twenty, blushing, standing up, and curtseying. "Sissy is not a name," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Don't call yourself Sissy. Call yourself Cecilia." "It's father as calls me Sissy, sir," returned the young girl in a trembling voice, and with another curtsey. "Then he has no business to do it," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Tell him he mustn't. Cecilia Jupe. Let me see. What is your father?" "He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please, sir." Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved off the objectionable calling with his hand. "We don't want to know anything about that, here. You mustn't tell us about that, here. Your father breaks horses, don't he?" "If you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they do break horses in the ring, sir." "You mustn't tell us about the ring, here. Very well, then. Describe your father as a horsebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I dare say?" "Oh yes, sir." "Very well, then. He is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier, and horsebreaker. Give me your definition of a horse." (Sissy Jupe thrown into the greatest alarm by this demand.) "Girl number twenty unable to define a horse!" said Mr. Gradgrind, for the general behoof of all the little pitchers. "Girl number twenty possessed of no facts, in reference to one of the commonest of animals! Some boy's definition of a horse. Bitzer, yours." The square finger, moving here and there, lighted suddenly on Bitzer, perhaps because he chanced to sit in the same ray of sunlight which, darting in at one of the bare windows of the intensely white-washed room, irradiated Sissy. For, the boys and girls sat on the face of the inclined plane in two compact bodies, divided up the centre by a narrow interval; and Sissy, being at the corner of a row on the sunny side, came in for the beginning of a sunbeam, of which Bitzer, being at the corner of a row on the other side, a few rows in advance, caught the end. But, whereas the girl was so dark-eyed and dark-haired, that she seemed to receive a deeper and more lustrous colour from the sun, when it shone upon her, the boy was so light-eyed and light-haired that the self-same rays appeared to draw out of him what little colour he ever possessed. His cold eyes would hardly have been eyes, but for the short ends of lashes which, by bringing them into immediate contrast with something paler than themselves, expressed their form. His short-cropped hair might have been a mere continuation of the sandy freckles on his forehead and face. His skin was so unwholesomely deficient in the natural tinge, that he looked as though, if he were cut, he would bleed white. "Bitzer," said Thomas Gradgrind. "Your definition of a horse." "Quadruped. Graminivorous. Forty teeth, namely twenty-four grinders, four eye-teeth, and twelve incisive. Sheds coat in the spring; in marshy countries, sheds hoofs, too. Hoofs hard, but requiring to be shod with iron. Age known by marks in mouth." Thus (and much more) Bitzer. "Now
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Hard Times
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"I didn t think of it,"
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Margaret
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facts were enough for him.<|quote|>"I didn t think of it,"</|quote|>she pursued. "No; when you
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and even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him.<|quote|>"I didn t think of it,"</|quote|>she pursued. "No; when you spoke to me in the
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Tell me." But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for his mental states became obscure as soon as he had passed through them. He misliked the very word "interesting," connoting it with wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him.<|quote|>"I didn t think of it,"</|quote|>she pursued. "No; when you spoke to me in the drawing-room, that was practically the first. It was all so different from what it s supposed to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is--how shall I put it?--a full-blown affair, a kind of bouquet; it loses its
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your sister were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!" "I little thought then, certainly. Did you?" "I don t know about that; I shouldn t like to say." "Why, was it earlier?" she cried. "Did you think of me this way earlier! How extraordinarily interesting, Henry! Tell me." But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for his mental states became obscure as soon as he had passed through them. He misliked the very word "interesting," connoting it with wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him.<|quote|>"I didn t think of it,"</|quote|>she pursued. "No; when you spoke to me in the drawing-room, that was practically the first. It was all so different from what it s supposed to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is--how shall I put it?--a full-blown affair, a kind of bouquet; it loses its literal meaning. But in life a proposal really is a proposal--" "By the way--" "--a suggestion, a seed," she concluded; and the thought flew away into darkness. "I was thinking, if you didn t mind, that we ought to spend this evening in a business talk; there will be so
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she wouldn t care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. For a time they talked about the ring; then she said: "Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It can t be ten days ago." "Yes," he said, laughing. "And you and your sister were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!" "I little thought then, certainly. Did you?" "I don t know about that; I shouldn t like to say." "Why, was it earlier?" she cried. "Did you think of me this way earlier! How extraordinarily interesting, Henry! Tell me." But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for his mental states became obscure as soon as he had passed through them. He misliked the very word "interesting," connoting it with wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him.<|quote|>"I didn t think of it,"</|quote|>she pursued. "No; when you spoke to me in the drawing-room, that was practically the first. It was all so different from what it s supposed to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is--how shall I put it?--a full-blown affair, a kind of bouquet; it loses its literal meaning. But in life a proposal really is a proposal--" "By the way--" "--a suggestion, a seed," she concluded; and the thought flew away into darkness. "I was thinking, if you didn t mind, that we ought to spend this evening in a business talk; there will be so much to settle." "I think so too. Tell me, in the first place, how did you get on with Tibby?" "With your brother?" "Yes, during cigarettes." "Oh, very well." "I am so glad," she answered, a little surprised. "What did you talk about? Me, presumably." "About Greece too." "Greece was a very good card, Henry. Tibby s only a boy still, and one has to pick and choose subjects a little. Well done." "I was telling him I have shares in a currant-farm near Calamata." "What a delightful thing to have shares in! Can t we go there for our
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Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half-guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back, and, if all has gone well, Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony. Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation rather than reveal a new one. In this spirit she promised to marry him. He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring. They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal hotel; he was one of those men who know the principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn t care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. For a time they talked about the ring; then she said: "Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It can t be ten days ago." "Yes," he said, laughing. "And you and your sister were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!" "I little thought then, certainly. Did you?" "I don t know about that; I shouldn t like to say." "Why, was it earlier?" she cried. "Did you think of me this way earlier! How extraordinarily interesting, Henry! Tell me." But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for his mental states became obscure as soon as he had passed through them. He misliked the very word "interesting," connoting it with wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him.<|quote|>"I didn t think of it,"</|quote|>she pursued. "No; when you spoke to me in the drawing-room, that was practically the first. It was all so different from what it s supposed to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is--how shall I put it?--a full-blown affair, a kind of bouquet; it loses its literal meaning. But in life a proposal really is a proposal--" "By the way--" "--a suggestion, a seed," she concluded; and the thought flew away into darkness. "I was thinking, if you didn t mind, that we ought to spend this evening in a business talk; there will be so much to settle." "I think so too. Tell me, in the first place, how did you get on with Tibby?" "With your brother?" "Yes, during cigarettes." "Oh, very well." "I am so glad," she answered, a little surprised. "What did you talk about? Me, presumably." "About Greece too." "Greece was a very good card, Henry. Tibby s only a boy still, and one has to pick and choose subjects a little. Well done." "I was telling him I have shares in a currant-farm near Calamata." "What a delightful thing to have shares in! Can t we go there for our honeymoon?" "What to do?" "To eat the currants. And isn t there marvellous scenery?" "Moderately, but it s not the kind of place one could possibly go to with a lady." "Why not?" "No hotels." "Some ladies do without hotels. Are you aware that Helen and I have walked alone over the Apennines, with our luggage on our backs?" "I wasn t aware, and, if I can manage it, you will never do such a thing again." She said more gravely: "You haven t found time for a talk with Helen yet, I suppose?" "No." "Do, before you go. I am so anxious you two should be friends." "Your sister and I have always hit it off," he said negligently. "But we re drifting away from our business. Let me begin at the beginning. You know that Evie is going to marry Percy Cahill." "Dolly s uncle." "Exactly. The girl s madly in love with him. A very good sort of fellow, but he demands--and rightly--a suitable provision with her. And in the second place you will naturally understand, there is Charles. Before leaving town, I wrote Charles a very careful letter. You see, he has an increasing family and
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which the tide returned into Poole Harbour. "One would lose something," murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its immense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world s fleet accompanying her towards eternity? CHAPTER XX Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the world s waters, when Love, who seems so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new generation, and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But Love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another s infinity; he is conscious only of his own--flying sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time. He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with admiration round the assembly of the gods. "Men did produce this" they will say, and, saying, they will give men immortality. But meanwhile--what agitations meanwhile! The foundations of Property and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing and refusing to be comforted; Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers are aroused--cold brood--and creep out of their holes. They do what they can; they tidy up Property and Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half-guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back, and, if all has gone well, Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony. Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation rather than reveal a new one. In this spirit she promised to marry him. He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring. They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal hotel; he was one of those men who know the principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn t care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. For a time they talked about the ring; then she said: "Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It can t be ten days ago." "Yes," he said, laughing. "And you and your sister were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!" "I little thought then, certainly. Did you?" "I don t know about that; I shouldn t like to say." "Why, was it earlier?" she cried. "Did you think of me this way earlier! How extraordinarily interesting, Henry! Tell me." But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for his mental states became obscure as soon as he had passed through them. He misliked the very word "interesting," connoting it with wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him.<|quote|>"I didn t think of it,"</|quote|>she pursued. "No; when you spoke to me in the drawing-room, that was practically the first. It was all so different from what it s supposed to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is--how shall I put it?--a full-blown affair, a kind of bouquet; it loses its literal meaning. But in life a proposal really is a proposal--" "By the way--" "--a suggestion, a seed," she concluded; and the thought flew away into darkness. "I was thinking, if you didn t mind, that we ought to spend this evening in a business talk; there will be so much to settle." "I think so too. Tell me, in the first place, how did you get on with Tibby?" "With your brother?" "Yes, during cigarettes." "Oh, very well." "I am so glad," she answered, a little surprised. "What did you talk about? Me, presumably." "About Greece too." "Greece was a very good card, Henry. Tibby s only a boy still, and one has to pick and choose subjects a little. Well done." "I was telling him I have shares in a currant-farm near Calamata." "What a delightful thing to have shares in! Can t we go there for our honeymoon?" "What to do?" "To eat the currants. And isn t there marvellous scenery?" "Moderately, but it s not the kind of place one could possibly go to with a lady." "Why not?" "No hotels." "Some ladies do without hotels. Are you aware that Helen and I have walked alone over the Apennines, with our luggage on our backs?" "I wasn t aware, and, if I can manage it, you will never do such a thing again." She said more gravely: "You haven t found time for a talk with Helen yet, I suppose?" "No." "Do, before you go. I am so anxious you two should be friends." "Your sister and I have always hit it off," he said negligently. "But we re drifting away from our business. Let me begin at the beginning. You know that Evie is going to marry Percy Cahill." "Dolly s uncle." "Exactly. The girl s madly in love with him. A very good sort of fellow, but he demands--and rightly--a suitable provision with her. And in the second place you will naturally understand, there is Charles. Before leaving town, I wrote Charles a very careful letter. You see, he has an increasing family and increasing expenses, and the I. and W. A. is nothing particular just now, though capable of development." "Poor fellow!" murmured Margaret, looking out to sea, and not understanding. "Charles being the elder son, some day Charles will have Howards End; but I am anxious, in my own happiness, not to be unjust to others." "Of course not," she began, and then gave a little cry. "you mean money. How stupid I am! Of course not!" Oddly enough, he winced a little at the word. "Yes, Money, since you put it so frankly. I am determined to be just to all--just to you, just to them. I am determined that my children shall have me." "Be generous to them," she said sharply. "Bother justice!" "I am determined--and have already written to Charles to that effect--" "But how much have you got?" "What?" "How much have you a year? I ve six hundred." "My income?" "Yes. We must begin with how much you have, before we can settle how much you can give Charles. Justice, and even generosity, depend on that." "I must say you re a downright young woman," he observed, patting her arm and laughing a little. "What a question to spring on a fellow!" "Don t you know your income? Or don t you want to tell it me?" "I--" "That s all right" "--now she patted him--" "don t tell me. I don t want to know. I can do the sum just as well by proportion. Divide your income into ten parts. How many parts would you give to Evie, how many to Charles, how many to Paul?" "The fact is, my dear, I hadn t any intention of bothering you with details. I only wanted to let you know that--well, that something must be done for the others, and you ve understood me perfectly, so let s pass on to the next point." "Yes, we ve settled that," said Margaret, undisturbed by his strategic blunderings. "Go ahead; give away all you can, bearing in mind that I ve a clear six hundred. What a mercy it is to have all this money about one." "We ve none too much, I assure you; you re marrying a poor man." "Helen wouldn t agree with me here," she continued. "Helen daren t slang the rich, being rich herself, but she would like to. There s an odd notion,
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space and time. He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with admiration round the assembly of the gods. "Men did produce this" they will say, and, saying, they will give men immortality. But meanwhile--what agitations meanwhile! The foundations of Property and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing and refusing to be comforted; Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers are aroused--cold brood--and creep out of their holes. They do what they can; they tidy up Property and Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half-guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back, and, if all has gone well, Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony. Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation rather than reveal a new one. In this spirit she promised to marry him. He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring. They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal hotel; he was one of those men who know the principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn t care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. For a time they talked about the ring; then she said: "Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It can t be ten days ago." "Yes," he said, laughing. "And you and your sister were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!" "I little thought then, certainly. Did you?" "I don t know about that; I shouldn t like to say." "Why, was it earlier?" she cried. "Did you think of me this way earlier! How extraordinarily interesting, Henry! Tell me." But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for his mental states became obscure as soon as he had passed through them. He misliked the very word "interesting," connoting it with wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him.<|quote|>"I didn t think of it,"</|quote|>she pursued. "No; when you spoke to me in the drawing-room, that was practically the first. It was all so different from what it s supposed to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is--how shall I put it?--a full-blown affair, a kind of bouquet; it loses its literal meaning. But in life a proposal really is a proposal--" "By the way--" "--a suggestion, a seed," she concluded; and the thought flew away into darkness. "I was thinking, if you didn t mind, that we ought to spend this evening in a business talk; there will be so much to settle." "I think so too. Tell me, in the first place, how did you get on with Tibby?" "With your brother?" "Yes, during cigarettes." "Oh, very well." "I am so glad," she answered, a little surprised. "What did you talk about? Me, presumably." "About Greece too." "Greece was a very good card, Henry. Tibby s only a boy still, and one has to pick and choose subjects a little. Well done." "I was telling him I have shares in a currant-farm near Calamata." "What a delightful thing to have shares in! Can t we go there for our honeymoon?" "What to do?" "To eat the currants. And isn t there marvellous scenery?" "Moderately, but it s not the kind of place one could possibly go to with a lady." "Why not?" "No hotels." "Some ladies do without hotels. Are you aware that Helen and I have walked alone over the Apennines, with our luggage on our backs?" "I wasn t aware, and, if I can manage it, you
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Howards End
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said Pooh. And then seeing that Owl expected him to say something else, he said
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No speaker
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is giving a party." "Oh!"<|quote|>said Pooh. And then seeing that Owl expected him to say something else, he said</|quote|>"Will there be those little
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"Pooh," he said, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Oh!"<|quote|>said Pooh. And then seeing that Owl expected him to say something else, he said</|quote|>"Will there be those little cake things with pink sugar
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as helpful as possible. "So will you go and tell them, Owl?" Owl tried to think of something very wise to say, but couldn't, so he flew off to tell the others. And the first person he told was Pooh. "Pooh," he said, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Oh!"<|quote|>said Pooh. And then seeing that Owl expected him to say something else, he said</|quote|>"Will there be those little cake things with pink sugar icing?" Owl felt that it was rather beneath him to talk about little cake things with pink sugar icing, so he told Pooh exactly what Christopher Robin had said, and flew off to Eeyore. "A party for Me?" thought Pooh
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when he did what he did to save Piglet from the flood." "Oh, that's what it's for, is it?" said Owl. "Yes, so will you tell Pooh as quickly as you can, and all the others, because it will be to-morrow." "Oh, it will, will it?" said Owl, still being as helpful as possible. "So will you go and tell them, Owl?" Owl tried to think of something very wise to say, but couldn't, so he flew off to tell the others. And the first person he told was Pooh. "Pooh," he said, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Oh!"<|quote|>said Pooh. And then seeing that Owl expected him to say something else, he said</|quote|>"Will there be those little cake things with pink sugar icing?" Owl felt that it was rather beneath him to talk about little cake things with pink sugar icing, so he told Pooh exactly what Christopher Robin had said, and flew off to Eeyore. "A party for Me?" thought Pooh to himself. "How grand!" And he began to wonder if all the other animals would know that it was a special Pooh Party, and if Christopher Robin had told them about _The Floating Bear_ and the _Brain of Pooh_ and all the wonderful ships he had invented and sailed on,
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over his voice carefully and listening to see if he liked it, and wood-pigeons were complaining gently to themselves in their lazy comfortable way that it was the other fellow's fault, but it didn't matter very much; on such a day as this Christopher Robin whistled in a special way he had, and Owl came flying out of the Hundred Acre Wood to see what was wanted. "Owl," said Christopher Robin, "I am going to give a party." "You are, are you?" said Owl. "And it's to be a special sort of party, because it's because of what Pooh did when he did what he did to save Piglet from the flood." "Oh, that's what it's for, is it?" said Owl. "Yes, so will you tell Pooh as quickly as you can, and all the others, because it will be to-morrow." "Oh, it will, will it?" said Owl, still being as helpful as possible. "So will you go and tell them, Owl?" Owl tried to think of something very wise to say, but couldn't, so he flew off to tell the others. And the first person he told was Pooh. "Pooh," he said, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Oh!"<|quote|>said Pooh. And then seeing that Owl expected him to say something else, he said</|quote|>"Will there be those little cake things with pink sugar icing?" Owl felt that it was rather beneath him to talk about little cake things with pink sugar icing, so he told Pooh exactly what Christopher Robin had said, and flew off to Eeyore. "A party for Me?" thought Pooh to himself. "How grand!" And he began to wonder if all the other animals would know that it was a special Pooh Party, and if Christopher Robin had told them about _The Floating Bear_ and the _Brain of Pooh_ and all the wonderful ships he had invented and sailed on, and he began to think how awful it would be if everybody had forgotten about it, and nobody quite knew what the party was for; and the more he thought like this, the more the party got muddled in his mind, like a dream when nothing goes right. And the dream began to sing itself over in his head until it became a sort of song. It was an ANXIOUS POOH SONG. 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For Who?_) For Pooh-- (_Why what did he do?_) I thought you knew; He saved his friend from a wetting! 3 Cheers for Bear!
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the window towards the water until he was only hanging on by his toes, at which moment luckily, a sudden loud squawk from Owl, which was really part of the story, being what his aunt said, woke the Piglet up and just gave him time to jerk himself back into safety and say, "How interesting, and did she?" when--well, you can imagine his joy when at last he saw the good ship, _Brain of Pooh_ (_Captain_, C. Robin; _1st Mate_, P. Bear) coming over the sea to rescue him. Christopher Robin and Pooh again.... And that is really the end of the story, and I am very tired after that last sentence, I think I shall stop there. CHAPTER X IN WHICH CHRISTOPHER ROBIN GIVES POOH A PARTY, AND WE SAY GOOD-BYE One day when the sun had come back over the Forest, bringing with it the scent of may, and all the streams of the Forest were tinkling happily to find themselves their own pretty shape again, and the little pools lay dreaming of the life they had seen and the big things they had done, and in the warmth and quiet of the Forest the cuckoo was trying over his voice carefully and listening to see if he liked it, and wood-pigeons were complaining gently to themselves in their lazy comfortable way that it was the other fellow's fault, but it didn't matter very much; on such a day as this Christopher Robin whistled in a special way he had, and Owl came flying out of the Hundred Acre Wood to see what was wanted. "Owl," said Christopher Robin, "I am going to give a party." "You are, are you?" said Owl. "And it's to be a special sort of party, because it's because of what Pooh did when he did what he did to save Piglet from the flood." "Oh, that's what it's for, is it?" said Owl. "Yes, so will you tell Pooh as quickly as you can, and all the others, because it will be to-morrow." "Oh, it will, will it?" said Owl, still being as helpful as possible. "So will you go and tell them, Owl?" Owl tried to think of something very wise to say, but couldn't, so he flew off to tell the others. And the first person he told was Pooh. "Pooh," he said, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Oh!"<|quote|>said Pooh. And then seeing that Owl expected him to say something else, he said</|quote|>"Will there be those little cake things with pink sugar icing?" Owl felt that it was rather beneath him to talk about little cake things with pink sugar icing, so he told Pooh exactly what Christopher Robin had said, and flew off to Eeyore. "A party for Me?" thought Pooh to himself. "How grand!" And he began to wonder if all the other animals would know that it was a special Pooh Party, and if Christopher Robin had told them about _The Floating Bear_ and the _Brain of Pooh_ and all the wonderful ships he had invented and sailed on, and he began to think how awful it would be if everybody had forgotten about it, and nobody quite knew what the party was for; and the more he thought like this, the more the party got muddled in his mind, like a dream when nothing goes right. And the dream began to sing itself over in his head until it became a sort of song. It was an ANXIOUS POOH SONG. 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For Who?_) For Pooh-- (_Why what did he do?_) I thought you knew; He saved his friend from a wetting! 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- He couldn't swim, But he rescued him! (_He rescued who?_) Oh, listen, do! I am talking of Pooh-- (_Of who?_) Of Pooh! (_I'm sorry I keep forgetting_). Well, Pooh was a Bear of Enormous Brain (_Just say it again!_) Of enormous brain-- (_Of enormous what?_) Well, he ate a lot, And I don't know if he could swim or not, But he managed to float On a sort of boat (_On a sort of what?_) Well, a sort of pot-- So now let's give him three hearty cheers (_So now let's give him three hearty whiches?_) And hope he'll be with us for years and years, And grow in health and wisdom and riches! 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For who?_) For Pooh-- 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- 3 Cheers for the wonderful Winnie-the-Pooh! (_Just tell me, somebody_--WHAT DID HE DO?) While this was going on inside him, Owl was talking to Eeyore. "Eeyore," said Owl, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Very interesting," said Eeyore. "I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it." "There is an Invitation
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or underneath it." "Oh! Well, where is it?" "There!" said Pooh, pointing proudly to _The Floating Bear_. It wasn't what Christopher Robin expected, and the more he looked at it, the more he thought what a Brave and Clever Bear Pooh was, and the more Christopher Robin thought this, the more Pooh looked modestly down his nose and tried to pretend he wasn't. "But it's too small for two of us," said Christopher Robin sadly. "Three of us with Piglet." "That makes it smaller still. Oh, Pooh Bear, what shall we do?" And then this Bear, Pooh Bear, Winnie-the-Pooh, F.O.P. (Friend of Piglet's), R.C. (Rabbit's Companion), P.D. (Pole Discoverer), E.C. and T.F. (Eeyore's Comforter and Tail-finder)--in fact, Pooh himself--said something so clever that Christopher Robin could only look at him with mouth open and eyes staring, wondering if this was really the Bear of Very Little Brain whom he had known and loved so long. "We might go in your umbrella," said Pooh. "?" "We might go in your umbrella," said Pooh. "? ?" "We might go in your umbrella," said Pooh. "!!!!!!" For suddenly Christopher Robin saw that they might. He opened his umbrella and put it point downwards in the water. It floated but wobbled. Pooh got in. He was just beginning to say that it was all right now, when he found that it wasn't, so after a short drink which he didn't really want he waded back to Christopher Robin. Then they both got in together, and it wobbled no longer. "I shall call this boat _The Brain of Pooh_," said Christopher Robin, and _The Brain of Pooh_ set sail forthwith in a south-westerly direction, revolving gracefully. You can imagine Piglet's joy when at last the ship came in sight of him. In after-years he liked to think that he had been in Very Great Danger during the Terrible Flood, but the only danger he had really been in was in the last half-hour of his imprisonment, when Owl, who had just flown up, sat on a branch of his tree to comfort him, and told him a very long story about an aunt who had once laid a seagull's egg by mistake, and the story went on and on, rather like this sentence, until Piglet who was listening out of his window without much hope, went to sleep quietly and naturally, slipping slowly out of the window towards the water until he was only hanging on by his toes, at which moment luckily, a sudden loud squawk from Owl, which was really part of the story, being what his aunt said, woke the Piglet up and just gave him time to jerk himself back into safety and say, "How interesting, and did she?" when--well, you can imagine his joy when at last he saw the good ship, _Brain of Pooh_ (_Captain_, C. Robin; _1st Mate_, P. Bear) coming over the sea to rescue him. Christopher Robin and Pooh again.... And that is really the end of the story, and I am very tired after that last sentence, I think I shall stop there. CHAPTER X IN WHICH CHRISTOPHER ROBIN GIVES POOH A PARTY, AND WE SAY GOOD-BYE One day when the sun had come back over the Forest, bringing with it the scent of may, and all the streams of the Forest were tinkling happily to find themselves their own pretty shape again, and the little pools lay dreaming of the life they had seen and the big things they had done, and in the warmth and quiet of the Forest the cuckoo was trying over his voice carefully and listening to see if he liked it, and wood-pigeons were complaining gently to themselves in their lazy comfortable way that it was the other fellow's fault, but it didn't matter very much; on such a day as this Christopher Robin whistled in a special way he had, and Owl came flying out of the Hundred Acre Wood to see what was wanted. "Owl," said Christopher Robin, "I am going to give a party." "You are, are you?" said Owl. "And it's to be a special sort of party, because it's because of what Pooh did when he did what he did to save Piglet from the flood." "Oh, that's what it's for, is it?" said Owl. "Yes, so will you tell Pooh as quickly as you can, and all the others, because it will be to-morrow." "Oh, it will, will it?" said Owl, still being as helpful as possible. "So will you go and tell them, Owl?" Owl tried to think of something very wise to say, but couldn't, so he flew off to tell the others. And the first person he told was Pooh. "Pooh," he said, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Oh!"<|quote|>said Pooh. And then seeing that Owl expected him to say something else, he said</|quote|>"Will there be those little cake things with pink sugar icing?" Owl felt that it was rather beneath him to talk about little cake things with pink sugar icing, so he told Pooh exactly what Christopher Robin had said, and flew off to Eeyore. "A party for Me?" thought Pooh to himself. "How grand!" And he began to wonder if all the other animals would know that it was a special Pooh Party, and if Christopher Robin had told them about _The Floating Bear_ and the _Brain of Pooh_ and all the wonderful ships he had invented and sailed on, and he began to think how awful it would be if everybody had forgotten about it, and nobody quite knew what the party was for; and the more he thought like this, the more the party got muddled in his mind, like a dream when nothing goes right. And the dream began to sing itself over in his head until it became a sort of song. It was an ANXIOUS POOH SONG. 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For Who?_) For Pooh-- (_Why what did he do?_) I thought you knew; He saved his friend from a wetting! 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- He couldn't swim, But he rescued him! (_He rescued who?_) Oh, listen, do! I am talking of Pooh-- (_Of who?_) Of Pooh! (_I'm sorry I keep forgetting_). Well, Pooh was a Bear of Enormous Brain (_Just say it again!_) Of enormous brain-- (_Of enormous what?_) Well, he ate a lot, And I don't know if he could swim or not, But he managed to float On a sort of boat (_On a sort of what?_) Well, a sort of pot-- So now let's give him three hearty cheers (_So now let's give him three hearty whiches?_) And hope he'll be with us for years and years, And grow in health and wisdom and riches! 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For who?_) For Pooh-- 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- 3 Cheers for the wonderful Winnie-the-Pooh! (_Just tell me, somebody_--WHAT DID HE DO?) While this was going on inside him, Owl was talking to Eeyore. "Eeyore," said Owl, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Very interesting," said Eeyore. "I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it." "There is an Invitation for you." "What's that like?" "An Invitation!" "Yes, I heard you. Who dropped it?" "This isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow." Eeyore shook his head slowly. "You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!" said Eeyore. "A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains." But it didn't rain. Christopher Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Christopher Robin sat at one end, and Pooh sat at the other, and between them on one side were Owl and Eeyore and Piglet, and between them on the other side were Rabbit, and Roo and Kanga. And all Rabbit's friends and relations spread themselves about on the grass, and waited hopefully in case anybody spoke to them, or dropped anything, or asked them the time. It was the first party to which Roo had ever been, and he was very excited. As soon as ever they had sat down he began to talk. "Hallo, Pooh!" he squeaked. "Hallo, Roo!" said Pooh. Roo jumped up and down in his seat for a little while and then began again. "Hallo, Piglet!" he squeaked. Piglet waved a paw at him, being too busy to say anything. "Hallo, Eeyore!" said Roo. Eeyore nodded gloomily at him. "It will rain soon, you see if it doesn't," he said. Roo looked to see if it didn't, and it didn't, so he said "Hallo, Owl!" "--and Owl said "Hallo, my little fellow," in a kindly way, and went on telling Christopher Robin about an accident which had nearly happened to a friend of his whom Christopher Robin didn't know, and Kanga said to Roo, "Drink up your milk first, dear, and talk afterwards." So Roo, who was drinking his milk, tried to say that he could do both at once ... and had to be patted on the back and dried for quite a long time afterwards. When they had all nearly eaten enough, Christopher Robin banged on the table with his spoon, and everybody stopped talking and was very
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and told him a very long story about an aunt who had once laid a seagull's egg by mistake, and the story went on and on, rather like this sentence, until Piglet who was listening out of his window without much hope, went to sleep quietly and naturally, slipping slowly out of the window towards the water until he was only hanging on by his toes, at which moment luckily, a sudden loud squawk from Owl, which was really part of the story, being what his aunt said, woke the Piglet up and just gave him time to jerk himself back into safety and say, "How interesting, and did she?" when--well, you can imagine his joy when at last he saw the good ship, _Brain of Pooh_ (_Captain_, C. Robin; _1st Mate_, P. Bear) coming over the sea to rescue him. Christopher Robin and Pooh again.... And that is really the end of the story, and I am very tired after that last sentence, I think I shall stop there. CHAPTER X IN WHICH CHRISTOPHER ROBIN GIVES POOH A PARTY, AND WE SAY GOOD-BYE One day when the sun had come back over the Forest, bringing with it the scent of may, and all the streams of the Forest were tinkling happily to find themselves their own pretty shape again, and the little pools lay dreaming of the life they had seen and the big things they had done, and in the warmth and quiet of the Forest the cuckoo was trying over his voice carefully and listening to see if he liked it, and wood-pigeons were complaining gently to themselves in their lazy comfortable way that it was the other fellow's fault, but it didn't matter very much; on such a day as this Christopher Robin whistled in a special way he had, and Owl came flying out of the Hundred Acre Wood to see what was wanted. "Owl," said Christopher Robin, "I am going to give a party." "You are, are you?" said Owl. "And it's to be a special sort of party, because it's because of what Pooh did when he did what he did to save Piglet from the flood." "Oh, that's what it's for, is it?" said Owl. "Yes, so will you tell Pooh as quickly as you can, and all the others, because it will be to-morrow." "Oh, it will, will it?" said Owl, still being as helpful as possible. "So will you go and tell them, Owl?" Owl tried to think of something very wise to say, but couldn't, so he flew off to tell the others. And the first person he told was Pooh. "Pooh," he said, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Oh!"<|quote|>said Pooh. And then seeing that Owl expected him to say something else, he said</|quote|>"Will there be those little cake things with pink sugar icing?" Owl felt that it was rather beneath him to talk about little cake things with pink sugar icing, so he told Pooh exactly what Christopher Robin had said, and flew off to Eeyore. "A party for Me?" thought Pooh to himself. "How grand!" And he began to wonder if all the other animals would know that it was a special Pooh Party, and if Christopher Robin had told them about _The Floating Bear_ and the _Brain of Pooh_ and all the wonderful ships he had invented and sailed on, and he began to think how awful it would be if everybody had forgotten about it, and nobody quite knew what the party was for; and the more he thought like this, the more the party got muddled in his mind, like a dream when nothing goes right. And the dream began to sing itself over in his head until it became a sort of song. It was an ANXIOUS POOH SONG. 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For Who?_) For Pooh-- (_Why what did he do?_) I thought you knew; He saved his friend from a wetting! 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- He couldn't swim, But he rescued him! (_He rescued who?_) Oh, listen, do! I am talking of Pooh-- (_Of who?_) Of Pooh! (_I'm sorry I keep forgetting_). Well, Pooh was a Bear of Enormous Brain (_Just say it again!_) Of enormous brain-- (_Of enormous what?_) Well, he ate a lot, And I don't know if he could swim or not, But he managed to float On a sort of boat (_On a sort of what?_) Well, a sort of pot-- So now let's give him three hearty cheers (_So now let's give him three hearty whiches?_) And hope he'll be with us for years and years, And grow in health and wisdom and riches! 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For who?_) For Pooh-- 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- 3 Cheers for the wonderful Winnie-the-Pooh! (_Just tell me, somebody_--WHAT DID HE DO?) While this was going on inside him, Owl was talking to Eeyore. "Eeyore," said Owl, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Very interesting," said Eeyore. "I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it." "There is an Invitation for you." "What's that like?" "An Invitation!" "Yes, I heard you. Who dropped it?" "This isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow." Eeyore shook his head slowly. "You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!" said Eeyore. "A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come.
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Winnie The Pooh
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said she,
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No speaker
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elsewhere. "Next time you call,"<|quote|>said she,</|quote|>"I hope we shall be
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concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. "Next time you call,"<|quote|>said she,</|quote|>"I hope we shall be more lucky." He should be
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him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. "Next time you call,"<|quote|>said she,</|quote|>"I hope we shall be more lucky." He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. "Can you come to-morrow?" Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was
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how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your confidante." CHAPTER XIII. A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. "Next time you call,"<|quote|>said she,</|quote|>"I hope we shall be more lucky." He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. "Can you come to-morrow?" Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out, "My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr.
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perfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing than any other man." "You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and are provoking me to it every moment." "How hard it is in some cases to be believed!" "And how impossible in others!" "But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?" "That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your confidante." CHAPTER XIII. A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. "Next time you call,"<|quote|>said she,</|quote|>"I hope we shall be more lucky." He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. "Can you come to-morrow?" Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out, "My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?" But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her
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said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And what do you think she said besides?" 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her at Netherfield at last.' "She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good a creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls, and not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously." Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of Bingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals. "It has been a very agreeable day," said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. "The party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we may often meet again." Elizabeth smiled. "Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing than any other man." "You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and are provoking me to it every moment." "How hard it is in some cases to be believed!" "And how impossible in others!" "But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?" "That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your confidante." CHAPTER XIII. A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. "Next time you call,"<|quote|>said she,</|quote|>"I hope we shall be more lucky." He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. "Can you come to-morrow?" Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out, "My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?" But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said, "What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out, "Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you." Elizabeth was forced to go. "We may as well leave
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silly! "A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who would not protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman? There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!" She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying, "Is your sister at Pemberley still?" "Yes, she will remain there till Christmas." "And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?" "Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough, these three weeks." She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse with her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's whispering to Elizabeth again, he walked away. When the tea-things were removed, and the card tables placed, the ladies all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him, when all her views were overthrown, by seeing him fall a victim to her mother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated with the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure. They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself. Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them. "Well girls," said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, "What say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well, I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The venison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said, they never saw so fat a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the Lucas's last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges were remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And what do you think she said besides?" 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her at Netherfield at last.' "She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good a creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls, and not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously." Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of Bingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals. "It has been a very agreeable day," said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. "The party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we may often meet again." Elizabeth smiled. "Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing than any other man." "You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and are provoking me to it every moment." "How hard it is in some cases to be believed!" "And how impossible in others!" "But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?" "That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your confidante." CHAPTER XIII. A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. "Next time you call,"<|quote|>said she,</|quote|>"I hope we shall be more lucky." He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. "Can you come to-morrow?" Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out, "My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?" But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said, "What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out, "Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you." Elizabeth was forced to go. "We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room." Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter. He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband. After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence. Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had
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other. I hope we may often meet again." Elizabeth smiled. "Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing than any other man." "You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and are provoking me to it every moment." "How hard it is in some cases to be believed!" "And how impossible in others!" "But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?" "That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your confidante." CHAPTER XIII. A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. "Next time you call,"<|quote|>said she,</|quote|>"I hope we shall be more lucky." He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. "Can you come to-morrow?" Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out, "My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?" But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat
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Pride And Prejudice
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he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell Mingott's, and the latter had instantly rung the little bell at her elbow and ordered the coachman to drive her home. "What if it had happened to Mrs. van der Luyden?" people asked each other with a shudder. Archer could hear Lawrence Lefferts, at that very hour, holding forth on the disintegration of society. He raised his head irritably when his sister Janey entered, and then quickly bent over his book (Swinburne's "Chastelard"--just out) as if he had not seen her. She glanced at the writing-table heaped with books, opened a volume of the "Contes Drolatiques," made a wry face over the archaic French, and sighed:
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No speaker
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hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!"<|quote|>he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell Mingott's, and the latter had instantly rung the little bell at her elbow and ordered the coachman to drive her home. "What if it had happened to Mrs. van der Luyden?" people asked each other with a shudder. Archer could hear Lawrence Lefferts, at that very hour, holding forth on the disintegration of society. He raised his head irritably when his sister Janey entered, and then quickly bent over his book (Swinburne's "Chastelard"--just out) as if he had not seen her. She glanced at the writing-table heaped with books, opened a volume of the "Contes Drolatiques," made a wry face over the archaic French, and sighed:</|quote|>"What learned things you read!"
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every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!"<|quote|>he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell Mingott's, and the latter had instantly rung the little bell at her elbow and ordered the coachman to drive her home. "What if it had happened to Mrs. van der Luyden?" people asked each other with a shudder. Archer could hear Lawrence Lefferts, at that very hour, holding forth on the disintegration of society. He raised his head irritably when his sister Janey entered, and then quickly bent over his book (Swinburne's "Chastelard"--just out) as if he had not seen her. She glanced at the writing-table heaped with books, opened a volume of the "Contes Drolatiques," made a wry face over the archaic French, and sighed:</|quote|>"What learned things you read!" "Well--?" he asked, as she
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office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurely manner common to well-to-do New Yorkers of his class. He was out of spirits and slightly out of temper, and a haunting horror of doing the same thing every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!"<|quote|>he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell Mingott's, and the latter had instantly rung the little bell at her elbow and ordered the coachman to drive her home. "What if it had happened to Mrs. van der Luyden?" people asked each other with a shudder. Archer could hear Lawrence Lefferts, at that very hour, holding forth on the disintegration of society. He raised his head irritably when his sister Janey entered, and then quickly bent over his book (Swinburne's "Chastelard"--just out) as if he had not seen her. She glanced at the writing-table heaped with books, opened a volume of the "Contes Drolatiques," made a wry face over the archaic French, and sighed:</|quote|>"What learned things you read!" "Well--?" he asked, as she hovered Cassandra-like before him. "Mother's very angry." "Angry? With whom? About what?" "Miss Sophy Jackson has just been here. She brought word that her brother would come in after dinner: she couldn't say very much, because he forbade her to:
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it in the rue de la Paix, she said. I do love you, Newland, for being so artistic!" The next afternoon, as Archer, before dinner, sat smoking sullenly in his study, Janey wandered in on him. He had failed to stop at his club on the way up from the office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurely manner common to well-to-do New Yorkers of his class. He was out of spirits and slightly out of temper, and a haunting horror of doing the same thing every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!"<|quote|>he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell Mingott's, and the latter had instantly rung the little bell at her elbow and ordered the coachman to drive her home. "What if it had happened to Mrs. van der Luyden?" people asked each other with a shudder. Archer could hear Lawrence Lefferts, at that very hour, holding forth on the disintegration of society. He raised his head irritably when his sister Janey entered, and then quickly bent over his book (Swinburne's "Chastelard"--just out) as if he had not seen her. She glanced at the writing-table heaped with books, opened a volume of the "Contes Drolatiques," made a wry face over the archaic French, and sighed:</|quote|>"What learned things you read!" "Well--?" he asked, as she hovered Cassandra-like before him. "Mother's very angry." "Angry? With whom? About what?" "Miss Sophy Jackson has just been here. She brought word that her brother would come in after dinner: she couldn't say very much, because he forbade her to: he wishes to give all the details himself. He's with cousin Louisa van der Luyden now." "For heaven's sake, my dear girl, try a fresh start. It would take an omniscient Deity to know what you're talking about." "It's not a time to be profane, Newland.... Mother feels badly enough
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is rather--vulgar, isn't it?" she suggested, relieved to have hit on a word that would assuredly extinguish the whole subject. "Are you so much afraid, then, of being vulgar?" She was evidently staggered by this. "Of course I should hate it--so would you," she rejoined, a trifle irritably. He stood silent, beating his stick nervously against his boot-top; and feeling that she had indeed found the right way of closing the discussion, she went on light-heartedly: "Oh, did I tell you that I showed Ellen my ring? She thinks it the most beautiful setting she ever saw. There's nothing like it in the rue de la Paix, she said. I do love you, Newland, for being so artistic!" The next afternoon, as Archer, before dinner, sat smoking sullenly in his study, Janey wandered in on him. He had failed to stop at his club on the way up from the office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurely manner common to well-to-do New Yorkers of his class. He was out of spirits and slightly out of temper, and a haunting horror of doing the same thing every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!"<|quote|>he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell Mingott's, and the latter had instantly rung the little bell at her elbow and ordered the coachman to drive her home. "What if it had happened to Mrs. van der Luyden?" people asked each other with a shudder. Archer could hear Lawrence Lefferts, at that very hour, holding forth on the disintegration of society. He raised his head irritably when his sister Janey entered, and then quickly bent over his book (Swinburne's "Chastelard"--just out) as if he had not seen her. She glanced at the writing-table heaped with books, opened a volume of the "Contes Drolatiques," made a wry face over the archaic French, and sighed:</|quote|>"What learned things you read!" "Well--?" he asked, as she hovered Cassandra-like before him. "Mother's very angry." "Angry? With whom? About what?" "Miss Sophy Jackson has just been here. She brought word that her brother would come in after dinner: she couldn't say very much, because he forbade her to: he wishes to give all the details himself. He's with cousin Louisa van der Luyden now." "For heaven's sake, my dear girl, try a fresh start. It would take an omniscient Deity to know what you're talking about." "It's not a time to be profane, Newland.... Mother feels badly enough about your not going to church ..." With a groan he plunged back into his book. "NEWLAND! Do listen. Your friend Madame Olenska was at Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's party last night: she went there with the Duke and Mr. Beaufort." At the last clause of this announcement a senseless anger swelled the young man's breast. To smother it he laughed. "Well, what of it? I knew she meant to." Janey paled and her eyes began to project. "You knew she meant to--and you didn't try to stop her? To warn her?" "Stop her? Warn her?" He laughed again. "I'm not
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their wanting to do things so differently. "As if the mere 'differently' didn't account for it!" the wooer insisted. "Newland! You're so original!" she exulted. His heart sank, for he saw that he was saying all the things that young men in the same situation were expected to say, and that she was making the answers that instinct and tradition taught her to make--even to the point of calling him original. "Original! We're all as like each other as those dolls cut out of the same folded paper. We're like patterns stencilled on a wall. Can't you and I strike out for ourselves, May?" He had stopped and faced her in the excitement of their discussion, and her eyes rested on him with a bright unclouded admiration. "Mercy--shall we elope?" she laughed. "If you would--" "You DO love me, Newland! I'm so happy." "But then--why not be happier?" "We can't behave like people in novels, though, can we?" "Why not--why not--why not?" She looked a little bored by his insistence. She knew very well that they couldn't, but it was troublesome to have to produce a reason. "I'm not clever enough to argue with you. But that kind of thing is rather--vulgar, isn't it?" she suggested, relieved to have hit on a word that would assuredly extinguish the whole subject. "Are you so much afraid, then, of being vulgar?" She was evidently staggered by this. "Of course I should hate it--so would you," she rejoined, a trifle irritably. He stood silent, beating his stick nervously against his boot-top; and feeling that she had indeed found the right way of closing the discussion, she went on light-heartedly: "Oh, did I tell you that I showed Ellen my ring? She thinks it the most beautiful setting she ever saw. There's nothing like it in the rue de la Paix, she said. I do love you, Newland, for being so artistic!" The next afternoon, as Archer, before dinner, sat smoking sullenly in his study, Janey wandered in on him. He had failed to stop at his club on the way up from the office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurely manner common to well-to-do New Yorkers of his class. He was out of spirits and slightly out of temper, and a haunting horror of doing the same thing every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!"<|quote|>he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell Mingott's, and the latter had instantly rung the little bell at her elbow and ordered the coachman to drive her home. "What if it had happened to Mrs. van der Luyden?" people asked each other with a shudder. Archer could hear Lawrence Lefferts, at that very hour, holding forth on the disintegration of society. He raised his head irritably when his sister Janey entered, and then quickly bent over his book (Swinburne's "Chastelard"--just out) as if he had not seen her. She glanced at the writing-table heaped with books, opened a volume of the "Contes Drolatiques," made a wry face over the archaic French, and sighed:</|quote|>"What learned things you read!" "Well--?" he asked, as she hovered Cassandra-like before him. "Mother's very angry." "Angry? With whom? About what?" "Miss Sophy Jackson has just been here. She brought word that her brother would come in after dinner: she couldn't say very much, because he forbade her to: he wishes to give all the details himself. He's with cousin Louisa van der Luyden now." "For heaven's sake, my dear girl, try a fresh start. It would take an omniscient Deity to know what you're talking about." "It's not a time to be profane, Newland.... Mother feels badly enough about your not going to church ..." With a groan he plunged back into his book. "NEWLAND! Do listen. Your friend Madame Olenska was at Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's party last night: she went there with the Duke and Mr. Beaufort." At the last clause of this announcement a senseless anger swelled the young man's breast. To smother it he laughed. "Well, what of it? I knew she meant to." Janey paled and her eyes began to project. "You knew she meant to--and you didn't try to stop her? To warn her?" "Stop her? Warn her?" He laughed again. "I'm not engaged to be married to the Countess Olenska!" The words had a fantastic sound in his own ears. "You're marrying into her family." "Oh, family--family!" he jeered. "Newland--don't you care about Family?" "Not a brass farthing." "Nor about what cousin Louisa van der Luyden will think?" "Not the half of one--if she thinks such old maid's rubbish." "Mother is not an old maid," said his virgin sister with pinched lips. He felt like shouting back: "Yes, she is, and so are the van der Luydens, and so we all are, when it comes to being so much as brushed by the wing-tip of Reality." But he saw her long gentle face puckering into tears, and felt ashamed of the useless pain he was inflicting. "Hang Countess Olenska! Don't be a goose, Janey--I'm not her keeper." "No; but you DID ask the Wellands to announce your engagement sooner so that we might all back her up; and if it hadn't been for that cousin Louisa would never have invited her to the dinner for the Duke." "Well--what harm was there in inviting her? She was the best-looking woman in the room; she made the dinner a little less funereal than the
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of you! Anything of that kind delights her. It's odd she didn't mention it: she lunched with us today, and spoke of Mr. Beaufort's having sent her wonderful orchids, and cousin Henry van der Luyden a whole hamper of carnations from Skuytercliff. She seems so surprised to receive flowers. Don't people send them in Europe? She thinks it such a pretty custom." "Oh, well, no wonder mine were overshadowed by Beaufort's," said Archer irritably. Then he remembered that he had not put a card with the roses, and was vexed at having spoken of them. He wanted to say: "I called on your cousin yesterday," but hesitated. If Madame Olenska had not spoken of his visit it might seem awkward that he should. Yet not to do so gave the affair an air of mystery that he disliked. To shake off the question he began to talk of their own plans, their future, and Mrs. Welland's insistence on a long engagement. "If you call it long! Isabel Chivers and Reggie were engaged for two years: Grace and Thorley for nearly a year and a half. Why aren't we very well off as we are?" It was the traditional maidenly interrogation, and he felt ashamed of himself for finding it singularly childish. No doubt she simply echoed what was said for her; but she was nearing her twenty-second birthday, and he wondered at what age "nice" women began to speak for themselves. "Never, if we won't let them, I suppose," he mused, and recalled his mad outburst to Mr. Sillerton Jackson: "Women ought to be as free as we are--" It would presently be his task to take the bandage from this young woman's eyes, and bid her look forth on the world. But how many generations of the women who had gone to her making had descended bandaged to the family vault? He shivered a little, remembering some of the new ideas in his scientific books, and the much-cited instance of the Kentucky cave-fish, which had ceased to develop eyes because they had no use for them. What if, when he had bidden May Welland to open hers, they could only look out blankly at blankness? "We might be much better off. We might be altogether together--we might travel." Her face lit up. "That would be lovely," she owned: she would love to travel. But her mother would not understand their wanting to do things so differently. "As if the mere 'differently' didn't account for it!" the wooer insisted. "Newland! You're so original!" she exulted. His heart sank, for he saw that he was saying all the things that young men in the same situation were expected to say, and that she was making the answers that instinct and tradition taught her to make--even to the point of calling him original. "Original! We're all as like each other as those dolls cut out of the same folded paper. We're like patterns stencilled on a wall. Can't you and I strike out for ourselves, May?" He had stopped and faced her in the excitement of their discussion, and her eyes rested on him with a bright unclouded admiration. "Mercy--shall we elope?" she laughed. "If you would--" "You DO love me, Newland! I'm so happy." "But then--why not be happier?" "We can't behave like people in novels, though, can we?" "Why not--why not--why not?" She looked a little bored by his insistence. She knew very well that they couldn't, but it was troublesome to have to produce a reason. "I'm not clever enough to argue with you. But that kind of thing is rather--vulgar, isn't it?" she suggested, relieved to have hit on a word that would assuredly extinguish the whole subject. "Are you so much afraid, then, of being vulgar?" She was evidently staggered by this. "Of course I should hate it--so would you," she rejoined, a trifle irritably. He stood silent, beating his stick nervously against his boot-top; and feeling that she had indeed found the right way of closing the discussion, she went on light-heartedly: "Oh, did I tell you that I showed Ellen my ring? She thinks it the most beautiful setting she ever saw. There's nothing like it in the rue de la Paix, she said. I do love you, Newland, for being so artistic!" The next afternoon, as Archer, before dinner, sat smoking sullenly in his study, Janey wandered in on him. He had failed to stop at his club on the way up from the office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurely manner common to well-to-do New Yorkers of his class. He was out of spirits and slightly out of temper, and a haunting horror of doing the same thing every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!"<|quote|>he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell Mingott's, and the latter had instantly rung the little bell at her elbow and ordered the coachman to drive her home. "What if it had happened to Mrs. van der Luyden?" people asked each other with a shudder. Archer could hear Lawrence Lefferts, at that very hour, holding forth on the disintegration of society. He raised his head irritably when his sister Janey entered, and then quickly bent over his book (Swinburne's "Chastelard"--just out) as if he had not seen her. She glanced at the writing-table heaped with books, opened a volume of the "Contes Drolatiques," made a wry face over the archaic French, and sighed:</|quote|>"What learned things you read!" "Well--?" he asked, as she hovered Cassandra-like before him. "Mother's very angry." "Angry? With whom? About what?" "Miss Sophy Jackson has just been here. She brought word that her brother would come in after dinner: she couldn't say very much, because he forbade her to: he wishes to give all the details himself. He's with cousin Louisa van der Luyden now." "For heaven's sake, my dear girl, try a fresh start. It would take an omniscient Deity to know what you're talking about." "It's not a time to be profane, Newland.... Mother feels badly enough about your not going to church ..." With a groan he plunged back into his book. "NEWLAND! Do listen. Your friend Madame Olenska was at Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's party last night: she went there with the Duke and Mr. Beaufort." At the last clause of this announcement a senseless anger swelled the young man's breast. To smother it he laughed. "Well, what of it? I knew she meant to." Janey paled and her eyes began to project. "You knew she meant to--and you didn't try to stop her? To warn her?" "Stop her? Warn her?" He laughed again. "I'm not engaged to be married to the Countess Olenska!" The words had a fantastic sound in his own ears. "You're marrying into her family." "Oh, family--family!" he jeered. "Newland--don't you care about Family?" "Not a brass farthing." "Nor about what cousin Louisa van der Luyden will think?" "Not the half of one--if she thinks such old maid's rubbish." "Mother is not an old maid," said his virgin sister with pinched lips. He felt like shouting back: "Yes, she is, and so are the van der Luydens, and so we all are, when it comes to being so much as brushed by the wing-tip of Reality." But he saw her long gentle face puckering into tears, and felt ashamed of the useless pain he was inflicting. "Hang Countess Olenska! Don't be a goose, Janey--I'm not her keeper." "No; but you DID ask the Wellands to announce your engagement sooner so that we might all back her up; and if it hadn't been for that cousin Louisa would never have invited her to the dinner for the Duke." "Well--what harm was there in inviting her? She was the best-looking woman in the room; she made the dinner a little less funereal than the usual van der Luyden banquet." "You know cousin Henry asked her to please you: he persuaded cousin Louisa. And now they're so upset that they're going back to Skuytercliff tomorrow. I think, Newland, you'd better come down. You don't seem to understand how mother feels." In the drawing-room Newland found his mother. She raised a troubled brow from her needlework to ask: "Has Janey told you?" "Yes." He tried to keep his tone as measured as her own. "But I can't take it very seriously." "Not the fact of having offended cousin Louisa and cousin Henry?" "The fact that they can be offended by such a trifle as Countess Olenska's going to the house of a woman they consider common." "Consider--!" "Well, who is; but who has good music, and amuses people on Sunday evenings, when the whole of New York is dying of inanition." "Good music? All I know is, there was a woman who got up on a table and sang the things they sing at the places you go to in Paris. There was smoking and champagne." "Well--that kind of thing happens in other places, and the world still goes on." "I don't suppose, dear, you're really defending the French Sunday?" "I've heard you often enough, mother, grumble at the English Sunday when we've been in London." "New York is neither Paris nor London." "Oh, no, it's not!" her son groaned. "You mean, I suppose, that society here is not as brilliant? You're right, I daresay; but we belong here, and people should respect our ways when they come among us. Ellen Olenska especially: she came back to get away from the kind of life people lead in brilliant societies." Newland made no answer, and after a moment his mother ventured: "I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner." He frowned, and she continued: "I thought you might explain to her what you've just said: that society abroad is different ... that people are not as particular, and that Madame Olenska may not have realised how we feel about such things. It would be, you know, dear," she added with an innocent adroitness, "in Madame Olenska's interest if you did." "Dearest mother, I really don't see how we're concerned in the matter. The Duke took Madame Olenska to Mrs. Struthers's--in fact he
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and tradition taught her to make--even to the point of calling him original. "Original! We're all as like each other as those dolls cut out of the same folded paper. We're like patterns stencilled on a wall. Can't you and I strike out for ourselves, May?" He had stopped and faced her in the excitement of their discussion, and her eyes rested on him with a bright unclouded admiration. "Mercy--shall we elope?" she laughed. "If you would--" "You DO love me, Newland! I'm so happy." "But then--why not be happier?" "We can't behave like people in novels, though, can we?" "Why not--why not--why not?" She looked a little bored by his insistence. She knew very well that they couldn't, but it was troublesome to have to produce a reason. "I'm not clever enough to argue with you. But that kind of thing is rather--vulgar, isn't it?" she suggested, relieved to have hit on a word that would assuredly extinguish the whole subject. "Are you so much afraid, then, of being vulgar?" She was evidently staggered by this. "Of course I should hate it--so would you," she rejoined, a trifle irritably. He stood silent, beating his stick nervously against his boot-top; and feeling that she had indeed found the right way of closing the discussion, she went on light-heartedly: "Oh, did I tell you that I showed Ellen my ring? She thinks it the most beautiful setting she ever saw. There's nothing like it in the rue de la Paix, she said. I do love you, Newland, for being so artistic!" The next afternoon, as Archer, before dinner, sat smoking sullenly in his study, Janey wandered in on him. He had failed to stop at his club on the way up from the office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurely manner common to well-to-do New Yorkers of his class. He was out of spirits and slightly out of temper, and a haunting horror of doing the same thing every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!"<|quote|>he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell Mingott's, and the latter had instantly rung the little bell at her elbow and ordered the coachman to drive her home. "What if it had happened to Mrs. van der Luyden?" people asked each other with a shudder. Archer could hear Lawrence Lefferts, at that very hour, holding forth on the disintegration of society. He raised his head irritably when his sister Janey entered, and then quickly bent over his book (Swinburne's "Chastelard"--just out) as if he had not seen her. She glanced at the writing-table heaped with books, opened a volume of the "Contes Drolatiques," made a wry face over the archaic French, and sighed:</|quote|>"What learned things you read!" "Well--?" he asked, as she hovered Cassandra-like before him. "Mother's very angry." "Angry? With whom? About what?" "Miss Sophy Jackson has just been here. She brought word that her brother would come in after dinner: she couldn't say very much, because he forbade her to: he wishes to give all the details himself. He's with cousin Louisa van der Luyden now." "For heaven's sake, my dear girl, try a fresh start. It would take an omniscient Deity to know what you're talking about." "It's not a time to be profane, Newland.... Mother feels badly enough about your not going to church ..." With a groan he plunged back into his book. "NEWLAND! Do listen. Your friend Madame Olenska was at Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's party last night: she went there with the Duke and Mr. Beaufort." At the last clause of this announcement a senseless anger swelled the young man's breast. To smother it he laughed. "Well, what of it? I knew she meant to." Janey paled and her eyes began to project. "You knew she meant to--and you didn't try to stop her? To warn her?" "Stop her? Warn her?" He laughed again. "I'm not engaged to be married to the Countess Olenska!" The words had a fantastic sound in his own ears. "You're marrying into her family." "Oh, family--family!" he jeered. "Newland--don't you care about Family?" "Not a brass farthing." "Nor about what cousin Louisa van der Luyden will think?" "Not the half of one--if she thinks such old maid's rubbish." "Mother is not an old maid," said his virgin sister with pinched lips. He felt like shouting back: "Yes, she is, and so are the van der Luydens, and so we all are, when it comes to being so much as brushed by the wing-tip of Reality." But he saw her long gentle face puckering into tears, and felt ashamed of the useless pain he was inflicting. "Hang Countess Olenska! Don't be a goose, Janey--I'm not her keeper." "No; but you DID ask the Wellands to announce your engagement sooner so that we might all
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The Age Of Innocence
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"That's easy enough to say, Jem; but what way is there?"
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Don Lavington
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must try some other way."<|quote|>"That's easy enough to say, Jem; but what way is there?"</|quote|>"Oh, I don't know yet,
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of the earth. Well, we must try some other way."<|quote|>"That's easy enough to say, Jem; but what way is there?"</|quote|>"Oh, I don't know yet, Mas' Don; but they say,
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lower down a grating, and hold on by that till we'd swam ashore." "And the sharks, Jem?" "Oh, those sharks!" cried Jem, pettishly. "I always forget them. I wish there wasn't such a thing as a shark on the face of the earth. Well, we must try some other way."<|quote|>"That's easy enough to say, Jem; but what way is there?"</|quote|>"Oh, I don't know yet, Mas' Don; but they say, `where there's a will there's a way.' P'r'aps I can think it out. 'Member that big case as was too wide to come into the lower warehouse?" "Yes." "Well, your uncle said he'd be obliged to have the doorposts cut,
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said Jem, slapping him on the knee. "Then the sooner we're off the better." "How can we go?" "How? Easy enough. Get on deck, slide down a rope over the side when it's dark." "In irons?" "They don't weigh much. We could get hold of an oar or two, or lower down a grating, and hold on by that till we'd swam ashore." "And the sharks, Jem?" "Oh, those sharks!" cried Jem, pettishly. "I always forget them. I wish there wasn't such a thing as a shark on the face of the earth. Well, we must try some other way."<|quote|>"That's easy enough to say, Jem; but what way is there?"</|quote|>"Oh, I don't know yet, Mas' Don; but they say, `where there's a will there's a way.' P'r'aps I can think it out. 'Member that big case as was too wide to come into the lower warehouse?" "Yes." "Well, your uncle said he'd be obliged to have the doorposts cut, but I thought that out after I'd measured it, and I found that it would just go in at the top warehouse doors if we hauled it up with the crane." "You used to call it winding anything up, Jem." "Ay, but I hadn't been to sea then, Mas' Don.
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"Silence, below there!" cried an angry voice. "Sentry, stop that talking by the prisoners." The marine marched slowly toward them, and growled out his orders. Then, settling his head in his stiff stock, he faced round and marched away. "All right, Jolly," said Jem, good-humouredly; and then drawing closer to his companion in misfortune, he went on talking in a whisper. "Say, Mas' Don, do you mean it now?" "Mean what?" "Going? It's now or never. If we waits till we goes off to sea again our chance is gone." "I mean it, Jem." "That's a good bargain, my lad," said Jem, slapping him on the knee. "Then the sooner we're off the better." "How can we go?" "How? Easy enough. Get on deck, slide down a rope over the side when it's dark." "In irons?" "They don't weigh much. We could get hold of an oar or two, or lower down a grating, and hold on by that till we'd swam ashore." "And the sharks, Jem?" "Oh, those sharks!" cried Jem, pettishly. "I always forget them. I wish there wasn't such a thing as a shark on the face of the earth. Well, we must try some other way."<|quote|>"That's easy enough to say, Jem; but what way is there?"</|quote|>"Oh, I don't know yet, Mas' Don; but they say, `where there's a will there's a way.' P'r'aps I can think it out. 'Member that big case as was too wide to come into the lower warehouse?" "Yes." "Well, your uncle said he'd be obliged to have the doorposts cut, but I thought that out after I'd measured it, and I found that it would just go in at the top warehouse doors if we hauled it up with the crane." "You used to call it winding anything up, Jem." "Ay, but I hadn't been to sea then, Mas' Don. Well, didn't I have that there case up to the top floor, and then lower it down through all the traps, and get it into the ground floor without the door being cut; and when your uncle come in, he stared, and asked me how I'd managed it?" "Yes, I remember it all," said Don sadly. "Look here, you two. I don't want to be hard," said the marine; "but you'll get me into a row. Now, are you going to clap on the hatchways, or am I to report you?" "All right, Jolly; we won't talk any more," said
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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 when we had the chance." "You do?" "I do. See how we have been served: dragged from our homes, roughly used; bullied and ill-treated; and with that man's word taken before ours. It's too bad--too bad." "Well, it is, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "But you see it was awkward. You couldn't swear as you hadn't thoughts of deserting." "Deserting?" said Don hotly. "I will not have it called deserting. I say it is only claiming our liberty, when we have been seized upon and treated like slaves." "What a weather-cocky way you have got, Mas' Don. Only t'other day you was all on the other tack, and says, says you, `It's deserting, and cowardly,' and a lot more to that tune, and the way you went on at me, sir, made my hair curl." "I had not had this last blow, Jem. I had not been put in irons then like a common thief." "Silence, below there!" cried an angry voice. "Sentry, stop that talking by the prisoners." The marine marched slowly toward them, and growled out his orders. Then, settling his head in his stiff stock, he faced round and marched away. "All right, Jolly," said Jem, good-humouredly; and then drawing closer to his companion in misfortune, he went on talking in a whisper. "Say, Mas' Don, do you mean it now?" "Mean what?" "Going? It's now or never. If we waits till we goes off to sea again our chance is gone." "I mean it, Jem." "That's a good bargain, my lad," said Jem, slapping him on the knee. "Then the sooner we're off the better." "How can we go?" "How? Easy enough. Get on deck, slide down a rope over the side when it's dark." "In irons?" "They don't weigh much. We could get hold of an oar or two, or lower down a grating, and hold on by that till we'd swam ashore." "And the sharks, Jem?" "Oh, those sharks!" cried Jem, pettishly. "I always forget them. I wish there wasn't such a thing as a shark on the face of the earth. Well, we must try some other way."<|quote|>"That's easy enough to say, Jem; but what way is there?"</|quote|>"Oh, I don't know yet, Mas' Don; but they say, `where there's a will there's a way.' P'r'aps I can think it out. 'Member that big case as was too wide to come into the lower warehouse?" "Yes." "Well, your uncle said he'd be obliged to have the doorposts cut, but I thought that out after I'd measured it, and I found that it would just go in at the top warehouse doors if we hauled it up with the crane." "You used to call it winding anything up, Jem." "Ay, but I hadn't been to sea then, Mas' Don. Well, didn't I have that there case up to the top floor, and then lower it down through all the traps, and get it into the ground floor without the door being cut; and when your uncle come in, he stared, and asked me how I'd managed it?" "Yes, I remember it all," said Don sadly. "Look here, you two. I don't want to be hard," said the marine; "but you'll get me into a row. Now, are you going to clap on the hatchways, or am I to report you?" "All right, Jolly; we won't talk any more," said Jem; and he kept his word that night. There was no release next day, and very drearily it passed till towards evening, when Jem waited till the sentry's back was turned, and put his lips to Don's ear. "I've got it, Mas' Don," he said. "What, can you see your way to escape?" "I've hit it out, my lad. Look here. Do you know them's men's irons you've got on?" "Yes. They don't make irons for boys." "Then look here, my lad; it may mean a bit of skin off; but all you've got to do is to squeeze your feet through those rings, and then I'll be bound to say a thin slip of a fellow like you can creep out of the iron round your waist." "I don't think so, Jem. I'm stouter than you fancy." "Oh no, you're not, and I dessay it'll be a tight fit; but you do it." "And suppose I do get out of them, what about you?" "About me, Mas' Don? Ah, I don't know about me; but you could get right away, slide down the rope, get the gig up alongside--" "When it's swinging from the davits, Jem?" "There you go
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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 when we had the chance." "You do?" "I do. See how we have been served: dragged from our homes, roughly used; bullied and ill-treated; and with that man's word taken before ours. It's too bad--too bad." "Well, it is, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "But you see it was awkward. You couldn't swear as you hadn't thoughts of deserting." "Deserting?" said Don hotly. "I will not have it called deserting. I say it is only claiming our liberty, when we have been seized upon and treated like slaves." "What a weather-cocky way you have got, Mas' Don. Only t'other day you was all on the other tack, and says, says you, `It's deserting, and cowardly,' and a lot more to that tune, and the way you went on at me, sir, made my hair curl." "I had not had this last blow, Jem. I had not been put in irons then like a common thief." "Silence, below there!" cried an angry voice. "Sentry, stop that talking by the prisoners." The marine marched slowly toward them, and growled out his orders. Then, settling his head in his stiff stock, he faced round and marched away. "All right, Jolly," said Jem, good-humouredly; and then drawing closer to his companion in misfortune, he went on talking in a whisper. "Say, Mas' Don, do you mean it now?" "Mean what?" "Going? It's now or never. If we waits till we goes off to sea again our chance is gone." "I mean it, Jem." "That's a good bargain, my lad," said Jem, slapping him on the knee. "Then the sooner we're off the better." "How can we go?" "How? Easy enough. Get on deck, slide down a rope over the side when it's dark." "In irons?" "They don't weigh much. We could get hold of an oar or two, or lower down a grating, and hold on by that till we'd swam ashore." "And the sharks, Jem?" "Oh, those sharks!" cried Jem, pettishly. "I always forget them. I wish there wasn't such a thing as a shark on the face of the earth. Well, we must try some other way."<|quote|>"That's easy enough to say, Jem; but what way is there?"</|quote|>"Oh, I don't know yet, Mas' Don; but they say, `where there's a will there's a way.' P'r'aps I can think it out. 'Member that big case as was too wide to come into the lower warehouse?" "Yes." "Well, your uncle said he'd be obliged to have the doorposts cut, but I thought that out after I'd measured it, and I found that it would just go in at the top warehouse doors if we hauled it up with the crane." "You used to call it winding anything up, Jem." "Ay, but I hadn't been to sea then, Mas' Don. Well, didn't I have that there case up to the top floor, and then lower it down through all the traps, and get it into the ground floor without the door being cut; and when your uncle come in, he stared, and asked me how I'd managed it?" "Yes, I remember it all," said Don sadly. "Look here, you two. I don't want to be hard," said the marine; "but you'll get me into a row. Now, are you going to clap on the hatchways, or am I to report you?" "All right, Jolly; we won't talk any more," said Jem; and he kept his word that night. There was no release next day, and very drearily it passed till towards evening, when Jem waited till the sentry's back was turned, and put his lips to Don's ear. "I've got it, Mas' Don," he said. "What, can you see your way to escape?" "I've hit it out, my lad. Look here. Do you know them's men's irons you've got on?" "Yes. They don't make irons for boys." "Then look here, my lad; it may mean a bit of skin off; but all you've got to do is to squeeze your feet through those rings, and then I'll be bound to say a thin slip of a fellow like you can creep out of the iron round your waist." "I don't think so, Jem. I'm stouter than you fancy." "Oh no, you're not, and I dessay it'll be a tight fit; but you do it." "And suppose I do get out of them, what about you?" "About me, Mas' Don? Ah, I don't know about me; but you could get right away, slide down the rope, get the gig up alongside--" "When it's swinging from the davits, Jem?" "There you go again," grumbled Jem. "I never did see such a fellow for chucking stumbling-blocks all over the place for a man to hit his shins against." "Then propose something possible. And besides, you don't suppose I'm going away without you." "But I can't get my irons off, and you can get yours." "I don't know that," said Don, trying; and, to his great surprise, finding that he could drag the ring over his ankle without much difficulty. "There, I told you so. Slip it on again 'fore the sentry sees." The marine was not likely to see, for the place was very dark where they sat, and for a long time they discussed the matter in a whisper, but only to be obliged to come to the conclusion that it was impossible to escape, unless Don would go alone. "Well, if you won't go alone, you won't, Mas' Don," said Jem, in an ill-used tone; "but I do say as it's shabby of you, after I've thought about it so much." The second night of their imprisonment passed slowly, and they were cudgelling their brains next day, when they were summoned on deck, received a severe reprimand, and, after their irons had been taken off, were told to go to their duty. Then a week passed of land surveying and chart making, during which time the intercourse with the natives had been kept on a very friendly footing; and then a rumour ran round the ship that they were to sail after a certain channel had been sounded and the chart made. "It's all over, Mas' Don," said Jem gloomily. "We shall go sailing away all over the world, and be took by the French, and never see home again!" Don made no reply, but went about his duty gloomily enough till toward afternoon, when a canoe came off from the shore, manned by about fifty of the New Zealanders, and with Tomati and Ngati in the stern. These two were soon on board, and were entertained by the captain, who made them several useful presents. How he managed it Don hardly knew himself, but he contrived to get close behind the tattooed Englishman, and said softly, just as the officers were laughing and watching Ngati, who was going through his war-dance for their delectation, and distorting his features to the greatest extent,-- "Could you come after dark to-night in your
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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 when we had the chance." "You do?" "I do. See how we have been served: dragged from our homes, roughly used; bullied and ill-treated; and with that man's word taken before ours. It's too bad--too bad." "Well, it is, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "But you see it was awkward. You couldn't swear as you hadn't thoughts of deserting." "Deserting?" said Don hotly. "I will not have it called deserting. I say it is only claiming our liberty, when we have been seized upon and treated like slaves." "What a weather-cocky way you have got, Mas' Don. Only t'other day you was all on the other tack, and says, says you, `It's deserting, and cowardly,' and a lot more to that tune, and the way you went on at me, sir, made my hair curl." "I had not had this last blow, Jem. I had not been put in irons then like a common thief." "Silence, below there!" cried an angry voice. "Sentry, stop that talking by the prisoners." The marine marched slowly toward them, and growled out his orders. Then, settling his head in his stiff stock, he faced round and marched away. "All right, Jolly," said Jem, good-humouredly; and then drawing closer to his companion in misfortune, he went on talking in a whisper. "Say, Mas' Don, do you mean it now?" "Mean what?" "Going? It's now or never. If we waits till we goes off to sea again our chance is gone." "I mean it, Jem." "That's a good bargain, my lad," said Jem, slapping him on the knee. "Then the sooner we're off the better." "How can we go?" "How? Easy enough. Get on deck, slide down a rope over the side when it's dark." "In irons?" "They don't weigh much. We could get hold of an oar or two, or lower down a grating, and hold on by that till we'd swam ashore." "And the sharks, Jem?" "Oh, those sharks!" cried Jem, pettishly. "I always forget them. I wish there wasn't such a thing as a shark on the face of the earth. Well, we must try some other way."<|quote|>"That's easy enough to say, Jem; but what way is there?"</|quote|>"Oh, I don't know yet, Mas' Don; but they say, `where there's a will there's a way.' P'r'aps I can think it out. 'Member that big case as was too wide to come into the lower warehouse?" "Yes." "Well, your uncle said he'd be obliged to have the doorposts cut, but I thought that out after I'd measured it, and I found that it would just go in at the top warehouse doors if we hauled it up with the crane." "You used to call it winding anything up, Jem." "Ay, but I hadn't been to sea then, Mas' Don. Well, didn't I have that there case up to the top floor, and then lower it down through all the traps, and get it into the ground floor without the door being cut; and when your uncle come in, he stared, and asked me how I'd managed it?" "Yes, I remember it all," said Don sadly. "Look here, you two. I don't want to be hard," said the marine; "but you'll get me into a row. Now, are you going to clap on the hatchways, or am I to report you?" "All right, Jolly; we won't talk any more," said Jem; and he kept his word that night. There was no release next day, and very drearily it passed till towards evening, when Jem waited till the sentry's back was turned, and put his lips to Don's ear. "I've got it, Mas' Don," he said. "What, can you see your way to escape?" "I've hit it out, my lad. Look here. Do you know them's men's irons you've got on?" "Yes. They don't make irons for boys." "Then look here, my lad; it may mean a bit of skin off; but all you've got to do is to squeeze your feet through those rings, and then I'll be bound to say a thin slip of a fellow like you can creep out of the iron round your waist." "I don't think so, Jem. I'm stouter than you fancy." "Oh no, you're not, and I dessay it'll be a tight fit; but you do it." "And suppose I do get out of them, what about you?" "About
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Don Lavington
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"I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book."
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Ralph Denham
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s all settled," he replied.<|quote|>"I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book."</|quote|>"How I envy you," she
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mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied.<|quote|>"I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book."</|quote|>"How I envy you," she replied, with the utmost sincerity.
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"No," she contradicted herself. "Nothing particular, I mean. But I was thinking about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied.<|quote|>"I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book."</|quote|>"How I envy you," she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a week." "Cottages are to be had yes," she replied. "The question is" She checked herself. "Two rooms are all I should want," she continued, with a curious sigh; "one for
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supposed that she had let him see too clearly her weariness of this side of life. "I m afraid I ve been absent-minded," she began, remembering how often William had brought this charge against her. "You have a good deal to make you absent-minded," he replied. "Yes," she replied, flushing. "No," she contradicted herself. "Nothing particular, I mean. But I was thinking about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied.<|quote|>"I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book."</|quote|>"How I envy you," she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a week." "Cottages are to be had yes," she replied. "The question is" She checked herself. "Two rooms are all I should want," she continued, with a curious sigh; "one for eating, one for sleeping. Oh, but I should like another, a large one at the top, and a little garden where one could grow flowers. A path so down to a river, or up to a wood, and the sea not very far off, so that one could hear the
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once to say that she had been thinking over what Denham had told her of his plans. He cut her short. "Don t let s discuss that dreary business." "But I thought" "It s a dreary business. I ought never to have bothered you" "Have you decided, then?" He made an impatient sound. "It s not a thing that matters." She could only say rather flatly, "Oh!" "I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances." She supposed that she had let him see too clearly her weariness of this side of life. "I m afraid I ve been absent-minded," she began, remembering how often William had brought this charge against her. "You have a good deal to make you absent-minded," he replied. "Yes," she replied, flushing. "No," she contradicted herself. "Nothing particular, I mean. But I was thinking about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied.<|quote|>"I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book."</|quote|>"How I envy you," she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a week." "Cottages are to be had yes," she replied. "The question is" She checked herself. "Two rooms are all I should want," she continued, with a curious sigh; "one for eating, one for sleeping. Oh, but I should like another, a large one at the top, and a little garden where one could grow flowers. A path so down to a river, or up to a wood, and the sea not very far off, so that one could hear the waves at night. Ships just vanishing on the horizon" She broke off. "Shall you be near the sea?" "My notion of perfect happiness," he began, not replying to her question, "is to live as you ve said." "Well, now you can. You will work, I suppose," she continued; "you ll work all the morning and again after tea and perhaps at night. You won t have people always coming about you to interrupt." "How far can one live alone?" he asked. "Have you tried ever?" "Once for three weeks," she replied. "My father and mother were in Italy, and something
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knew. Even the road to the Orchid House had now split itself into three. But there was no bag in the Orchid House. It must, therefore, have been left upon the seat. They retraced their steps in the preoccupied manner of people who have to think about something that is lost. What did this bag look like? What did it contain? "A purse a ticket some letters, papers," Katharine counted, becoming more agitated as she recalled the list. Denham went on quickly in advance of her, and she heard him shout that he had found it before she reached the seat. In order to make sure that all was safe she spread the contents on her knee. It was a queer collection, Denham thought, gazing with the deepest interest. Loose gold coins were tangled in a narrow strip of lace; there were letters which somehow suggested the extreme of intimacy; there were two or three keys, and lists of commissions against which crosses were set at intervals. But she did not seem satisfied until she had made sure of a certain paper so folded that Denham could not judge what it contained. In her relief and gratitude she began at once to say that she had been thinking over what Denham had told her of his plans. He cut her short. "Don t let s discuss that dreary business." "But I thought" "It s a dreary business. I ought never to have bothered you" "Have you decided, then?" He made an impatient sound. "It s not a thing that matters." She could only say rather flatly, "Oh!" "I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances." She supposed that she had let him see too clearly her weariness of this side of life. "I m afraid I ve been absent-minded," she began, remembering how often William had brought this charge against her. "You have a good deal to make you absent-minded," he replied. "Yes," she replied, flushing. "No," she contradicted herself. "Nothing particular, I mean. But I was thinking about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied.<|quote|>"I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book."</|quote|>"How I envy you," she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a week." "Cottages are to be had yes," she replied. "The question is" She checked herself. "Two rooms are all I should want," she continued, with a curious sigh; "one for eating, one for sleeping. Oh, but I should like another, a large one at the top, and a little garden where one could grow flowers. A path so down to a river, or up to a wood, and the sea not very far off, so that one could hear the waves at night. Ships just vanishing on the horizon" She broke off. "Shall you be near the sea?" "My notion of perfect happiness," he began, not replying to her question, "is to live as you ve said." "Well, now you can. You will work, I suppose," she continued; "you ll work all the morning and again after tea and perhaps at night. You won t have people always coming about you to interrupt." "How far can one live alone?" he asked. "Have you tried ever?" "Once for three weeks," she replied. "My father and mother were in Italy, and something happened so that I couldn t join them. For three weeks I lived entirely by myself, and the only person I spoke to was a stranger in a shop where I lunched a man with a beard. Then I went back to my room by myself and well, I did what I liked. It doesn t make me out an amiable character, I m afraid," she added, "but I can t endure living with other people. An occasional man with a beard is interesting; he s detached; he lets me go my way, and we know we shall never meet again. Therefore, we are perfectly sincere a thing not possible with one s friends." "Nonsense," Denham replied abruptly. "Why nonsense ?" she inquired. "Because you don t mean what you say," he expostulated. "You re very positive," she said, laughing and looking at him. How arbitrary, hot-tempered, and imperious he was! He had asked her to come to Kew to advise him; he then told her that he had settled the question already; he then proceeded to find fault with her. He was the very opposite of William Rodney, she thought; he was shabby, his clothes were badly made, he
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it was disguised, and naturally he found it easy to expound and explain. Nevertheless, when he saw Katharine among the orchids, her beauty strangely emphasized by the fantastic plants, which seemed to peer and gape at her from striped hoods and fleshy throats, his ardor for botany waned, and a more complex feeling replaced it. She fell silent. The orchids seemed to suggest absorbing reflections. In defiance of the rules she stretched her ungloved hand and touched one. The sight of the rubies upon her finger affected him so disagreeably that he started and turned away. But next moment he controlled himself; he looked at her taking in one strange shape after another with the contemplative, considering gaze of a person who sees not exactly what is before him, but gropes in regions that lie beyond it. The far-away look entirely lacked self-consciousness. Denham doubted whether she remembered his presence. He could recall himself, of course, by a word or a movement but why? She was happier thus. She needed nothing that he could give her. And for him, too, perhaps, it was best to keep aloof, only to know that she existed, to preserve what he already had perfect, remote, and unbroken. Further, her still look, standing among the orchids in that hot atmosphere, strangely illustrated some scene that he had imagined in his room at home. The sight, mingling with his recollection, kept him silent when the door was shut and they were walking on again. But though she did not speak, Katharine had an uneasy sense that silence on her part was selfishness. It was selfish of her to continue, as she wished to do, a discussion of subjects not remotely connected with any human beings. She roused herself to consider their exact position upon the turbulent map of the emotions. Oh yes it was a question whether Ralph Denham should live in the country and write a book; it was getting late; they must waste no more time; Cassandra arrived to-night for dinner; she flinched and roused herself, and discovered that she ought to be holding something in her hands. But they were empty. She held them out with an exclamation. "I ve left my bag somewhere where?" The gardens had no points of the compass, so far as she was concerned. She had been walking for the most part on grass that was all she knew. Even the road to the Orchid House had now split itself into three. But there was no bag in the Orchid House. It must, therefore, have been left upon the seat. They retraced their steps in the preoccupied manner of people who have to think about something that is lost. What did this bag look like? What did it contain? "A purse a ticket some letters, papers," Katharine counted, becoming more agitated as she recalled the list. Denham went on quickly in advance of her, and she heard him shout that he had found it before she reached the seat. In order to make sure that all was safe she spread the contents on her knee. It was a queer collection, Denham thought, gazing with the deepest interest. Loose gold coins were tangled in a narrow strip of lace; there were letters which somehow suggested the extreme of intimacy; there were two or three keys, and lists of commissions against which crosses were set at intervals. But she did not seem satisfied until she had made sure of a certain paper so folded that Denham could not judge what it contained. In her relief and gratitude she began at once to say that she had been thinking over what Denham had told her of his plans. He cut her short. "Don t let s discuss that dreary business." "But I thought" "It s a dreary business. I ought never to have bothered you" "Have you decided, then?" He made an impatient sound. "It s not a thing that matters." She could only say rather flatly, "Oh!" "I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances." She supposed that she had let him see too clearly her weariness of this side of life. "I m afraid I ve been absent-minded," she began, remembering how often William had brought this charge against her. "You have a good deal to make you absent-minded," he replied. "Yes," she replied, flushing. "No," she contradicted herself. "Nothing particular, I mean. But I was thinking about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied.<|quote|>"I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book."</|quote|>"How I envy you," she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a week." "Cottages are to be had yes," she replied. "The question is" She checked herself. "Two rooms are all I should want," she continued, with a curious sigh; "one for eating, one for sleeping. Oh, but I should like another, a large one at the top, and a little garden where one could grow flowers. A path so down to a river, or up to a wood, and the sea not very far off, so that one could hear the waves at night. Ships just vanishing on the horizon" She broke off. "Shall you be near the sea?" "My notion of perfect happiness," he began, not replying to her question, "is to live as you ve said." "Well, now you can. You will work, I suppose," she continued; "you ll work all the morning and again after tea and perhaps at night. You won t have people always coming about you to interrupt." "How far can one live alone?" he asked. "Have you tried ever?" "Once for three weeks," she replied. "My father and mother were in Italy, and something happened so that I couldn t join them. For three weeks I lived entirely by myself, and the only person I spoke to was a stranger in a shop where I lunched a man with a beard. Then I went back to my room by myself and well, I did what I liked. It doesn t make me out an amiable character, I m afraid," she added, "but I can t endure living with other people. An occasional man with a beard is interesting; he s detached; he lets me go my way, and we know we shall never meet again. Therefore, we are perfectly sincere a thing not possible with one s friends." "Nonsense," Denham replied abruptly. "Why nonsense ?" she inquired. "Because you don t mean what you say," he expostulated. "You re very positive," she said, laughing and looking at him. How arbitrary, hot-tempered, and imperious he was! He had asked her to come to Kew to advise him; he then told her that he had settled the question already; he then proceeded to find fault with her. He was the very opposite of William Rodney, she thought; he was shabby, his clothes were badly made, he was ill versed in the amenities of life; he was tongue-tied and awkward to the verge of obliterating his real character. He was awkwardly silent; he was awkwardly emphatic. And yet she liked him. "I don t mean what I say," she repeated good-humoredly. "Well ?" "I doubt whether you make absolute sincerity your standard in life," he answered significantly. She flushed. He had penetrated at once to the weak spot her engagement, and had reason for what he said. He was not altogether justified now, at any rate, she was glad to remember; but she could not enlighten him and must bear his insinuations, though from the lips of a man who had behaved as he had behaved their force should not have been sharp. Nevertheless, what he said had its force, she mused; partly because he seemed unconscious of his own lapse in the case of Mary Datchet, and thus baffled her insight; partly because he always spoke with force, for what reason she did not yet feel certain. "Absolute sincerity is rather difficult, don t you think?" she inquired, with a touch of irony. "There are people one credits even with that," he replied a little vaguely. He was ashamed of his savage wish to hurt her, and yet it was not for the sake of hurting her, who was beyond his shafts, but in order to mortify his own incredibly reckless impulse of abandonment to the spirit which seemed, at moments, about to rush him to the uttermost ends of the earth. She affected him beyond the scope of his wildest dreams. He seemed to see that beneath the quiet surface of her manner, which was almost pathetically at hand and within reach for all the trivial demands of daily life, there was a spirit which she reserved or repressed for some reason either of loneliness or could it be possible of love. Was it given to Rodney to see her unmasked, unrestrained, unconscious of her duties? a creature of uncalculating passion and instinctive freedom? No; he refused to believe it. It was in her loneliness that Katharine was unreserved. "I went back to my room by myself and I did what I liked." She had said that to him, and in saying it had given him a glimpse of possibilities, even of confidences, as if he might be the one to share her loneliness, the
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heard him shout that he had found it before she reached the seat. In order to make sure that all was safe she spread the contents on her knee. It was a queer collection, Denham thought, gazing with the deepest interest. Loose gold coins were tangled in a narrow strip of lace; there were letters which somehow suggested the extreme of intimacy; there were two or three keys, and lists of commissions against which crosses were set at intervals. But she did not seem satisfied until she had made sure of a certain paper so folded that Denham could not judge what it contained. In her relief and gratitude she began at once to say that she had been thinking over what Denham had told her of his plans. He cut her short. "Don t let s discuss that dreary business." "But I thought" "It s a dreary business. I ought never to have bothered you" "Have you decided, then?" He made an impatient sound. "It s not a thing that matters." She could only say rather flatly, "Oh!" "I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances." She supposed that she had let him see too clearly her weariness of this side of life. "I m afraid I ve been absent-minded," she began, remembering how often William had brought this charge against her. "You have a good deal to make you absent-minded," he replied. "Yes," she replied, flushing. "No," she contradicted herself. "Nothing particular, I mean. But I was thinking about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied.<|quote|>"I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book."</|quote|>"How I envy you," she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a week." "Cottages are to be had yes," she replied. "The question is" She checked herself. "Two rooms are all I should want," she continued, with a curious sigh; "one for eating, one for sleeping. Oh, but I should like another, a large one at the top, and a little garden where one could grow flowers. A path so down to a river, or up to a wood, and the sea not very far off, so that one could hear the waves at night. Ships just vanishing on the horizon" She broke off. "Shall you be near the sea?" "My notion of perfect happiness," he began, not replying to her question, "is to live as you ve said." "Well, now you can. You will work, I suppose," she continued; "you ll work all the morning and again after tea and perhaps at night. You won t have people always coming about you to interrupt." "How far can one live alone?" he asked. "Have you tried ever?" "Once for three weeks," she replied. "My father and mother were in Italy, and something happened so that I couldn t join them. For three weeks I lived entirely by myself, and the only person I spoke to was a stranger in a shop where I lunched a man with a beard. Then I went back to my room by myself and well, I did what I liked. It doesn t make me out an amiable character, I m afraid," she added, "but I can t endure living with other people. An occasional man with a beard is interesting; he s detached; he lets me go my way, and we know we shall never meet again. Therefore, we are perfectly sincere a thing not possible with one s friends." "Nonsense," Denham replied abruptly. "Why nonsense ?" she inquired. "Because you don t mean what you say," he expostulated. "You re very positive," she said, laughing and looking at him. How arbitrary, hot-tempered, and imperious he was! He had asked her to come to Kew to advise him; he then told her that he had settled the question already; he then proceeded to find fault with her. He was the very opposite of William Rodney, she thought; he was shabby, his clothes were badly made, he was ill versed in the amenities of life; he was tongue-tied and awkward to the verge of obliterating his real character. He was awkwardly silent; he was awkwardly emphatic. And yet she liked him. "I don t mean what I say," she repeated good-humoredly. "Well ?" "I doubt whether you make absolute sincerity your standard in life," he answered significantly. She flushed. He had penetrated at once to the weak spot her engagement, and had reason for what he said. He was not altogether justified now, at any rate, she was glad to remember; but she could not enlighten him and must bear his insinuations, though from the lips of a man who had behaved as he had behaved their force should not have been sharp. Nevertheless, what he said had its force, she mused;
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Night And Day
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She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with Arobin.
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No speaker
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"Ellen can manage the rest."<|quote|>She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with Arobin.</|quote|>"What about the dinner?" he
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"That is all," she answered. "Ellen can manage the rest."<|quote|>She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with Arobin.</|quote|>"What about the dinner?" he asked; "the grand event, the
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and went out to wash his hands. Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather duster along the carpet when he came in again. "Is there anything more you will let me do?" he asked. "That is all," she answered. "Ellen can manage the rest."<|quote|>She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with Arobin.</|quote|>"What about the dinner?" he asked; "the grand event, the _coup d' tat?_" "It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the _coup d' tat?_' Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything crystal, silver and gold, S vres, flowers, music, and champagne to
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the mirror as grotesquely as he could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened it at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder, unhooking pictures and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Edna directed. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and went out to wash his hands. Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather duster along the carpet when he came in again. "Is there anything more you will let me do?" he asked. "That is all," she answered. "Ellen can manage the rest."<|quote|>She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with Arobin.</|quote|>"What about the dinner?" he asked; "the grand event, the _coup d' tat?_" "It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the _coup d' tat?_' Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything crystal, silver and gold, S vres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I'll let L once pay the bills. I wonder what he'll say when he sees the bills." "And you ask me why I call it a _coup d' tat?_" Arobin had put on his coat, and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. She
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him. "Please come down," he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at her. "No," she answered; "Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is working over at the pigeon house' that's the name Ellen gives it, because it's so small and looks like a pigeon house and some one has to do this." Arobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing to tempt fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps, and went into contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible to control, when she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as he could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened it at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder, unhooking pictures and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Edna directed. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and went out to wash his hands. Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather duster along the carpet when he came in again. "Is there anything more you will let me do?" he asked. "That is all," she answered. "Ellen can manage the rest."<|quote|>She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with Arobin.</|quote|>"What about the dinner?" he asked; "the grand event, the _coup d' tat?_" "It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the _coup d' tat?_' Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything crystal, silver and gold, S vres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I'll let L once pay the bills. I wonder what he'll say when he sees the bills." "And you ask me why I call it a _coup d' tat?_" Arobin had put on his coat, and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. She told him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar. "When do you go to the pigeon house?' with all due acknowledgment to Ellen." "Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there." "Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?" asked Arobin. "The dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such a thing, has parched my throat to a crisp." "While Ellen gets the water," said Edna, rising, "I will say good-by and let you go. I must get rid of this grime, and I have a million
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in which a thousand muffled voices bade her begone. Whatever was her own in the house, everything which she had acquired aside from her husband's bounty, she caused to be transported to the other house, supplying simple and meager deficiencies from her own resources. Arobin found her with rolled sleeves, working in company with the house-maid when he looked in during the afternoon. She was splendid and robust, and had never appeared handsomer than in the old blue gown, with a red silk handkerchief knotted at random around her head to protect her hair from the dust. She was mounted upon a high stepladder, unhooking a picture from the wall when he entered. He had found the front door open, and had followed his ring by walking in unceremoniously. "Come down!" he said. "Do you want to kill yourself?" She greeted him with affected carelessness, and appeared absorbed in her occupation. If he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging in sentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised. He was no doubt prepared for any emergency, ready for any one of the foregoing attitudes, just as he bent himself easily and naturally to the situation which confronted him. "Please come down," he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at her. "No," she answered; "Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is working over at the pigeon house' that's the name Ellen gives it, because it's so small and looks like a pigeon house and some one has to do this." Arobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing to tempt fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps, and went into contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible to control, when she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as he could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened it at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder, unhooking pictures and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Edna directed. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and went out to wash his hands. Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather duster along the carpet when he came in again. "Is there anything more you will let me do?" he asked. "That is all," she answered. "Ellen can manage the rest."<|quote|>She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with Arobin.</|quote|>"What about the dinner?" he asked; "the grand event, the _coup d' tat?_" "It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the _coup d' tat?_' Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything crystal, silver and gold, S vres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I'll let L once pay the bills. I wonder what he'll say when he sees the bills." "And you ask me why I call it a _coup d' tat?_" Arobin had put on his coat, and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. She told him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar. "When do you go to the pigeon house?' with all due acknowledgment to Ellen." "Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there." "Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?" asked Arobin. "The dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such a thing, has parched my throat to a crisp." "While Ellen gets the water," said Edna, rising, "I will say good-by and let you go. I must get rid of this grime, and I have a million things to do and think of." "When shall I see you?" asked Arobin, seeking to detain her, the maid having left the room. "At the dinner, of course. You are invited." "Not before? not to-night or to-morrow morning or to-morrow noon or night? or the day after morning or noon? Can't you see yourself, without my telling you, what an eternity it is?" He had followed her into the hall and to the foot of the stairway, looking up at her as she mounted with her face half turned to him. "Not an instant sooner," she said. But she laughed and looked at him with eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to wait. XXX Though Edna had spoken of the dinner as a very grand affair, it was in truth a very small affair and very select, in so much as the guests invited were few and were selected with discrimination. She had counted upon an even dozen seating themselves at her round mahogany board, forgetting for the moment that Madame Ratignolle was to the last degree _souffrante_ and unpresentable, and not foreseeing that Madame Lebrun would send a thousand regrets at the
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think of something else while you do." "I'm jealous of your thoughts to-night. They're making you a little kinder than usual; but some way I feel as if they were wandering, as if they were not here with me." She only looked at him and smiled. His eyes were very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended across her, while the other hand still rested upon her hair. They continued silently to look into each other's eyes. When he leaned forward and kissed her, she clasped his head, holding his lips to hers. It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really responded. It was a flaming torch that kindled desire. XXVIII Edna cried a little that night after Arobin left her. It was only one phase of the multitudinous emotions which had assailed her. There was with her an overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was the shock of the unexpected and the unaccustomed. There was her husband's reproach looking at her from the external things around her which he had provided for her external existence. There was Robert's reproach making itself felt by a quicker, fiercer, more overpowering love, which had awakened within her toward him. Above all, there was understanding. She felt as if a mist had been lifted from her eyes, enabling her to look upon and comprehend the significance of life, that monster made up of beauty and brutality. But among the conflicting sensations which assailed her, there was neither shame nor remorse. There was a dull pang of regret because it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed her, because it was not love which had held this cup of life to her lips. XXIX Without even waiting for an answer from her husband regarding his opinion or wishes in the matter, Edna hastened her preparations for quitting her home on Esplanade Street and moving into the little house around the block. A feverish anxiety attended her every action in that direction. There was no moment of deliberation, no interval of repose between the thought and its fulfillment. Early upon the morning following those hours passed in Arobin's society, Edna set about securing her new abode and hurrying her arrangements for occupying it. Within the precincts of her home she felt like one who has entered and lingered within the portals of some forbidden temple in which a thousand muffled voices bade her begone. Whatever was her own in the house, everything which she had acquired aside from her husband's bounty, she caused to be transported to the other house, supplying simple and meager deficiencies from her own resources. Arobin found her with rolled sleeves, working in company with the house-maid when he looked in during the afternoon. She was splendid and robust, and had never appeared handsomer than in the old blue gown, with a red silk handkerchief knotted at random around her head to protect her hair from the dust. She was mounted upon a high stepladder, unhooking a picture from the wall when he entered. He had found the front door open, and had followed his ring by walking in unceremoniously. "Come down!" he said. "Do you want to kill yourself?" She greeted him with affected carelessness, and appeared absorbed in her occupation. If he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging in sentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised. He was no doubt prepared for any emergency, ready for any one of the foregoing attitudes, just as he bent himself easily and naturally to the situation which confronted him. "Please come down," he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at her. "No," she answered; "Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is working over at the pigeon house' that's the name Ellen gives it, because it's so small and looks like a pigeon house and some one has to do this." Arobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing to tempt fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps, and went into contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible to control, when she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as he could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened it at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder, unhooking pictures and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Edna directed. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and went out to wash his hands. Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather duster along the carpet when he came in again. "Is there anything more you will let me do?" he asked. "That is all," she answered. "Ellen can manage the rest."<|quote|>She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with Arobin.</|quote|>"What about the dinner?" he asked; "the grand event, the _coup d' tat?_" "It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the _coup d' tat?_' Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything crystal, silver and gold, S vres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I'll let L once pay the bills. I wonder what he'll say when he sees the bills." "And you ask me why I call it a _coup d' tat?_" Arobin had put on his coat, and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. She told him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar. "When do you go to the pigeon house?' with all due acknowledgment to Ellen." "Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there." "Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?" asked Arobin. "The dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such a thing, has parched my throat to a crisp." "While Ellen gets the water," said Edna, rising, "I will say good-by and let you go. I must get rid of this grime, and I have a million things to do and think of." "When shall I see you?" asked Arobin, seeking to detain her, the maid having left the room. "At the dinner, of course. You are invited." "Not before? not to-night or to-morrow morning or to-morrow noon or night? or the day after morning or noon? Can't you see yourself, without my telling you, what an eternity it is?" He had followed her into the hall and to the foot of the stairway, looking up at her as she mounted with her face half turned to him. "Not an instant sooner," she said. But she laughed and looked at him with eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to wait. XXX Though Edna had spoken of the dinner as a very grand affair, it was in truth a very small affair and very select, in so much as the guests invited were few and were selected with discrimination. She had counted upon an even dozen seating themselves at her round mahogany board, forgetting for the moment that Madame Ratignolle was to the last degree _souffrante_ and unpresentable, and not foreseeing that Madame Lebrun would send a thousand regrets at the last moment. So there were only ten, after all, which made a cozy, comfortable number. There were Mr. and Mrs. Merriman, a pretty, vivacious little woman in the thirties; her husband, a jovial fellow, something of a shallow-pate, who laughed a good deal at other people's witticisms, and had thereby made himself extremely popular. Mrs. Highcamp had accompanied them. Of course, there was Alc e Arobin; and Mademoiselle Reisz had consented to come. Edna had sent her a fresh bunch of violets with black lace trimmings for her hair. Monsieur Ratignolle brought himself and his wife's excuses. Victor Lebrun, who happened to be in the city, bent upon relaxation, had accepted with alacrity. There was a Miss Mayblunt, no longer in her teens, who looked at the world through lorgnettes and with the keenest interest. It was thought and said that she was intellectual; it was suspected of her that she wrote under a _nom de guerre_. She had come with a gentleman by the name of Gouvernail, connected with one of the daily papers, of whom nothing special could be said, except that he was observant and seemed quiet and inoffensive. Edna herself made the tenth, and at half-past eight they seated themselves at table, Arobin and Monsieur Ratignolle on either side of their hostess. Mrs. Highcamp sat between Arobin and Victor Lebrun. Then came Mrs. Merriman, Mr. Gouvernail, Miss Mayblunt, Mr. Merriman, and Mademoiselle Reisz next to Monsieur Ratignolle. There was something extremely gorgeous about the appearance of the table, an effect of splendor conveyed by a cover of pale yellow satin under strips of lace-work. There were wax candles, in massive brass candelabra, burning softly under yellow silk shades; full, fragrant roses, yellow and red, abounded. There were silver and gold, as she had said there would be, and crystal which glittered like the gems which the women wore. The ordinary stiff dining chairs had been discarded for the occasion and replaced by the most commodious and luxurious which could be collected throughout the house. Mademoiselle Reisz, being exceedingly diminutive, was elevated upon cushions, as small children are sometimes hoisted at table upon bulky volumes. "Something new, Edna?" exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, with lorgnette directed toward a magnificent cluster of diamonds that sparkled, that almost sputtered, in Edna's hair, just over the center of her forehead. "Quite new; brand' new, in fact; a present from my husband. It
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as if a mist had been lifted from her eyes, enabling her to look upon and comprehend the significance of life, that monster made up of beauty and brutality. But among the conflicting sensations which assailed her, there was neither shame nor remorse. There was a dull pang of regret because it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed her, because it was not love which had held this cup of life to her lips. XXIX Without even waiting for an answer from her husband regarding his opinion or wishes in the matter, Edna hastened her preparations for quitting her home on Esplanade Street and moving into the little house around the block. A feverish anxiety attended her every action in that direction. There was no moment of deliberation, no interval of repose between the thought and its fulfillment. Early upon the morning following those hours passed in Arobin's society, Edna set about securing her new abode and hurrying her arrangements for occupying it. Within the precincts of her home she felt like one who has entered and lingered within the portals of some forbidden temple in which a thousand muffled voices bade her begone. Whatever was her own in the house, everything which she had acquired aside from her husband's bounty, she caused to be transported to the other house, supplying simple and meager deficiencies from her own resources. Arobin found her with rolled sleeves, working in company with the house-maid when he looked in during the afternoon. She was splendid and robust, and had never appeared handsomer than in the old blue gown, with a red silk handkerchief knotted at random around her head to protect her hair from the dust. She was mounted upon a high stepladder, unhooking a picture from the wall when he entered. He had found the front door open, and had followed his ring by walking in unceremoniously. "Come down!" he said. "Do you want to kill yourself?" She greeted him with affected carelessness, and appeared absorbed in her occupation. If he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging in sentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised. He was no doubt prepared for any emergency, ready for any one of the foregoing attitudes, just as he bent himself easily and naturally to the situation which confronted him. "Please come down," he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at her. "No," she answered; "Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is working over at the pigeon house' that's the name Ellen gives it, because it's so small and looks like a pigeon house and some one has to do this." Arobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing to tempt fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps, and went into contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible to control, when she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as he could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened it at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder, unhooking pictures and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Edna directed. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and went out to wash his hands. Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather duster along the carpet when he came in again. "Is there anything more you will let me do?" he asked. "That is all," she answered. "Ellen can manage the rest."<|quote|>She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with Arobin.</|quote|>"What about the dinner?" he asked; "the grand event, the _coup d' tat?_" "It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the _coup d' tat?_' Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything crystal, silver and gold, S vres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I'll let L once pay the bills. I wonder what he'll say when he sees the bills." "And you ask me why I call it a _coup d' tat?_" Arobin had put on his coat, and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. She told him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar. "When do you go to the pigeon house?' with all due acknowledgment to Ellen." "Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there." "Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?" asked Arobin. "The dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such a thing, has parched my throat to a crisp." "While Ellen gets the water," said Edna, rising, "I will say good-by and let you go. I must get rid of this grime, and I have a million things to do and think of." "When shall I see you?" asked Arobin, seeking to detain her, the maid having left the room. "At the dinner, of course. You are invited." "Not before? not to-night or to-morrow morning or to-morrow noon or night? or the day after morning or noon? Can't you see yourself, without my telling you, what an eternity it is?" He had followed her into the hall and to the foot of the stairway, looking up at her as she mounted with her face half turned to him. "Not an instant sooner," she said. But she laughed and looked at him with eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to wait. XXX Though Edna had spoken of the dinner as a very grand affair, it was in truth a very small affair and very select, in so much as the guests invited were few and were selected with discrimination. She had counted upon an even dozen seating themselves at her round mahogany board, forgetting for the moment that Madame Ratignolle was to the last degree _souffrante_ and unpresentable, and not foreseeing that Madame Lebrun would send a thousand regrets at the last moment. So there were only ten, after all, which made a cozy, comfortable number. There were Mr. and Mrs. Merriman, a pretty, vivacious little woman in the thirties; her husband, a jovial fellow, something of a shallow-pate, who laughed a good deal at other people's witticisms, and had thereby made himself extremely popular. Mrs. Highcamp had accompanied them. Of course, there was Alc e Arobin; and Mademoiselle Reisz had consented to come. Edna had sent her a fresh bunch of violets with black lace trimmings for her hair. Monsieur Ratignolle brought himself and his wife's excuses. Victor Lebrun, who happened to be in the city, bent upon relaxation, had accepted with alacrity. There was a Miss Mayblunt, no longer in her teens, who looked at the world through lorgnettes and with the keenest interest. It was thought and said that she was intellectual; it was suspected of her that she wrote under a _nom de guerre_. She had come with a gentleman by the name of Gouvernail, connected with one of the daily papers, of
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The Awakening
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he said, over the rail of the cellar steps,
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No speaker
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hurried down to her. "Janny,"<|quote|>he said, over the rail of the cellar steps,</|quote|>"tas the truth what Henfrey
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At that he turned and hurried down to her. "Janny,"<|quote|>he said, over the rail of the cellar steps,</|quote|>"tas the truth what Henfrey sez. E s not in
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the cellar, with that rapid telescoping of the syllables and interrogative cocking up of the final words to a high note, by which the West Sussex villager is wont to indicate a brisk impatience. "George! You gart whad a wand?" At that he turned and hurried down to her. "Janny,"<|quote|>he said, over the rail of the cellar steps,</|quote|>"tas the truth what Henfrey sez. E s not in uz room, e en t. And the front door s onbolted." At first Mrs. Hall did not understand, and as soon as she did she resolved to see the empty room for herself. Hall, still holding the bottle, went first.
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the rail of the bed were scattered the garments, the only garments so far as he knew, and the bandages of their guest. His big slouch hat even was cocked jauntily over the bed-post. As Hall stood there he heard his wife s voice coming out of the depth of the cellar, with that rapid telescoping of the syllables and interrogative cocking up of the final words to a high note, by which the West Sussex villager is wont to indicate a brisk impatience. "George! You gart whad a wand?" At that he turned and hurried down to her. "Janny,"<|quote|>he said, over the rail of the cellar steps,</|quote|>"tas the truth what Henfrey sez. E s not in uz room, e en t. And the front door s onbolted." At first Mrs. Hall did not understand, and as soon as she did she resolved to see the empty room for herself. Hall, still holding the bottle, went first. "If e en t there," he said, "is close are. And what s e doin ithout is close, then? Tas a most curious business." As they came up the cellar steps they both, it was afterwards ascertained, fancied they heard the front door open and shut, but seeing it closed
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with a flash of inspiration he connected this with the stranger s room upstairs and the suggestions of Mr. Teddy Henfrey. He distinctly remembered holding the candle while Mrs. Hall shot these bolts overnight. At the sight he stopped, gaping, then with the bottle still in his hand went upstairs again. He rapped at the stranger s door. There was no answer. He rapped again; then pushed the door wide open and entered. It was as he expected. The bed, the room also, was empty. And what was stranger, even to his heavy intelligence, on the bedroom chair and along the rail of the bed were scattered the garments, the only garments so far as he knew, and the bandages of their guest. His big slouch hat even was cocked jauntily over the bed-post. As Hall stood there he heard his wife s voice coming out of the depth of the cellar, with that rapid telescoping of the syllables and interrogative cocking up of the final words to a high note, by which the West Sussex villager is wont to indicate a brisk impatience. "George! You gart whad a wand?" At that he turned and hurried down to her. "Janny,"<|quote|>he said, over the rail of the cellar steps,</|quote|>"tas the truth what Henfrey sez. E s not in uz room, e en t. And the front door s onbolted." At first Mrs. Hall did not understand, and as soon as she did she resolved to see the empty room for herself. Hall, still holding the bottle, went first. "If e en t there," he said, "is close are. And what s e doin ithout is close, then? Tas a most curious business." As they came up the cellar steps they both, it was afterwards ascertained, fancied they heard the front door open and shut, but seeing it closed and nothing there, neither said a word to the other about it at the time. Mrs. Hall passed her husband in the passage and ran on first upstairs. Someone sneezed on the staircase. Hall, following six steps behind, thought that he heard her sneeze. She, going on first, was under the impression that Hall was sneezing. She flung open the door and stood regarding the room. "Of all the curious!" she said. She heard a sniff close behind her head as it seemed, and turning, was surprised to see Hall a dozen feet off on the topmost stair. But in
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a soul to be found in the house, search as they would. Daylight found the vicar and his wife, a quaintly-costumed little couple, still marvelling about on their own ground floor by the unnecessary light of a guttering candle. CHAPTER VI. THE FURNITURE THAT WENT MAD Now it happened that in the early hours of Whit Monday, before Millie was hunted out for the day, Mr. Hall and Mrs. Hall both rose and went noiselessly down into the cellar. Their business there was of a private nature, and had something to do with the specific gravity of their beer. They had hardly entered the cellar when Mrs. Hall found she had forgotten to bring down a bottle of sarsaparilla from their joint-room. As she was the expert and principal operator in this affair, Hall very properly went upstairs for it. On the landing he was surprised to see that the stranger s door was ajar. He went on into his own room and found the bottle as he had been directed. But returning with the bottle, he noticed that the bolts of the front door had been shot back, that the door was in fact simply on the latch. And with a flash of inspiration he connected this with the stranger s room upstairs and the suggestions of Mr. Teddy Henfrey. He distinctly remembered holding the candle while Mrs. Hall shot these bolts overnight. At the sight he stopped, gaping, then with the bottle still in his hand went upstairs again. He rapped at the stranger s door. There was no answer. He rapped again; then pushed the door wide open and entered. It was as he expected. The bed, the room also, was empty. And what was stranger, even to his heavy intelligence, on the bedroom chair and along the rail of the bed were scattered the garments, the only garments so far as he knew, and the bandages of their guest. His big slouch hat even was cocked jauntily over the bed-post. As Hall stood there he heard his wife s voice coming out of the depth of the cellar, with that rapid telescoping of the syllables and interrogative cocking up of the final words to a high note, by which the West Sussex villager is wont to indicate a brisk impatience. "George! You gart whad a wand?" At that he turned and hurried down to her. "Janny,"<|quote|>he said, over the rail of the cellar steps,</|quote|>"tas the truth what Henfrey sez. E s not in uz room, e en t. And the front door s onbolted." At first Mrs. Hall did not understand, and as soon as she did she resolved to see the empty room for herself. Hall, still holding the bottle, went first. "If e en t there," he said, "is close are. And what s e doin ithout is close, then? Tas a most curious business." As they came up the cellar steps they both, it was afterwards ascertained, fancied they heard the front door open and shut, but seeing it closed and nothing there, neither said a word to the other about it at the time. Mrs. Hall passed her husband in the passage and ran on first upstairs. Someone sneezed on the staircase. Hall, following six steps behind, thought that he heard her sneeze. She, going on first, was under the impression that Hall was sneezing. She flung open the door and stood regarding the room. "Of all the curious!" she said. She heard a sniff close behind her head as it seemed, and turning, was surprised to see Hall a dozen feet off on the topmost stair. But in another moment he was beside her. She bent forward and put her hand on the pillow and then under the clothes. "Cold," she said. "He s been up this hour or more." As she did so, a most extraordinary thing happened. The bed-clothes gathered themselves together, leapt up suddenly into a sort of peak, and then jumped headlong over the bottom rail. It was exactly as if a hand had clutched them in the centre and flung them aside. Immediately after, the stranger s hat hopped off the bed-post, described a whirling flight in the air through the better part of a circle, and then dashed straight at Mrs. Hall s face. Then as swiftly came the sponge from the washstand; and then the chair, flinging the stranger s coat and trousers carelessly aside, and laughing drily in a voice singularly like the stranger s, turned itself up with its four legs at Mrs. Hall, seemed to take aim at her for a moment, and charged at her. She screamed and turned, and then the chair legs came gently but firmly against her back and impelled her and Hall out of the room. The door slammed violently and was locked.
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But the robber he could not see. He stood there in the hall undecided what to do, and Mrs. Bunting, her face white and intent, crept slowly downstairs after him. One thing kept Mr. Bunting s courage; the persuasion that this burglar was a resident in the village. They heard the chink of money, and realised that the robber had found the housekeeping reserve of gold two pounds ten in half sovereigns altogether. At that sound Mr. Bunting was nerved to abrupt action. Gripping the poker firmly, he rushed into the room, closely followed by Mrs. Bunting. "Surrender!" cried Mr. Bunting, fiercely, and then stooped amazed. Apparently the room was perfectly empty. Yet their conviction that they had, that very moment, heard somebody moving in the room had amounted to a certainty. For half a minute, perhaps, they stood gaping, then Mrs. Bunting went across the room and looked behind the screen, while Mr. Bunting, by a kindred impulse, peered under the desk. Then Mrs. Bunting turned back the window-curtains, and Mr. Bunting looked up the chimney and probed it with the poker. Then Mrs. Bunting scrutinised the waste-paper basket and Mr. Bunting opened the lid of the coal-scuttle. Then they came to a stop and stood with eyes interrogating each other. "I could have sworn" said Mr. Bunting. "The candle!" said Mr. Bunting. "Who lit the candle?" "The drawer!" said Mrs. Bunting. "And the money s gone!" She went hastily to the doorway. "Of all the strange occurrences" There was a violent sneeze in the passage. They rushed out, and as they did so the kitchen door slammed. "Bring the candle," said Mr. Bunting, and led the way. They both heard a sound of bolts being hastily shot back. As he opened the kitchen door he saw through the scullery that the back door was just opening, and the faint light of early dawn displayed the dark masses of the garden beyond. He is certain that nothing went out of the door. It opened, stood open for a moment, and then closed with a slam. As it did so, the candle Mrs. Bunting was carrying from the study flickered and flared. It was a minute or more before they entered the kitchen. The place was empty. They refastened the back door, examined the kitchen, pantry, and scullery thoroughly, and at last went down into the cellar. There was not a soul to be found in the house, search as they would. Daylight found the vicar and his wife, a quaintly-costumed little couple, still marvelling about on their own ground floor by the unnecessary light of a guttering candle. CHAPTER VI. THE FURNITURE THAT WENT MAD Now it happened that in the early hours of Whit Monday, before Millie was hunted out for the day, Mr. Hall and Mrs. Hall both rose and went noiselessly down into the cellar. Their business there was of a private nature, and had something to do with the specific gravity of their beer. They had hardly entered the cellar when Mrs. Hall found she had forgotten to bring down a bottle of sarsaparilla from their joint-room. As she was the expert and principal operator in this affair, Hall very properly went upstairs for it. On the landing he was surprised to see that the stranger s door was ajar. He went on into his own room and found the bottle as he had been directed. But returning with the bottle, he noticed that the bolts of the front door had been shot back, that the door was in fact simply on the latch. And with a flash of inspiration he connected this with the stranger s room upstairs and the suggestions of Mr. Teddy Henfrey. He distinctly remembered holding the candle while Mrs. Hall shot these bolts overnight. At the sight he stopped, gaping, then with the bottle still in his hand went upstairs again. He rapped at the stranger s door. There was no answer. He rapped again; then pushed the door wide open and entered. It was as he expected. The bed, the room also, was empty. And what was stranger, even to his heavy intelligence, on the bedroom chair and along the rail of the bed were scattered the garments, the only garments so far as he knew, and the bandages of their guest. His big slouch hat even was cocked jauntily over the bed-post. As Hall stood there he heard his wife s voice coming out of the depth of the cellar, with that rapid telescoping of the syllables and interrogative cocking up of the final words to a high note, by which the West Sussex villager is wont to indicate a brisk impatience. "George! You gart whad a wand?" At that he turned and hurried down to her. "Janny,"<|quote|>he said, over the rail of the cellar steps,</|quote|>"tas the truth what Henfrey sez. E s not in uz room, e en t. And the front door s onbolted." At first Mrs. Hall did not understand, and as soon as she did she resolved to see the empty room for herself. Hall, still holding the bottle, went first. "If e en t there," he said, "is close are. And what s e doin ithout is close, then? Tas a most curious business." As they came up the cellar steps they both, it was afterwards ascertained, fancied they heard the front door open and shut, but seeing it closed and nothing there, neither said a word to the other about it at the time. Mrs. Hall passed her husband in the passage and ran on first upstairs. Someone sneezed on the staircase. Hall, following six steps behind, thought that he heard her sneeze. She, going on first, was under the impression that Hall was sneezing. She flung open the door and stood regarding the room. "Of all the curious!" she said. She heard a sniff close behind her head as it seemed, and turning, was surprised to see Hall a dozen feet off on the topmost stair. But in another moment he was beside her. She bent forward and put her hand on the pillow and then under the clothes. "Cold," she said. "He s been up this hour or more." As she did so, a most extraordinary thing happened. The bed-clothes gathered themselves together, leapt up suddenly into a sort of peak, and then jumped headlong over the bottom rail. It was exactly as if a hand had clutched them in the centre and flung them aside. Immediately after, the stranger s hat hopped off the bed-post, described a whirling flight in the air through the better part of a circle, and then dashed straight at Mrs. Hall s face. Then as swiftly came the sponge from the washstand; and then the chair, flinging the stranger s coat and trousers carelessly aside, and laughing drily in a voice singularly like the stranger s, turned itself up with its four legs at Mrs. Hall, seemed to take aim at her for a moment, and charged at her. She screamed and turned, and then the chair legs came gently but firmly against her back and impelled her and Hall out of the room. The door slammed violently and was locked. The chair and bed seemed to be executing a dance of triumph for a moment, and then abruptly everything was still. Mrs. Hall was left almost in a fainting condition in Mr. Hall s arms on the landing. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. Hall and Millie, who had been roused by her scream of alarm, succeeded in getting her downstairs, and applying the restoratives customary in such cases. "Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall. "I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..." "Take a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Twill steady ye." "Lock him out," said Mrs. Hall. "Don t let him come in again. I half guessed I might ha known. With them goggling eyes and bandaged head, and never going to church of a Sunday. And all they bottles more n it s right for any one to have. He s put the sperits into the furniture.... My good old furniture! Twas in that very chair my poor dear mother used to sit when I was a little girl. To think it should rise up against me now!" "Just a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Your nerves is all upset." They sent Millie across the street through the golden five o clock sunshine to rouse up Mr. Sandy Wadgers, the blacksmith. Mr. Hall s compliments and the furniture upstairs was behaving most extraordinary. Would Mr. Wadgers come round? He was a knowing man, was Mr. Wadgers, and very resourceful. He took quite a grave view of the case. "Arm darmed if thet ent witchcraft," was the view of Mr. Sandy Wadgers. "You warnt horseshoes for such gentry as he." He came round greatly concerned. They wanted him to lead the way upstairs to the room, but he didn t seem to be in any hurry. He preferred to talk in the passage. Over the way Huxter s apprentice came out and began taking down the shutters of the tobacco window. He was called over to join the discussion. Mr. Huxter naturally followed over in the course of a few minutes. The Anglo-Saxon genius for parliamentary government asserted itself; there was a great deal of talk and no decisive action. "Let s have the facts first," insisted Mr. Sandy Wadgers. "Let s be sure we d be acting perfectly right in bustin that there door open. A door
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it did so, the candle Mrs. Bunting was carrying from the study flickered and flared. It was a minute or more before they entered the kitchen. The place was empty. They refastened the back door, examined the kitchen, pantry, and scullery thoroughly, and at last went down into the cellar. There was not a soul to be found in the house, search as they would. Daylight found the vicar and his wife, a quaintly-costumed little couple, still marvelling about on their own ground floor by the unnecessary light of a guttering candle. CHAPTER VI. THE FURNITURE THAT WENT MAD Now it happened that in the early hours of Whit Monday, before Millie was hunted out for the day, Mr. Hall and Mrs. Hall both rose and went noiselessly down into the cellar. Their business there was of a private nature, and had something to do with the specific gravity of their beer. They had hardly entered the cellar when Mrs. Hall found she had forgotten to bring down a bottle of sarsaparilla from their joint-room. As she was the expert and principal operator in this affair, Hall very properly went upstairs for it. On the landing he was surprised to see that the stranger s door was ajar. He went on into his own room and found the bottle as he had been directed. But returning with the bottle, he noticed that the bolts of the front door had been shot back, that the door was in fact simply on the latch. And with a flash of inspiration he connected this with the stranger s room upstairs and the suggestions of Mr. Teddy Henfrey. He distinctly remembered holding the candle while Mrs. Hall shot these bolts overnight. At the sight he stopped, gaping, then with the bottle still in his hand went upstairs again. He rapped at the stranger s door. There was no answer. He rapped again; then pushed the door wide open and entered. It was as he expected. The bed, the room also, was empty. And what was stranger, even to his heavy intelligence, on the bedroom chair and along the rail of the bed were scattered the garments, the only garments so far as he knew, and the bandages of their guest. His big slouch hat even was cocked jauntily over the bed-post. As Hall stood there he heard his wife s voice coming out of the depth of the cellar, with that rapid telescoping of the syllables and interrogative cocking up of the final words to a high note, by which the West Sussex villager is wont to indicate a brisk impatience. "George! You gart whad a wand?" At that he turned and hurried down to her. "Janny,"<|quote|>he said, over the rail of the cellar steps,</|quote|>"tas the truth what Henfrey sez. E s not in uz room, e en t. And the front door s onbolted." At first Mrs. Hall did not understand, and as soon as she did she resolved to see the empty room for herself. Hall, still holding the bottle, went first. "If e en t there," he said, "is close are. And what s e doin ithout is close, then? Tas a most curious business." As they came up the cellar steps they both, it was afterwards ascertained, fancied they heard the front door open and shut, but seeing it closed and nothing there, neither said a word to the other about it at the time. Mrs. Hall passed her husband in the passage and ran on first upstairs. Someone sneezed on the staircase. Hall, following six steps behind, thought that he heard her sneeze. She, going on first, was under the impression that Hall was sneezing. She flung open the door and stood regarding the room. "Of all the curious!" she said. She heard a sniff close behind her head as it seemed, and turning, was surprised to see Hall a dozen feet off on the topmost stair. But in another moment he was beside her. She bent forward and put her hand on the pillow and then under the clothes. "Cold," she said. "He s been up this hour or more." As she did so, a most extraordinary thing happened. The bed-clothes gathered themselves together, leapt up suddenly into a sort of peak, and then jumped headlong over the bottom rail. It was exactly as if a hand had clutched them in the centre and flung them aside. Immediately after, the stranger s hat hopped off the bed-post, described a whirling flight in the air through the better part of a circle, and then dashed straight at Mrs. Hall s face. Then as swiftly came the sponge from the washstand; and then the chair, flinging the stranger s coat and trousers carelessly aside, and laughing drily in a voice singularly like the stranger s, turned itself up with its four legs at Mrs. Hall, seemed
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The Invisible Man
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"You had better allow me, ma'am,"
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Josiah Bounderby
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can do it for myself."<|quote|>"You had better allow me, ma'am,"</|quote|>said Bounderby, passing her, and
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ma'am." "Thank you, sir; I can do it for myself."<|quote|>"You had better allow me, ma'am,"</|quote|>said Bounderby, passing her, and getting his hand upon the
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way at present. I will retire to my own apartment." "Sir," said she, majestically. "It is apparent to me that I am in your way at present. I will retire to my own apartment." "Allow me to open the door, ma'am." "Thank you, sir; I can do it for myself."<|quote|>"You had better allow me, ma'am,"</|quote|>said Bounderby, passing her, and getting his hand upon the lock; "because I can take the opportunity of saying a word to you, before you go. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I rather think you are cramped here, do you know? It appears to me, that, under my humble roof, there's hardly
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felt it necessary to get on: foreseeing that if he allowed of details, he would be beaten.) Mrs. Sparsit first elevated, then knitted, her Coriolanian eyebrows; gathered up her work into its proper basket; and rose. "Sir," said she, majestically. "It is apparent to me that I am in your way at present. I will retire to my own apartment." "Sir," said she, majestically. "It is apparent to me that I am in your way at present. I will retire to my own apartment." "Allow me to open the door, ma'am." "Thank you, sir; I can do it for myself."<|quote|>"You had better allow me, ma'am,"</|quote|>said Bounderby, passing her, and getting his hand upon the lock; "because I can take the opportunity of saying a word to you, before you go. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I rather think you are cramped here, do you know? It appears to me, that, under my humble roof, there's hardly opening enough for a lady of your genius in other people's affairs." Mrs. Sparsit gave him a look of the darkest scorn, and said with great politeness, "Really, sir?" "I have been thinking it over, you see, since the late affairs have happened, ma'am," said Bounderby; "and it appears to
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her stirrup, and said, "Mr. Bounderby, sir!" "Well, ma'am?" retorted Mr. Bounderby. "What are you staring at?" "May I ask, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "have you been ruffled this morning?" "Yes, ma'am." "May I inquire, sir," pursued the injured woman, "whether _I_ am the unfortunate cause of your having lost your temper?" "Now, I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Bounderby, "I am not come here to be bullied. A female may be highly connected, but she can't be permitted to bother and badger a man in my position, and I am not going to put up with it." (Mr. Bounderby felt it necessary to get on: foreseeing that if he allowed of details, he would be beaten.) Mrs. Sparsit first elevated, then knitted, her Coriolanian eyebrows; gathered up her work into its proper basket; and rose. "Sir," said she, majestically. "It is apparent to me that I am in your way at present. I will retire to my own apartment." "Sir," said she, majestically. "It is apparent to me that I am in your way at present. I will retire to my own apartment." "Allow me to open the door, ma'am." "Thank you, sir; I can do it for myself."<|quote|>"You had better allow me, ma'am,"</|quote|>said Bounderby, passing her, and getting his hand upon the lock; "because I can take the opportunity of saying a word to you, before you go. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I rather think you are cramped here, do you know? It appears to me, that, under my humble roof, there's hardly opening enough for a lady of your genius in other people's affairs." Mrs. Sparsit gave him a look of the darkest scorn, and said with great politeness, "Really, sir?" "I have been thinking it over, you see, since the late affairs have happened, ma'am," said Bounderby; "and it appears to my poor judgment " "Oh! Pray, sir," Mrs. Sparsit interposed, with sprightly cheerfulness, "don't disparage your judgment. Everybody knows how unerring Mr. Bounderby's judgment is. Everybody has had proofs of it. It must be the theme of general conversation. Disparage anything in yourself but your judgment, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, laughing. Mr. Bounderby, very red and uncomfortable, resumed: "It appears to me, ma'am, I say, that a different sort of establishment altogether would bring out a lady of _your_ powers. Such an establishment as your relation, Lady Scadgers's, now. Don't you think you might find some affairs there, ma'am, to
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it, and got rid of her' would be to get the utmost possible amount of crowning glory out of the connection, and at the same time to punish Mrs. Sparsit according to her deserts. Filled fuller than ever, with this great idea, Mr. Bounderby came in to lunch, and sat himself down in the dining-room of former days, where his portrait was. Mrs. Sparsit sat by the fire, with her foot in her cotton stirrup, little thinking whither she was posting. Since the Pegler affair, this gentlewoman had covered her pity for Mr. Bounderby with a veil of quiet melancholy and contrition. In virtue thereof, it had become her habit to assume a woful look, which woful look she now bestowed upon her patron. "What's the matter now, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby, in a very short, rough way. "Pray, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "do not bite my nose off." "Bite your nose off, ma'am?" repeated Mr. Bounderby. "_Your_ nose!" meaning, as Mrs. Sparsit conceived, that it was too developed a nose for the purpose. After which offensive implication, he cut himself a crust of bread, and threw the knife down with a noise. Mrs. Sparsit took her foot out of her stirrup, and said, "Mr. Bounderby, sir!" "Well, ma'am?" retorted Mr. Bounderby. "What are you staring at?" "May I ask, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "have you been ruffled this morning?" "Yes, ma'am." "May I inquire, sir," pursued the injured woman, "whether _I_ am the unfortunate cause of your having lost your temper?" "Now, I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Bounderby, "I am not come here to be bullied. A female may be highly connected, but she can't be permitted to bother and badger a man in my position, and I am not going to put up with it." (Mr. Bounderby felt it necessary to get on: foreseeing that if he allowed of details, he would be beaten.) Mrs. Sparsit first elevated, then knitted, her Coriolanian eyebrows; gathered up her work into its proper basket; and rose. "Sir," said she, majestically. "It is apparent to me that I am in your way at present. I will retire to my own apartment." "Sir," said she, majestically. "It is apparent to me that I am in your way at present. I will retire to my own apartment." "Allow me to open the door, ma'am." "Thank you, sir; I can do it for myself."<|quote|>"You had better allow me, ma'am,"</|quote|>said Bounderby, passing her, and getting his hand upon the lock; "because I can take the opportunity of saying a word to you, before you go. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I rather think you are cramped here, do you know? It appears to me, that, under my humble roof, there's hardly opening enough for a lady of your genius in other people's affairs." Mrs. Sparsit gave him a look of the darkest scorn, and said with great politeness, "Really, sir?" "I have been thinking it over, you see, since the late affairs have happened, ma'am," said Bounderby; "and it appears to my poor judgment " "Oh! Pray, sir," Mrs. Sparsit interposed, with sprightly cheerfulness, "don't disparage your judgment. Everybody knows how unerring Mr. Bounderby's judgment is. Everybody has had proofs of it. It must be the theme of general conversation. Disparage anything in yourself but your judgment, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, laughing. Mr. Bounderby, very red and uncomfortable, resumed: "It appears to me, ma'am, I say, that a different sort of establishment altogether would bring out a lady of _your_ powers. Such an establishment as your relation, Lady Scadgers's, now. Don't you think you might find some affairs there, ma'am, to interfere with?" "It never occurred to me before, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "but now you mention it, should think it highly probable." "Then suppose you try, ma'am," said Bounderby, laying an envelope with a cheque in it in her little basket. "You can take your own time for going, ma'am; but perhaps in the meanwhile, it will be more agreeable to a lady of your powers of mind, to eat her meals by herself, and not to be intruded upon. I really ought to apologise to you being only Josiah Bounderby of Coketown for having stood in your light so long." "because I can take the opportunity of saying a word to you, before you go. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I rather think you are cramped here, do you know? It appears to me, that, under my humble roof, there's hardly opening enough for a lady of your genius in other people's affairs." Mrs. Sparsit gave him a look of the darkest scorn, and said with great politeness, "Really, sir?" "I have been thinking it over, you see, since the late affairs have happened, ma'am," said Bounderby; "and it appears to my poor judgment" "Oh! Pray, sir," Mrs. Sparsit interposed, with
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till we know how the dogth findth uth out!" "She keeps the bottle that he sent her for, to this hour; and she will believe in his affection to the last moment of her life," said Mr. Gradgrind. "It theemth to prethent two thingth to a perthon, don't it, Thquire?" said Mr. Sleary, musing as he looked down into the depths of his brandy and water: "one, that there ith a love in the world, not all Thelf-interetht after all, but thomething very different; t'other, that it hath a way of ith own of calculating or not calculating, whith thomehow or another ith at leatht ath hard to give a name to, ath the wayth of the dogth ith!" Mr. Gradgrind looked out of window, and made no reply. Mr. Sleary emptied his glass and recalled the ladies. "Thethilia my dear, kith me and good-bye! Mith Thquire, to thee you treating of her like a thithter, and a thithter that you trutht and honour with all your heart and more, ith a very pretty thight to me. I hope your brother may live to be better detherving of you, and a greater comfort to you. Thquire, thake handth, firtht and latht! Don't be croth with uth poor vagabondth. People mutht be amuthed. They can't be alwayth a learning, nor yet they can't be alwayth a working, they an't made for it. You _mutht_ have uth, Thquire. Do the withe thing and the kind thing too, and make the betht of uth; not the wurtht!" "And I never thought before," said Mr. Sleary, putting his head in at the door again to say it, "that I wath tho muth of a Cackler!" CHAPTER IX FINAL IT is a dangerous thing to see anything in the sphere of a vain blusterer, before the vain blusterer sees it himself. Mr. Bounderby felt that Mrs. Sparsit had audaciously anticipated him, and presumed to be wiser than he. Inappeasably indignant with her for her triumphant discovery of Mrs. Pegler, he turned this presumption, on the part of a woman in her dependent position, over and over in his mind, until it accumulated with turning like a great snowball. At last he made the discovery that to discharge this highly connected female to have it in his power to say, "She was a woman of family, and wanted to stick to me, but I wouldn't have it, and got rid of her' would be to get the utmost possible amount of crowning glory out of the connection, and at the same time to punish Mrs. Sparsit according to her deserts. Filled fuller than ever, with this great idea, Mr. Bounderby came in to lunch, and sat himself down in the dining-room of former days, where his portrait was. Mrs. Sparsit sat by the fire, with her foot in her cotton stirrup, little thinking whither she was posting. Since the Pegler affair, this gentlewoman had covered her pity for Mr. Bounderby with a veil of quiet melancholy and contrition. In virtue thereof, it had become her habit to assume a woful look, which woful look she now bestowed upon her patron. "What's the matter now, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby, in a very short, rough way. "Pray, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "do not bite my nose off." "Bite your nose off, ma'am?" repeated Mr. Bounderby. "_Your_ nose!" meaning, as Mrs. Sparsit conceived, that it was too developed a nose for the purpose. After which offensive implication, he cut himself a crust of bread, and threw the knife down with a noise. Mrs. Sparsit took her foot out of her stirrup, and said, "Mr. Bounderby, sir!" "Well, ma'am?" retorted Mr. Bounderby. "What are you staring at?" "May I ask, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "have you been ruffled this morning?" "Yes, ma'am." "May I inquire, sir," pursued the injured woman, "whether _I_ am the unfortunate cause of your having lost your temper?" "Now, I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Bounderby, "I am not come here to be bullied. A female may be highly connected, but she can't be permitted to bother and badger a man in my position, and I am not going to put up with it." (Mr. Bounderby felt it necessary to get on: foreseeing that if he allowed of details, he would be beaten.) Mrs. Sparsit first elevated, then knitted, her Coriolanian eyebrows; gathered up her work into its proper basket; and rose. "Sir," said she, majestically. "It is apparent to me that I am in your way at present. I will retire to my own apartment." "Sir," said she, majestically. "It is apparent to me that I am in your way at present. I will retire to my own apartment." "Allow me to open the door, ma'am." "Thank you, sir; I can do it for myself."<|quote|>"You had better allow me, ma'am,"</|quote|>said Bounderby, passing her, and getting his hand upon the lock; "because I can take the opportunity of saying a word to you, before you go. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I rather think you are cramped here, do you know? It appears to me, that, under my humble roof, there's hardly opening enough for a lady of your genius in other people's affairs." Mrs. Sparsit gave him a look of the darkest scorn, and said with great politeness, "Really, sir?" "I have been thinking it over, you see, since the late affairs have happened, ma'am," said Bounderby; "and it appears to my poor judgment " "Oh! Pray, sir," Mrs. Sparsit interposed, with sprightly cheerfulness, "don't disparage your judgment. Everybody knows how unerring Mr. Bounderby's judgment is. Everybody has had proofs of it. It must be the theme of general conversation. Disparage anything in yourself but your judgment, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, laughing. Mr. Bounderby, very red and uncomfortable, resumed: "It appears to me, ma'am, I say, that a different sort of establishment altogether would bring out a lady of _your_ powers. Such an establishment as your relation, Lady Scadgers's, now. Don't you think you might find some affairs there, ma'am, to interfere with?" "It never occurred to me before, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "but now you mention it, should think it highly probable." "Then suppose you try, ma'am," said Bounderby, laying an envelope with a cheque in it in her little basket. "You can take your own time for going, ma'am; but perhaps in the meanwhile, it will be more agreeable to a lady of your powers of mind, to eat her meals by herself, and not to be intruded upon. I really ought to apologise to you being only Josiah Bounderby of Coketown for having stood in your light so long." "because I can take the opportunity of saying a word to you, before you go. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I rather think you are cramped here, do you know? It appears to me, that, under my humble roof, there's hardly opening enough for a lady of your genius in other people's affairs." Mrs. Sparsit gave him a look of the darkest scorn, and said with great politeness, "Really, sir?" "I have been thinking it over, you see, since the late affairs have happened, ma'am," said Bounderby; "and it appears to my poor judgment" "Oh! Pray, sir," Mrs. Sparsit interposed, with sprightly cheerfulness, "don't disparage your judgment. Everybody knows how unerring Mr. Bounderby's judgment is. Everybody has had proofs of it. It must be the theme of general conversation. Disparage anything in yourself but your judgment, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, laughing. Mr. Bounderby, very red and uncomfortable, resumed: "It appears to me, ma'am, I say, that a different sort of establishment altogether would bring out a lady of _your_ powers. Such an establishment as your relation, Lady Scadgers's, now. Don't you think you might find some affairs there, ma'am, to interfere with?" "It never occurred to me before, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "but now you mention it, should think it highly probable." "Then suppose you try, ma'am," said Bounderby, laying an envelope with a cheque in it in her little basket. "You can take your own time for going, ma'am; but perhaps in the meanwhile, it will be more agreeable to a lady of your powers of mind, to eat her meals by herself, and not to be intruded upon. I really ought to apologise to you being only Josiah Bounderby of Coketown for having stood in your light so long." "Pray don't name it, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "If that portrait could speak, sir but it has the advantage over the original of not possessing the power of committing itself and disgusting others, it would testify, that a long period has elapsed since I first habitually addressed it as the picture of a Noodle. Nothing that a Noodle does, can awaken surprise or indignation; the proceedings of a Noodle can only inspire contempt." Thus saying, Mrs. Sparsit, with her Roman features like a medal struck to commemorate her scorn of Mr. Bounderby, surveyed him fixedly from head to foot, swept disdainfully past him, and ascended the staircase. Mr. Bounderby closed the door, and stood before the fire; projecting himself after his old explosive manner into his portrait and into futurity. * * * * * Into how much of futurity? He saw Mrs. Sparsit fighting out a daily fight at the points of all the weapons in the female armoury, with the grudging, smarting, peevish, tormenting Lady Scadgers, still laid up in bed with her mysterious leg, and gobbling her insufficient income down by about the middle of every quarter, in a mean little airless lodging, a mere closet for one, a mere crib for two; but did he see
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in his mind, until it accumulated with turning like a great snowball. At last he made the discovery that to discharge this highly connected female to have it in his power to say, "She was a woman of family, and wanted to stick to me, but I wouldn't have it, and got rid of her' would be to get the utmost possible amount of crowning glory out of the connection, and at the same time to punish Mrs. Sparsit according to her deserts. Filled fuller than ever, with this great idea, Mr. Bounderby came in to lunch, and sat himself down in the dining-room of former days, where his portrait was. Mrs. Sparsit sat by the fire, with her foot in her cotton stirrup, little thinking whither she was posting. Since the Pegler affair, this gentlewoman had covered her pity for Mr. Bounderby with a veil of quiet melancholy and contrition. In virtue thereof, it had become her habit to assume a woful look, which woful look she now bestowed upon her patron. "What's the matter now, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby, in a very short, rough way. "Pray, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "do not bite my nose off." "Bite your nose off, ma'am?" repeated Mr. Bounderby. "_Your_ nose!" meaning, as Mrs. Sparsit conceived, that it was too developed a nose for the purpose. After which offensive implication, he cut himself a crust of bread, and threw the knife down with a noise. Mrs. Sparsit took her foot out of her stirrup, and said, "Mr. Bounderby, sir!" "Well, ma'am?" retorted Mr. Bounderby. "What are you staring at?" "May I ask, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "have you been ruffled this morning?" "Yes, ma'am." "May I inquire, sir," pursued the injured woman, "whether _I_ am the unfortunate cause of your having lost your temper?" "Now, I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Bounderby, "I am not come here to be bullied. A female may be highly connected, but she can't be permitted to bother and badger a man in my position, and I am not going to put up with it." (Mr. Bounderby felt it necessary to get on: foreseeing that if he allowed of details, he would be beaten.) Mrs. Sparsit first elevated, then knitted, her Coriolanian eyebrows; gathered up her work into its proper basket; and rose. "Sir," said she, majestically. "It is apparent to me that I am in your way at present. I will retire to my own apartment." "Sir," said she, majestically. "It is apparent to me that I am in your way at present. I will retire to my own apartment." "Allow me to open the door, ma'am." "Thank you, sir; I can do it for myself."<|quote|>"You had better allow me, ma'am,"</|quote|>said Bounderby, passing her, and getting his hand upon the lock; "because I can take the opportunity of saying a word to you, before you go. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I rather think you are cramped here, do you know? It appears to me, that, under my humble roof, there's hardly opening enough for a lady of your genius in other people's affairs." Mrs. Sparsit gave him a look of the darkest scorn, and said with great politeness, "Really, sir?" "I have been thinking it over, you see, since the late affairs have happened, ma'am," said Bounderby; "and it appears to my poor judgment " "Oh! Pray, sir," Mrs. Sparsit interposed, with sprightly cheerfulness, "don't disparage your judgment. Everybody knows how unerring Mr. Bounderby's judgment is. Everybody has had proofs of it. It must be the theme of general conversation. Disparage anything in yourself but your judgment, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, laughing. Mr. Bounderby, very red and uncomfortable, resumed: "It appears to me, ma'am, I say, that a different sort of establishment altogether would bring out a lady of _your_ powers. Such an establishment as your relation, Lady Scadgers's, now. Don't you think you might find some affairs there, ma'am, to interfere with?" "It never occurred to me before, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "but now you mention it, should think it highly probable." "Then suppose you try, ma'am," said Bounderby, laying an envelope with a cheque in it in her little basket. "You can take your own time for going, ma'am; but perhaps in the meanwhile, it will be more agreeable to a lady of your powers of mind, to eat her meals by herself, and not to be intruded upon. I really ought to apologise to you being only Josiah Bounderby of Coketown for having stood in your light so long." "because I can take the opportunity of saying a word to you, before you go. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I rather think you are cramped here, do you know? It appears to me, that, under my humble roof, there's hardly opening enough for a lady of your genius in other people's affairs." Mrs. Sparsit gave him a look of the darkest scorn, and said with great politeness, "Really, sir?" "I have been thinking it over, you see, since the late affairs have happened, ma'am," said Bounderby; "and it appears to my poor judgment" "Oh! Pray, sir," Mrs. Sparsit interposed, with sprightly cheerfulness, "don't disparage your judgment. Everybody knows how unerring Mr. Bounderby's judgment is. Everybody has had proofs of it. It must be the theme of general conversation. Disparage anything in yourself but your judgment, sir," said
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Hard Times
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"Something in this way, old feller,"
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Charley Bates
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what that means," replied Oliver.<|quote|>"Something in this way, old feller,"</|quote|>said Charly. As he said
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won't he?" "I don't know what that means," replied Oliver.<|quote|>"Something in this way, old feller,"</|quote|>said Charly. As he said it, Master Bates caught up
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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.<|quote|>"Something in this way, old feller,"</|quote|>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
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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.<|quote|>"Something in this way, old feller,"</|quote|>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.
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"_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.<|quote|>"Something in this way, old feller,"</|quote|>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
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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.<|quote|>"Something in this way, old feller,"</|quote|>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 thing he could do, would be to secure Fagin's favour without more delay, by the means which they themselves had employed to gain it. "And always put this in your pipe, Nolly," said the Dodger, as the Jew was heard unlocking the door above, "if you don't take fogels and tickers" "What's the good of talking in that way?" interposed Master Bates; "he don't know what you mean." "If you don't take pocket-handkechers and watches," said the Dodger, reducing his conversation to the level of Oliver's capacity, "some other cove will; so that the coves that lose 'em will be all the worse, and you'll be all the worse, too, and nobody half a ha'p'orth the better, except the chaps wot gets them and you've just as good a right to them as they have." "To be sure, to be sure!" said the Jew, who had entered unseen by Oliver. "It all lies in a nutshell my dear; in a nutshell, take the Dodger's word for it. Ha! ha! ha! He understands the catechism of his trade." The old man rubbed his hands gleefully together, as he corroborated the Dodger's reasoning in
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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," repeated the Dodger. "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.<|quote|>"Something in this way, old feller,"</|quote|>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 thing he could do, would be to secure Fagin's favour without more delay, by the means which they themselves had employed to gain it. "And always put this in your pipe, Nolly," said the Dodger, as the Jew was heard unlocking the door above, "if you don't take fogels and tickers" "What's the good of talking in that way?" interposed Master Bates; "he don't know what you mean." "If you don't take pocket-handkechers and watches," said the Dodger, reducing his conversation to the level of Oliver's capacity, "some other cove will; so that the coves that lose 'em will be all the worse, and you'll be all the worse, too, and nobody half a ha'p'orth the better, except the chaps wot gets them and you've just as good a right to them as they have." "To be sure, to be sure!" said the Jew, who had entered unseen by Oliver. "It all lies in a nutshell my dear; in a nutshell, take the Dodger's word for it. Ha! ha! ha! He understands the catechism of his trade." The old man rubbed his hands gleefully together, as he corroborated the Dodger's reasoning in these terms; and chuckled with delight at his pupil's proficiency. The conversation proceeded no farther at this time, for the Jew had returned home accompanied by Miss Betsy, and a gentleman whom Oliver had never seen before, but who was accosted by the Dodger as Tom Chitling; and who, having lingered on the stairs to exchange a few gallantries with the lady, now made his appearance. Mr. Chitling was older in years than the Dodger: having perhaps numbered eighteen winters; but there was a degree of deference in his deportment towards that young gentleman which seemed to indicate that he felt himself conscious of a slight inferiority in point of genius and professional aquirements. He had small twinkling eyes, and a pock-marked face; wore a fur cap, a dark corduroy jacket, greasy fustian trousers, and an apron. His wardrobe was, in truth, rather out of repair; but he excused himself to the company by stating that his "time" was only out an hour before; and that, in consequence of having worn the regimentals for six weeks past, he had not been able to bestow any attention on his private clothes. Mr. Chitling added, with strong marks of irritation, that the new way of fumigating clothes up yonder was infernal unconstitutional, for it burnt holes in them, and there was no remedy against the County. The same remark he considered to apply to the regulation mode of cutting the hair: which he held to be decidedly unlawful. Mr. Chitling wound up his observations by stating that he had not touched a drop of anything for forty-two moral long hard-working days; and that he "wished he might be busted if he warn't as dry as a lime-basket." "Where do you think the gentleman has come from, Oliver?" inquired the Jew, with a grin, as the other boys put a bottle of spirits on the table. "I I don't know, sir," replied Oliver. "Who's that?" inquired Tom Chitling, casting a contemptuous look at Oliver. "A young friend of mine, my dear," replied the Jew. "He's in luck, then," said the young man, with a meaning look at Fagin. "Never mind where I came from, young 'un; you'll find your way there, soon enough, I'll bet a crown!" At this sally, the boys laughed. After some more jokes on the same subject, they exchanged a few short whispers with Fagin; and withdrew. After some
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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.<|quote|>"Something in this way, old feller,"</|quote|>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 thing he could do, would be to secure Fagin's favour without more delay, by the means which they themselves had employed to gain it. "And always put this in your pipe, Nolly," said the Dodger, as the Jew was heard unlocking the door above, "if you don't take fogels and tickers" "What's the good of talking in that way?" interposed Master Bates; "he don't know what you mean." "If you don't take pocket-handkechers and watches," said the Dodger, reducing his conversation to the level of Oliver's capacity, "some other cove will; so that the coves that lose 'em will be all the worse, and you'll be all the worse, too, and nobody half a ha'p'orth the better, except the chaps wot gets them and you've just as good a right to them as they have." "To be sure, to be sure!" said the Jew, who had entered unseen by Oliver. "It all lies in a nutshell my dear; in a nutshell, take the Dodger's word for it. Ha! ha! ha! He understands the catechism of his trade." The old man rubbed his hands gleefully together, as he corroborated the Dodger's reasoning in these terms; and chuckled with delight at his pupil's proficiency. The conversation proceeded no farther at this time, for the Jew had returned home accompanied by Miss Betsy, and a gentleman whom Oliver had never seen before, but who was accosted by the Dodger as Tom Chitling; and who, having lingered on the stairs to exchange a few gallantries with the lady, now made his appearance. Mr. Chitling was older in years than the Dodger: having perhaps numbered eighteen winters; but there was a degree of deference in his deportment towards that young gentleman which seemed to indicate that he felt himself conscious of a slight inferiority in point of genius and professional aquirements. He had small twinkling eyes, and a pock-marked face; wore a fur cap, a dark corduroy jacket, greasy fustian trousers, and an apron. His wardrobe was, in truth, rather out of repair; but he excused himself to the company by stating that his "time" was only out an hour before; and that, in consequence of having worn the regimentals for six weeks past, he had not been able to bestow any attention
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Oliver Twist
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He asked the question formally, to protect himself from the sort of personality which he dreaded. The whole situation needed the most careful management lest it should degenerate into some degrading and disturbing exhibition such as the scene, which he could never think of without shame, upon the heath among the dead leaves. And yet each sentence brought him relief. He was coming to understand something or other about his own desires hitherto undefined by him, the source of his difficulty with Katharine. The wish to hurt her, which had urged him to begin, had completely left him, and he felt that it was only Katharine now who could help him to be sure. He must take his time. There were so many things that he could not say without the greatest difficulty that name, for example, Cassandra. Nor could he move his eyes from a certain spot, a fiery glen surrounded by high mountains, in the heart of the coals. He waited in suspense for Katharine to continue. She had said that he might be very happy with some one he loved in that way.
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No speaker
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of the person one loves?"<|quote|>He asked the question formally, to protect himself from the sort of personality which he dreaded. The whole situation needed the most careful management lest it should degenerate into some degrading and disturbing exhibition such as the scene, which he could never think of without shame, upon the heath among the dead leaves. And yet each sentence brought him relief. He was coming to understand something or other about his own desires hitherto undefined by him, the source of his difficulty with Katharine. The wish to hurt her, which had urged him to begin, had completely left him, and he felt that it was only Katharine now who could help him to be sure. He must take his time. There were so many things that he could not say without the greatest difficulty that name, for example, Cassandra. Nor could he move his eyes from a certain spot, a fiery glen surrounded by high mountains, in the heart of the coals. He waited in suspense for Katharine to continue. She had said that he might be very happy with some one he loved in that way.</|quote|>"I don t see why
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romance survives a closer knowledge of the person one loves?"<|quote|>He asked the question formally, to protect himself from the sort of personality which he dreaded. The whole situation needed the most careful management lest it should degenerate into some degrading and disturbing exhibition such as the scene, which he could never think of without shame, upon the heath among the dead leaves. And yet each sentence brought him relief. He was coming to understand something or other about his own desires hitherto undefined by him, the source of his difficulty with Katharine. The wish to hurt her, which had urged him to begin, had completely left him, and he felt that it was only Katharine now who could help him to be sure. He must take his time. There were so many things that he could not say without the greatest difficulty that name, for example, Cassandra. Nor could he move his eyes from a certain spot, a fiery glen surrounded by high mountains, in the heart of the coals. He waited in suspense for Katharine to continue. She had said that he might be very happy with some one he loved in that way.</|quote|>"I don t see why it shouldn t last with
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help him, too sisterly, save for one pang, not quite to be subdued, that for him she was without romance. "I think you might be very happy with some one you loved in that way," she said. "You assume that romance survives a closer knowledge of the person one loves?"<|quote|>He asked the question formally, to protect himself from the sort of personality which he dreaded. The whole situation needed the most careful management lest it should degenerate into some degrading and disturbing exhibition such as the scene, which he could never think of without shame, upon the heath among the dead leaves. And yet each sentence brought him relief. He was coming to understand something or other about his own desires hitherto undefined by him, the source of his difficulty with Katharine. The wish to hurt her, which had urged him to begin, had completely left him, and he felt that it was only Katharine now who could help him to be sure. He must take his time. There were so many things that he could not say without the greatest difficulty that name, for example, Cassandra. Nor could he move his eyes from a certain spot, a fiery glen surrounded by high mountains, in the heart of the coals. He waited in suspense for Katharine to continue. She had said that he might be very happy with some one he loved in that way.</|quote|>"I don t see why it shouldn t last with you," she resumed. "I can imagine a certain sort of person" she paused; she was aware that he was listening with the greatest intentness, and that his formality was merely the cover for an extreme anxiety of some sort. There
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that she was discussing the question with William. It revealed possibilities which opened a prospect of a new relationship altogether. Somehow it seemed to her that he was helping her to understand what she had never understood; and in her gratitude she was conscious of a most sisterly desire to help him, too sisterly, save for one pang, not quite to be subdued, that for him she was without romance. "I think you might be very happy with some one you loved in that way," she said. "You assume that romance survives a closer knowledge of the person one loves?"<|quote|>He asked the question formally, to protect himself from the sort of personality which he dreaded. The whole situation needed the most careful management lest it should degenerate into some degrading and disturbing exhibition such as the scene, which he could never think of without shame, upon the heath among the dead leaves. And yet each sentence brought him relief. He was coming to understand something or other about his own desires hitherto undefined by him, the source of his difficulty with Katharine. The wish to hurt her, which had urged him to begin, had completely left him, and he felt that it was only Katharine now who could help him to be sure. He must take his time. There were so many things that he could not say without the greatest difficulty that name, for example, Cassandra. Nor could he move his eyes from a certain spot, a fiery glen surrounded by high mountains, in the heart of the coals. He waited in suspense for Katharine to continue. She had said that he might be very happy with some one he loved in that way.</|quote|>"I don t see why it shouldn t last with you," she resumed. "I can imagine a certain sort of person" she paused; she was aware that he was listening with the greatest intentness, and that his formality was merely the cover for an extreme anxiety of some sort. There was some person then some woman who could it be? Cassandra? Ah, possibly "A person," she added, speaking in the most matter-of-fact tone she could command, "like Cassandra Otway, for instance. Cassandra is the most interesting of the Otways with the exception of Henry. Even so, I like Cassandra better.
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the perpetual demands upon her for good sense, self-control, and accuracy in a house containing a romantic mother. Ah, but her romance wasn t _that_ romance. It was a desire, an echo, a sound; she could drape it in color, see it in form, hear it in music, but not in words; no, never in words. She sighed, teased by desires so incoherent, so incommunicable. "But isn t it curious," William resumed, "that you should neither feel it for me, nor I for you?" Katharine agreed that it was curious very; but even more curious to her was the fact that she was discussing the question with William. It revealed possibilities which opened a prospect of a new relationship altogether. Somehow it seemed to her that he was helping her to understand what she had never understood; and in her gratitude she was conscious of a most sisterly desire to help him, too sisterly, save for one pang, not quite to be subdued, that for him she was without romance. "I think you might be very happy with some one you loved in that way," she said. "You assume that romance survives a closer knowledge of the person one loves?"<|quote|>He asked the question formally, to protect himself from the sort of personality which he dreaded. The whole situation needed the most careful management lest it should degenerate into some degrading and disturbing exhibition such as the scene, which he could never think of without shame, upon the heath among the dead leaves. And yet each sentence brought him relief. He was coming to understand something or other about his own desires hitherto undefined by him, the source of his difficulty with Katharine. The wish to hurt her, which had urged him to begin, had completely left him, and he felt that it was only Katharine now who could help him to be sure. He must take his time. There were so many things that he could not say without the greatest difficulty that name, for example, Cassandra. Nor could he move his eyes from a certain spot, a fiery glen surrounded by high mountains, in the heart of the coals. He waited in suspense for Katharine to continue. She had said that he might be very happy with some one he loved in that way.</|quote|>"I don t see why it shouldn t last with you," she resumed. "I can imagine a certain sort of person" she paused; she was aware that he was listening with the greatest intentness, and that his formality was merely the cover for an extreme anxiety of some sort. There was some person then some woman who could it be? Cassandra? Ah, possibly "A person," she added, speaking in the most matter-of-fact tone she could command, "like Cassandra Otway, for instance. Cassandra is the most interesting of the Otways with the exception of Henry. Even so, I like Cassandra better. She has more than mere cleverness. She is a character a person by herself." "Those dreadful insects!" burst from William, with a nervous laugh, and a little spasm went through him as Katharine noticed. It _was_ Cassandra then. Automatically and dully she replied, "You could insist that she confined herself to to something else.... But she cares for music; I believe she writes poetry; and there can be no doubt that she has a peculiar charm" She ceased, as if defining to herself this peculiar charm. After a moment s silence William jerked out: "I thought her affectionate?" "Extremely affectionate.
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the wound to her vanity. For some reason, too, she felt more at ease with him than usual; or her ease was more the ease of equality she could not stop to think of that at the moment though. His remarks interested her too much for the light that they threw upon certain problems of her own. "What is this romance?" she mused. "Ah, that s the question. I ve never come across a definition that satisfied me, though there are some very good ones" he glanced in the direction of his books. "It s not altogether knowing the other person, perhaps it s ignorance," she hazarded. "Some authorities say it s a question of distance romance in literature, that is" "Possibly, in the case of art. But in the case of people it may be" she hesitated. "Have you no personal experience of it?" he asked, letting his eyes rest upon her swiftly for a moment. "I believe it s influenced me enormously," she said, in the tone of one absorbed by the possibilities of some view just presented to them; "but in my life there s so little scope for it," she added. She reviewed her daily task, the perpetual demands upon her for good sense, self-control, and accuracy in a house containing a romantic mother. Ah, but her romance wasn t _that_ romance. It was a desire, an echo, a sound; she could drape it in color, see it in form, hear it in music, but not in words; no, never in words. She sighed, teased by desires so incoherent, so incommunicable. "But isn t it curious," William resumed, "that you should neither feel it for me, nor I for you?" Katharine agreed that it was curious very; but even more curious to her was the fact that she was discussing the question with William. It revealed possibilities which opened a prospect of a new relationship altogether. Somehow it seemed to her that he was helping her to understand what she had never understood; and in her gratitude she was conscious of a most sisterly desire to help him, too sisterly, save for one pang, not quite to be subdued, that for him she was without romance. "I think you might be very happy with some one you loved in that way," she said. "You assume that romance survives a closer knowledge of the person one loves?"<|quote|>He asked the question formally, to protect himself from the sort of personality which he dreaded. The whole situation needed the most careful management lest it should degenerate into some degrading and disturbing exhibition such as the scene, which he could never think of without shame, upon the heath among the dead leaves. And yet each sentence brought him relief. He was coming to understand something or other about his own desires hitherto undefined by him, the source of his difficulty with Katharine. The wish to hurt her, which had urged him to begin, had completely left him, and he felt that it was only Katharine now who could help him to be sure. He must take his time. There were so many things that he could not say without the greatest difficulty that name, for example, Cassandra. Nor could he move his eyes from a certain spot, a fiery glen surrounded by high mountains, in the heart of the coals. He waited in suspense for Katharine to continue. She had said that he might be very happy with some one he loved in that way.</|quote|>"I don t see why it shouldn t last with you," she resumed. "I can imagine a certain sort of person" she paused; she was aware that he was listening with the greatest intentness, and that his formality was merely the cover for an extreme anxiety of some sort. There was some person then some woman who could it be? Cassandra? Ah, possibly "A person," she added, speaking in the most matter-of-fact tone she could command, "like Cassandra Otway, for instance. Cassandra is the most interesting of the Otways with the exception of Henry. Even so, I like Cassandra better. She has more than mere cleverness. She is a character a person by herself." "Those dreadful insects!" burst from William, with a nervous laugh, and a little spasm went through him as Katharine noticed. It _was_ Cassandra then. Automatically and dully she replied, "You could insist that she confined herself to to something else.... But she cares for music; I believe she writes poetry; and there can be no doubt that she has a peculiar charm" She ceased, as if defining to herself this peculiar charm. After a moment s silence William jerked out: "I thought her affectionate?" "Extremely affectionate. She worships Henry. When you think what a house that is Uncle Francis always in one mood or another" "Dear, dear, dear," William muttered. "And you have so much in common." "My dear Katharine!" William exclaimed, flinging himself back in his chair, and uprooting his eyes from the spot in the fire. "I really don t know what we re talking about.... I assure you...." He was covered with an extreme confusion. He withdrew the finger that was still thrust between the pages of Gulliver, opened the book, and ran his eye down the list of chapters, as though he were about to select the one most suitable for reading aloud. As Katharine watched him, she was seized with preliminary symptoms of his own panic. At the same time she was convinced that, should he find the right page, take out his spectacles, clear his throat, and open his lips, a chance that would never come again in all their lives would be lost to them both. "We re talking about things that interest us both very much," she said. "Shan t we go on talking, and leave Swift for another time? I don t feel in the mood for
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was used to, but this attitude of composed quiet, which seemed to come from the consciousness of power within, puzzled her. She did not know what was going to happen next. At last William spoke. "I think it s a little odd, don t you?" he said, in a voice of detached reflection. "Most people, I mean, would be seriously upset if their marriage was put off for six months or so. But we aren t; now how do you account for that?" She looked at him and observed his judicial attitude as of one holding far aloof from emotion. "I attribute it," he went on, without waiting for her to answer, "to the fact that neither of us is in the least romantic about the other. That may be partly, no doubt, because we ve known each other so long; but I m inclined to think there s more in it than that. There s something temperamental. I think you re a trifle cold, and I suspect I m a trifle self-absorbed. If that were so it goes a long way to explaining our odd lack of illusion about each other. I m not saying that the most satisfactory marriages aren t founded upon this sort of understanding. But certainly it struck me as odd this morning, when Wilson told me, how little upset I felt. By the way, you re sure we haven t committed ourselves to that house?" "I ve kept the letters, and I ll go through them to-morrow; but I m certain we re on the safe side." "Thanks. As to the psychological problem," he continued, as if the question interested him in a detached way, "there s no doubt, I think, that either of us is capable of feeling what, for reasons of simplicity, I call romance for a third person at least, I ve little doubt in my own case." It was, perhaps, the first time in all her knowledge of him that Katharine had known William enter thus deliberately and without sign of emotion upon a statement of his own feelings. He was wont to discourage such intimate discussions by a little laugh or turn of the conversation, as much as to say that men, or men of the world, find such topics a little silly, or in doubtful taste. His obvious wish to explain something puzzled her, interested her, and neutralized the wound to her vanity. For some reason, too, she felt more at ease with him than usual; or her ease was more the ease of equality she could not stop to think of that at the moment though. His remarks interested her too much for the light that they threw upon certain problems of her own. "What is this romance?" she mused. "Ah, that s the question. I ve never come across a definition that satisfied me, though there are some very good ones" he glanced in the direction of his books. "It s not altogether knowing the other person, perhaps it s ignorance," she hazarded. "Some authorities say it s a question of distance romance in literature, that is" "Possibly, in the case of art. But in the case of people it may be" she hesitated. "Have you no personal experience of it?" he asked, letting his eyes rest upon her swiftly for a moment. "I believe it s influenced me enormously," she said, in the tone of one absorbed by the possibilities of some view just presented to them; "but in my life there s so little scope for it," she added. She reviewed her daily task, the perpetual demands upon her for good sense, self-control, and accuracy in a house containing a romantic mother. Ah, but her romance wasn t _that_ romance. It was a desire, an echo, a sound; she could drape it in color, see it in form, hear it in music, but not in words; no, never in words. She sighed, teased by desires so incoherent, so incommunicable. "But isn t it curious," William resumed, "that you should neither feel it for me, nor I for you?" Katharine agreed that it was curious very; but even more curious to her was the fact that she was discussing the question with William. It revealed possibilities which opened a prospect of a new relationship altogether. Somehow it seemed to her that he was helping her to understand what she had never understood; and in her gratitude she was conscious of a most sisterly desire to help him, too sisterly, save for one pang, not quite to be subdued, that for him she was without romance. "I think you might be very happy with some one you loved in that way," she said. "You assume that romance survives a closer knowledge of the person one loves?"<|quote|>He asked the question formally, to protect himself from the sort of personality which he dreaded. The whole situation needed the most careful management lest it should degenerate into some degrading and disturbing exhibition such as the scene, which he could never think of without shame, upon the heath among the dead leaves. And yet each sentence brought him relief. He was coming to understand something or other about his own desires hitherto undefined by him, the source of his difficulty with Katharine. The wish to hurt her, which had urged him to begin, had completely left him, and he felt that it was only Katharine now who could help him to be sure. He must take his time. There were so many things that he could not say without the greatest difficulty that name, for example, Cassandra. Nor could he move his eyes from a certain spot, a fiery glen surrounded by high mountains, in the heart of the coals. He waited in suspense for Katharine to continue. She had said that he might be very happy with some one he loved in that way.</|quote|>"I don t see why it shouldn t last with you," she resumed. "I can imagine a certain sort of person" she paused; she was aware that he was listening with the greatest intentness, and that his formality was merely the cover for an extreme anxiety of some sort. There was some person then some woman who could it be? Cassandra? Ah, possibly "A person," she added, speaking in the most matter-of-fact tone she could command, "like Cassandra Otway, for instance. Cassandra is the most interesting of the Otways with the exception of Henry. Even so, I like Cassandra better. She has more than mere cleverness. She is a character a person by herself." "Those dreadful insects!" burst from William, with a nervous laugh, and a little spasm went through him as Katharine noticed. It _was_ Cassandra then. Automatically and dully she replied, "You could insist that she confined herself to to something else.... But she cares for music; I believe she writes poetry; and there can be no doubt that she has a peculiar charm" She ceased, as if defining to herself this peculiar charm. After a moment s silence William jerked out: "I thought her affectionate?" "Extremely affectionate. She worships Henry. When you think what a house that is Uncle Francis always in one mood or another" "Dear, dear, dear," William muttered. "And you have so much in common." "My dear Katharine!" William exclaimed, flinging himself back in his chair, and uprooting his eyes from the spot in the fire. "I really don t know what we re talking about.... I assure you...." He was covered with an extreme confusion. He withdrew the finger that was still thrust between the pages of Gulliver, opened the book, and ran his eye down the list of chapters, as though he were about to select the one most suitable for reading aloud. As Katharine watched him, she was seized with preliminary symptoms of his own panic. At the same time she was convinced that, should he find the right page, take out his spectacles, clear his throat, and open his lips, a chance that would never come again in all their lives would be lost to them both. "We re talking about things that interest us both very much," she said. "Shan t we go on talking, and leave Swift for another time? I don t feel in the mood for Swift, and it s a pity to read any one when that s the case particularly Swift." The presence of wise literary speculation, as she calculated, restored William s confidence in his security, and he replaced the book in the bookcase, keeping his back turned to her as he did so, and taking advantage of this circumstance to summon his thoughts together. But a second of introspection had the alarming result of showing him that his mind, when looked at from within, was no longer familiar ground. He felt, that is to say, what he had never consciously felt before; he was revealed to himself as other than he was wont to think him; he was afloat upon a sea of unknown and tumultuous possibilities. He paced once up and down the room, and then flung himself impetuously into the chair by Katharine s side. He had never felt anything like this before; he put himself entirely into her hands; he cast off all responsibility. He very nearly exclaimed aloud: "You ve stirred up all these odious and violent emotions, and now you must do the best you can with them." Her near presence, however, had a calming and reassuring effect upon his agitation, and he was conscious only of an implicit trust that, somehow, he was safe with her, that she would see him through, find out what it was that he wanted, and procure it for him. "I wish to do whatever you tell me to do," he said. "I put myself entirely in your hands, Katharine." "You must try to tell me what you feel," she said. "My dear, I feel a thousand things every second. I don t know, I m sure, what I feel. That afternoon on the heath it was then then" He broke off; he did not tell her what had happened then. "Your ghastly good sense, as usual, has convinced me for the moment but what the truth is, Heaven only knows!" he exclaimed. "Isn t it the truth that you are, or might be, in love with Cassandra?" she said gently. William bowed his head. After a moment s silence he murmured: "I believe you re right, Katharine." She sighed, involuntarily. She had been hoping all this time, with an intensity that increased second by second against the current of her words, that it would not in the end come to
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told me, how little upset I felt. By the way, you re sure we haven t committed ourselves to that house?" "I ve kept the letters, and I ll go through them to-morrow; but I m certain we re on the safe side." "Thanks. As to the psychological problem," he continued, as if the question interested him in a detached way, "there s no doubt, I think, that either of us is capable of feeling what, for reasons of simplicity, I call romance for a third person at least, I ve little doubt in my own case." It was, perhaps, the first time in all her knowledge of him that Katharine had known William enter thus deliberately and without sign of emotion upon a statement of his own feelings. He was wont to discourage such intimate discussions by a little laugh or turn of the conversation, as much as to say that men, or men of the world, find such topics a little silly, or in doubtful taste. His obvious wish to explain something puzzled her, interested her, and neutralized the wound to her vanity. For some reason, too, she felt more at ease with him than usual; or her ease was more the ease of equality she could not stop to think of that at the moment though. His remarks interested her too much for the light that they threw upon certain problems of her own. "What is this romance?" she mused. "Ah, that s the question. I ve never come across a definition that satisfied me, though there are some very good ones" he glanced in the direction of his books. "It s not altogether knowing the other person, perhaps it s ignorance," she hazarded. "Some authorities say it s a question of distance romance in literature, that is" "Possibly, in the case of art. But in the case of people it may be" she hesitated. "Have you no personal experience of it?" he asked, letting his eyes rest upon her swiftly for a moment. "I believe it s influenced me enormously," she said, in the tone of one absorbed by the possibilities of some view just presented to them; "but in my life there s so little scope for it," she added. She reviewed her daily task, the perpetual demands upon her for good sense, self-control, and accuracy in a house containing a romantic mother. Ah, but her romance wasn t _that_ romance. It was a desire, an echo, a sound; she could drape it in color, see it in form, hear it in music, but not in words; no, never in words. She sighed, teased by desires so incoherent, so incommunicable. "But isn t it curious," William resumed, "that you should neither feel it for me, nor I for you?" Katharine agreed that it was curious very; but even more curious to her was the fact that she was discussing the question with William. It revealed possibilities which opened a prospect of a new relationship altogether. Somehow it seemed to her that he was helping her to understand what she had never understood; and in her gratitude she was conscious of a most sisterly desire to help him, too sisterly, save for one pang, not quite to be subdued, that for him she was without romance. "I think you might be very happy with some one you loved in that way," she said. "You assume that romance survives a closer knowledge of the person one loves?"<|quote|>He asked the question formally, to protect himself from the sort of personality which he dreaded. The whole situation needed the most careful management lest it should degenerate into some degrading and disturbing exhibition such as the scene, which he could never think of without shame, upon the heath among the dead leaves. And yet each sentence brought him relief. He was coming to understand something or other about his own desires hitherto undefined by him, the source of his difficulty with Katharine. The wish to hurt her, which had urged him to begin, had completely left him, and he felt that it was only Katharine now who could help him to be sure. He must take his time. There were so many things that he could not say without the greatest difficulty that name, for example, Cassandra. Nor could he move his eyes from a certain spot, a fiery glen surrounded by high mountains, in the heart of the coals. He waited in suspense for Katharine to continue. She had said that he might be very happy with some one he loved in that way.</|quote|>"I don t see why it shouldn t last with you," she resumed. "I can imagine a certain sort of person" she paused; she was aware that he was listening with the greatest intentness, and that his formality was merely the cover for an extreme anxiety of some sort. There was some person then some woman who could it be? Cassandra? Ah, possibly "A person," she added, speaking in the most matter-of-fact tone she could command, "like Cassandra Otway, for instance. Cassandra is the most interesting of the Otways with the exception of Henry. Even so, I like Cassandra better. She has more than mere cleverness. She is a character a person by herself." "Those dreadful insects!" burst from William, with a nervous laugh, and a little spasm went through him as Katharine noticed. It _was_ Cassandra then. Automatically and dully she replied, "You could insist that she confined herself to to something else.... But she cares for music; I believe she writes poetry; and there can be no doubt that she has a peculiar charm" She ceased, as if defining to herself this peculiar charm. After a moment s silence William jerked out: "I thought her affectionate?" "Extremely affectionate. She worships Henry. When you think what a house that is Uncle Francis always in one mood or another" "Dear, dear, dear," William muttered. "And you have so much in common." "My dear Katharine!" William exclaimed, flinging himself back in his chair, and uprooting his eyes from the spot in the fire. "I really don t know what we re talking about.... I assure you...." He was covered with an extreme confusion. He withdrew the finger that was still thrust between the pages of Gulliver, opened the book, and ran his eye down the list of chapters, as though he were about to select the one most suitable for reading aloud. As Katharine watched him, she was seized with preliminary symptoms of his own panic. At the same time she was convinced that, should he find the right page, take out his spectacles, clear his throat, and open his lips, a chance that would never come again in all their lives would be lost to them both. "We re talking about things that interest us both very much," she said. "Shan t we go on talking, and leave Swift for another time? I don t feel in the mood for Swift, and it s a pity to read any one when that s the case particularly Swift." The presence of wise literary speculation, as she calculated, restored William s confidence in his security, and he replaced the book in the bookcase, keeping his back turned to her as he did so, and taking advantage of this circumstance to summon his thoughts together. But a second of introspection had the alarming result of showing him that his mind,
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Night And Day
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"You must not get into any quarrel, Jem,"
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Don Lavington
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a row if you don't."<|quote|>"You must not get into any quarrel, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, thoughtfully; "for we
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know I shall get in a row if you don't."<|quote|>"You must not get into any quarrel, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best
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back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't."<|quote|>"You must not get into any quarrel, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first
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companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't."<|quote|>"You must not get into any quarrel, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some
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in soon after of the boats being busy taking soundings, and that night Don and Jem sat screened by the ferns high up on the mountain side, and saw the sloop of war with her sails set, and looking golden in the setting sun, gliding slowly away toward the north-east, careening slightly over before a brisk breeze, which grew stronger as they reached out farther beyond the shelter of the land; and in spite of hints from Tomati, and calls from Ngati, neither could be coaxed down till, just as it was growing dusk, Don rose and turned to his companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't."<|quote|>"You must not get into any quarrel, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first
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well, never mind. You're quite safe now." Tomati walked away to speak to one of his men. "Quite safe now, he says, Mas' Don. Well, I don't feel it. Hear what he said to the fust lufftenant; this was the worst part of the coast, and the people were ready to rob and murder and eat you?" "I didn't hear all that, Jem," said Don quietly. "I heard him say that they were a warlike, fighting people; but that doesn't matter if they are kind to us." "But that's what I'm feared on," said Jem, giving himself a jerk. "Afraid of them being kind?" "Ay, feared of them liking us too well. Pot." "Pot?" "Yes, Pot. Don't you understand?" "No." "Pot. P--O--T, Pot." "Well, of course, I know that; but what does it mean?" "Why, they've sat upon you, Mas' Don, till your head won't work; that's what's the matter with you, my lad. I mean treat us as if we was chyce fat sheep." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Oh, is it? Well, you'll see." "I hope not," said Don, laughing. "Ah, you may laugh, my lad, but you won't grin that day when it comes to the worst." News was brought in soon after of the boats being busy taking soundings, and that night Don and Jem sat screened by the ferns high up on the mountain side, and saw the sloop of war with her sails set, and looking golden in the setting sun, gliding slowly away toward the north-east, careening slightly over before a brisk breeze, which grew stronger as they reached out farther beyond the shelter of the land; and in spite of hints from Tomati, and calls from Ngati, neither could be coaxed down till, just as it was growing dusk, Don rose and turned to his companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't."<|quote|>"You must not get into any quarrel, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler. "And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as
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a sharp movement among the Maoris, who set up a loud grunting noise, which drew the attention of the lieutenant, and made the men laugh. "It's only their way," said the Englishman gruffly. "Ah, a queer lot. Better come back to civilisation, my man," said the lieutenant. "At Norfolk Island, sir?" "Humph!" muttered the lieutenant; and facing his men round, he marched them back to the boats, after which they spent about four hours making soundings, and then returned to the ship. Almost before the sailors were out of hearing, there was a scuffle and agitation in the group, and Jem struggled from among the Maoris, his face hot and nearly purple, Don's not being very much better. "I won't stand it. Nearly smothered. I won't have it," cried Jem furiously. "Don't be so foolish, Jem. It was to save us," said Don, trying to pacify him. "Save us! Well they might ha' saved us gently. Look at me. I'm nearly flat." "Nonsense! I found it unpleasant; but they hid us, and we're all right." "But I arn't all right, Mas' Don; I feel like a pancake," cried Jem, rubbing and patting himself as if he were so much paste or clay which he wanted to get back into shape. "Don't be so stupid, Jem!" "Stoopid? 'Nough to make any man feel stoopid. I was 'most stuffocated." "So was I." "Yes, but you hadn't got that big, `my pakeha' chap sitting on you all the time." "No, Jem, I hadn't," said Don, laughing. "Well, I had, and he weighs 'bout as much as a sugar-hogshead at home, and that arn't light." "But it was to hide us, Jem." "Hide us, indeed! Bother me if it didn't seem as if they was all hens wanting to sit on one egg, and that egg was me. I know I shall never get right again." "Oh yes, you will," laughed Don. "Ah, it's all werry well for you to laugh, Mas' Don; but if my ribs hadn't been made o' the best o' bone, they'd ha' cracked like carrots, and where should I ha' been then?" "Hurt, mate?" said Tomati, coming up and laughing at Jem, who was rubbing himself angrily. "Just you go and be sat upon all that time, and see if you won't feel hurt," grumbled Jem. "Why, it hurts your feelings as much as it does your body." "Ah, well, never mind. You're quite safe now." Tomati walked away to speak to one of his men. "Quite safe now, he says, Mas' Don. Well, I don't feel it. Hear what he said to the fust lufftenant; this was the worst part of the coast, and the people were ready to rob and murder and eat you?" "I didn't hear all that, Jem," said Don quietly. "I heard him say that they were a warlike, fighting people; but that doesn't matter if they are kind to us." "But that's what I'm feared on," said Jem, giving himself a jerk. "Afraid of them being kind?" "Ay, feared of them liking us too well. Pot." "Pot?" "Yes, Pot. Don't you understand?" "No." "Pot. P--O--T, Pot." "Well, of course, I know that; but what does it mean?" "Why, they've sat upon you, Mas' Don, till your head won't work; that's what's the matter with you, my lad. I mean treat us as if we was chyce fat sheep." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Oh, is it? Well, you'll see." "I hope not," said Don, laughing. "Ah, you may laugh, my lad, but you won't grin that day when it comes to the worst." News was brought in soon after of the boats being busy taking soundings, and that night Don and Jem sat screened by the ferns high up on the mountain side, and saw the sloop of war with her sails set, and looking golden in the setting sun, gliding slowly away toward the north-east, careening slightly over before a brisk breeze, which grew stronger as they reached out farther beyond the shelter of the land; and in spite of hints from Tomati, and calls from Ngati, neither could be coaxed down till, just as it was growing dusk, Don rose and turned to his companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't."<|quote|>"You must not get into any quarrel, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler. "And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages." "Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in." "Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don. "Fill another basket with something to eat, take a couple of bags, and we'll go right away
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egg was me. I know I shall never get right again." "Oh yes, you will," laughed Don. "Ah, it's all werry well for you to laugh, Mas' Don; but if my ribs hadn't been made o' the best o' bone, they'd ha' cracked like carrots, and where should I ha' been then?" "Hurt, mate?" said Tomati, coming up and laughing at Jem, who was rubbing himself angrily. "Just you go and be sat upon all that time, and see if you won't feel hurt," grumbled Jem. "Why, it hurts your feelings as much as it does your body." "Ah, well, never mind. You're quite safe now." Tomati walked away to speak to one of his men. "Quite safe now, he says, Mas' Don. Well, I don't feel it. Hear what he said to the fust lufftenant; this was the worst part of the coast, and the people were ready to rob and murder and eat you?" "I didn't hear all that, Jem," said Don quietly. "I heard him say that they were a warlike, fighting people; but that doesn't matter if they are kind to us." "But that's what I'm feared on," said Jem, giving himself a jerk. "Afraid of them being kind?" "Ay, feared of them liking us too well. Pot." "Pot?" "Yes, Pot. Don't you understand?" "No." "Pot. P--O--T, Pot." "Well, of course, I know that; but what does it mean?" "Why, they've sat upon you, Mas' Don, till your head won't work; that's what's the matter with you, my lad. I mean treat us as if we was chyce fat sheep." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Oh, is it? Well, you'll see." "I hope not," said Don, laughing. "Ah, you may laugh, my lad, but you won't grin that day when it comes to the worst." News was brought in soon after of the boats being busy taking soundings, and that night Don and Jem sat screened by the ferns high up on the mountain side, and saw the sloop of war with her sails set, and looking golden in the setting sun, gliding slowly away toward the north-east, careening slightly over before a brisk breeze, which grew stronger as they reached out farther beyond the shelter of the land; and in spite of hints from Tomati, and calls from Ngati, neither could be coaxed down till, just as it was growing dusk, Don rose and turned to his companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't."<|quote|>"You must not get into any quarrel, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler. "And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket,
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Don Lavington
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"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."
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Sir Harry Otway
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do?" He lowered his voice.<|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."</|quote|>"Turn her out," said Cecil
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time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice.<|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."</|quote|>"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and
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Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice.<|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."</|quote|>"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he
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carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice.<|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."</|quote|>"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more
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the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice.<|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."</|quote|>"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his
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and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice.<|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."</|quote|>"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service
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Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice.<|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."</|quote|>"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with
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attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice.<|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."</|quote|>"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for
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A Room With A View
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"I'm going away in the morning."
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Robert Cohn
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"see you in the morning."<|quote|>"I'm going away in the morning."</|quote|>"Oh, yes," I said. I
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very well. "Well," I said, "see you in the morning."<|quote|>"I'm going away in the morning."</|quote|>"Oh, yes," I said. I went out. Cohn was standing
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go." He rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up. "So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?" "Sure. Why not?" We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well. "Well," I said, "see you in the morning."<|quote|>"I'm going away in the morning."</|quote|>"Oh, yes," I said. I went out. Cohn was standing in the door of the room. "Are you all right, Jake?" he asked. "Oh, yes," I said. "I'm all right." I could not find the bathroom. After a while I found it. There was a deep stone tub. I turned
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guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use." "What?" "Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake." "Sure," I said. "It's all right." "I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything." "Well," I said, "so long. I've got to go." He rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up. "So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?" "Sure. Why not?" We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well. "Well," I said, "see you in the morning."<|quote|>"I'm going away in the morning."</|quote|>"Oh, yes," I said. I went out. Cohn was standing in the door of the room. "Are you all right, Jake?" he asked. "Oh, yes," I said. "I'm all right." I could not find the bathroom. After a while I found it. There was a deep stone tub. I turned on the taps and the water would not run. I sat down on the edge of the bath-tub. When I got up to go I found I had taken off my shoes. I hunted for them and found them and carried them down-stairs. I found my room and went inside
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"I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more." He lay there on the bed. "Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath." "You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so." "Well," I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use." "What?" "Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake." "Sure," I said. "It's all right." "I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything." "Well," I said, "so long. I've got to go." He rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up. "So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?" "Sure. Why not?" We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well. "Well," I said, "see you in the morning."<|quote|>"I'm going away in the morning."</|quote|>"Oh, yes," I said. I went out. Cohn was standing in the door of the room. "Are you all right, Jake?" he asked. "Oh, yes," I said. "I'm all right." I could not find the bathroom. After a while I found it. There was a deep stone tub. I turned on the taps and the water would not run. I sat down on the edge of the bath-tub. When I got up to go I found I had taken off my shoes. I hunted for them and found them and carried them down-stairs. I found my room and went inside and undressed and got into bed. * * * * * I woke with a headache and the noise of the bands going by in the street. I remembered I had promised to take Bill's friend Edna to see the bulls go through the street and into the ring. I dressed and went down-stairs and out into the cold early morning. People were crossing the square, hurrying toward the bull-ring. Across the square were the two lines of men in front of the ticket-booths. They were still waiting for the tickets to go on sale at seven o'clock. I hurried
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in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand it about Brett." "You called me a pimp." I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water. "I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy." "That's all right." He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. "I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more." He lay there on the bed. "Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath." "You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so." "Well," I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use." "What?" "Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake." "Sure," I said. "It's all right." "I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything." "Well," I said, "so long. I've got to go." He rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up. "So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?" "Sure. Why not?" We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well. "Well," I said, "see you in the morning."<|quote|>"I'm going away in the morning."</|quote|>"Oh, yes," I said. I went out. Cohn was standing in the door of the room. "Are you all right, Jake?" he asked. "Oh, yes," I said. "I'm all right." I could not find the bathroom. After a while I found it. There was a deep stone tub. I turned on the taps and the water would not run. I sat down on the edge of the bath-tub. When I got up to go I found I had taken off my shoes. I hunted for them and found them and carried them down-stairs. I found my room and went inside and undressed and got into bed. * * * * * I woke with a headache and the noise of the bands going by in the street. I remembered I had promised to take Bill's friend Edna to see the bulls go through the street and into the ring. I dressed and went down-stairs and out into the cold early morning. People were crossing the square, hurrying toward the bull-ring. Across the square were the two lines of men in front of the ticket-booths. They were still waiting for the tickets to go on sale at seven o'clock. I hurried across the street to the caf . The waiter told me that my friends had been there and gone. "How many were they?" "Two gentlemen and a lady." That was all right. Bill and Mike were with Edna. She had been afraid last night they would pass out. That was why I was to be sure to take her. I drank the coffee and hurried with the other people toward the bull-ring. I was not groggy now. There was only a bad headache. Everything looked sharp and clear, and the town smelt of the early morning. The stretch of ground from the edge of the town to the bull-ring was muddy. There was a crowd all along the fence that led to the ring, and the outside balconies and the top of the bull-ring were solid with people. I heard the rocket and I knew I could not get into the ring in time to see the bulls come in, so I shoved through the crowd to the fence. I was pushed close against the planks of the fence. Between the two fences of the runway the police were clearing the crowd along. They walked or trotted on into the
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all right?" Edna asked. "We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later." I walked away from the caf . They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands. Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all different. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town football game. I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in it, and I walked up the street from the station in the town I had lived in all my life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago," I said. "I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand it about Brett." "You called me a pimp." I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water. "I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy." "That's all right." He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. "I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more." He lay there on the bed. "Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath." "You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so." "Well," I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use." "What?" "Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake." "Sure," I said. "It's all right." "I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything." "Well," I said, "so long. I've got to go." He rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up. "So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?" "Sure. Why not?" We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well. "Well," I said, "see you in the morning."<|quote|>"I'm going away in the morning."</|quote|>"Oh, yes," I said. I went out. Cohn was standing in the door of the room. "Are you all right, Jake?" he asked. "Oh, yes," I said. "I'm all right." I could not find the bathroom. After a while I found it. There was a deep stone tub. I turned on the taps and the water would not run. I sat down on the edge of the bath-tub. When I got up to go I found I had taken off my shoes. I hunted for them and found them and carried them down-stairs. I found my room and went inside and undressed and got into bed. * * * * * I woke with a headache and the noise of the bands going by in the street. I remembered I had promised to take Bill's friend Edna to see the bulls go through the street and into the ring. I dressed and went down-stairs and out into the cold early morning. People were crossing the square, hurrying toward the bull-ring. Across the square were the two lines of men in front of the ticket-booths. They were still waiting for the tickets to go on sale at seven o'clock. I hurried across the street to the caf . The waiter told me that my friends had been there and gone. "How many were they?" "Two gentlemen and a lady." That was all right. Bill and Mike were with Edna. She had been afraid last night they would pass out. That was why I was to be sure to take her. I drank the coffee and hurried with the other people toward the bull-ring. I was not groggy now. There was only a bad headache. Everything looked sharp and clear, and the town smelt of the early morning. The stretch of ground from the edge of the town to the bull-ring was muddy. There was a crowd all along the fence that led to the ring, and the outside balconies and the top of the bull-ring were solid with people. I heard the rocket and I knew I could not get into the ring in time to see the bulls come in, so I shoved through the crowd to the fence. I was pushed close against the planks of the fence. Between the two fences of the runway the police were clearing the crowd along. They walked or trotted on into the bull-ring. Then people commenced to come running. A drunk slipped and fell. Two policemen grabbed him and rushed him over to the fence. The crowd were running fast now. There was a great shout from the crowd, and putting my head through between the boards I saw the bulls just coming out of the street into the long running pen. They were going fast and gaining on the crowd. Just then another drunk started out from the fence with a blouse in his hands. He wanted to do capework with the bulls. The two policemen tore out, collared him, one hit him with a club, and they dragged him against the fence and stood flattened out against the fence as the last of the crowd and the bulls went by. There were so many people running ahead of the bulls that the mass thickened and slowed up going through the gate into the ring, and as the bulls passed, galloping together, heavy, muddy-sided, horns swinging, one shot ahead, caught a man in the running crowd in the back and lifted him in the air. Both the man's arms were by his sides, his head went back as the horn went in, and the bull lifted him and then dropped him. The bull picked another man running in front, but the man disappeared into the crowd, and the crowd was through the gate and into the ring with the bulls behind them. The red door of the ring went shut, the crowd on the outside balconies of the bull-ring were pressing through to the inside, there was a shout, then another shout. The man who had been gored lay face down in the trampled mud. People climbed over the fence, and I could not see the man because the crowd was so thick around him. From inside the ring came the shouts. Each shout meant a charge by some bull into the crowd. You could tell by the degree of intensity in the shout how bad a thing it was that was happening. Then the rocket went up that meant the steers had gotten the bulls out of the ring and into the corrals. I left the fence and started back toward the town. Back in the town I went to the caf to have a second coffee and some buttered toast. The waiters were sweeping out the caf and mopping
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the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand it about Brett." "You called me a pimp." I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water. "I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy." "That's all right." He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. "I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more." He lay there on the bed. "Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath." "You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so." "Well," I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use." "What?" "Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake." "Sure," I said. "It's all right." "I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything." "Well," I said, "so long. I've got to go." He rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up. "So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?" "Sure. Why not?" We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well. "Well," I said, "see you in the morning."<|quote|>"I'm going away in the morning."</|quote|>"Oh, yes," I said. I went out. Cohn was standing in the door of the room. "Are you all right, Jake?" he asked. "Oh, yes," I said. "I'm all right." I could not find the bathroom. After a while I found it. There was a deep stone tub. I turned on the taps and the water would not run. I sat down on the edge of the bath-tub. When I got up to go I found I had taken off my shoes. I hunted for them and found them and carried them down-stairs. I found my room and went inside and undressed and got into bed. * * * * * I woke with a headache and the noise of the bands going by in the street. I remembered I had promised to take Bill's friend Edna to see the bulls go through the street and into the ring. I dressed and went down-stairs and out into the cold early morning. People were crossing the square, hurrying toward the bull-ring. Across the square were the two lines of men in front of the ticket-booths. They were still waiting for the tickets to go on sale at seven o'clock. I hurried across the street to the caf . The waiter told me that my friends had been there and gone. "How many were they?" "Two gentlemen and a lady." That was all right. Bill and Mike were with Edna. She had been afraid last night they would pass out. That was why I was to be sure to take her. I drank the coffee and hurried with the other people toward the bull-ring. I was not groggy now. There was only a bad headache. Everything looked sharp and clear, and the town smelt of the early morning. The stretch of ground from the edge of the town to the bull-ring was muddy. There was a crowd all along the fence that led to the ring, and the outside balconies and the top of the bull-ring were solid with people. I heard the rocket and I knew I could not get into the ring in time to see the bulls come in, so I shoved through the crowd to the fence. I was pushed close against the planks of the fence. Between the two fences of the runway the police were clearing the crowd along. They walked or trotted on into the bull-ring. Then people commenced to come running. A drunk slipped and fell. Two policemen grabbed him and rushed him over to the fence. The crowd were running fast now. There was a great shout from the crowd, and putting my head through between the boards I saw the bulls just coming out of the street into the long running pen. They were going fast and gaining on the crowd. Just then another drunk started out from the fence with a blouse in his hands. He wanted to do capework with the bulls. The two policemen tore out, collared him, one hit him with a club, and they dragged him against the fence and stood flattened out against the fence as the last of the crowd and the bulls went
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The Sun Also Rises
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she said. Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero. Marcial straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three matadors walked out. Behind them came all the procession, opening out, all striding in step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics rising like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules and the bull-ring servants. The matadors bowed, holding their hats on, before the President's box, and then came over to the barrera below us. Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold-brocaded cape and handed it over the fence to his sword-handler. He said something to the sword-handler. Close below us we saw Romero's lips were puffed, both eyes were discolored. His face was discolored and swollen. The sword-handler took the cape, looked up at Brett, and came over to us and handed up the cape.
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No speaker
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the glasses. "Here, take them,"<|quote|>she said. Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero. Marcial straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three matadors walked out. Behind them came all the procession, opening out, all striding in step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics rising like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules and the bull-ring servants. The matadors bowed, holding their hats on, before the President's box, and then came over to the barrera below us. Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold-brocaded cape and handed it over the fence to his sword-handler. He said something to the sword-handler. Close below us we saw Romero's lips were puffed, both eyes were discolored. His face was discolored and swollen. The sword-handler took the cape, looked up at Brett, and came over to us and handed up the cape.</|quote|>"Spread it out in front
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music started. Brett looked through the glasses. "Here, take them,"<|quote|>she said. Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero. Marcial straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three matadors walked out. Behind them came all the procession, opening out, all striding in step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics rising like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules and the bull-ring servants. The matadors bowed, holding their hats on, before the President's box, and then came over to the barrera below us. Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold-brocaded cape and handed it over the fence to his sword-handler. He said something to the sword-handler. Close below us we saw Romero's lips were puffed, both eyes were discolored. His face was discolored and swollen. The sword-handler took the cape, looked up at Brett, and came over to us and handed up the cape.</|quote|>"Spread it out in front of you," I said. Brett
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he nor Romero seemed to have anything in common with the others. They were all alone. The President came in; there was handclapping above us in the grand stand, and I handed the glasses to Brett. There was applause. The music started. Brett looked through the glasses. "Here, take them,"<|quote|>she said. Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero. Marcial straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three matadors walked out. Behind them came all the procession, opening out, all striding in step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics rising like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules and the bull-ring servants. The matadors bowed, holding their hats on, before the President's box, and then came over to the barrera below us. Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold-brocaded cape and handed it over the fence to his sword-handler. He said something to the sword-handler. Close below us we saw Romero's lips were puffed, both eyes were discolored. His face was discolored and swollen. The sword-handler took the cape, looked up at Brett, and came over to us and handed up the cape.</|quote|>"Spread it out in front of you," I said. Brett leaned forward. The cape was heavy and smoothly stiff with gold. The sword-handler looked back, shook his head, and said something. A man beside me leaned over toward Brett. "He doesn't want you to spread it," he said. "You should
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I could not see his face clearly under the hat, but it looked badly marked. He was looking straight ahead. Marcial was smoking a cigarette guardedly, holding it in his hand. Belmonte looked ahead, his face wan and yellow, his long wolf jaw out. He was looking at nothing. Neither he nor Romero seemed to have anything in common with the others. They were all alone. The President came in; there was handclapping above us in the grand stand, and I handed the glasses to Brett. There was applause. The music started. Brett looked through the glasses. "Here, take them,"<|quote|>she said. Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero. Marcial straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three matadors walked out. Behind them came all the procession, opening out, all striding in step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics rising like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules and the bull-ring servants. The matadors bowed, holding their hats on, before the President's box, and then came over to the barrera below us. Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold-brocaded cape and handed it over the fence to his sword-handler. He said something to the sword-handler. Close below us we saw Romero's lips were puffed, both eyes were discolored. His face was discolored and swollen. The sword-handler took the cape, looked up at Brett, and came over to us and handed up the cape.</|quote|>"Spread it out in front of you," I said. Brett leaned forward. The cape was heavy and smoothly stiff with gold. The sword-handler looked back, shook his head, and said something. A man beside me leaned over toward Brett. "He doesn't want you to spread it," he said. "You should fold it and keep it in your lap." Brett folded the heavy cape. Romero did not look up at us. He was speaking to Belmonte. Belmonte had sent his formal cape over to some friends. He looked across at them and smiled, his wolf smile that was only with the
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the corrals, the bull-fighters were standing, their arms furled in their capes, talking, waiting for the signal to march in across the arena. Brett was watching them with the glasses. "Here, would you like to look?" I looked through the glasses and saw the three matadors. Romero was in the centre, Belmonte on his left, Marcial on his right. Back of them were their people, and behind the banderilleros, back in the passageway and in the open space of the corral, I saw the picadors. Romero was wearing a black suit. His tricornered hat was low down over his eyes. I could not see his face clearly under the hat, but it looked badly marked. He was looking straight ahead. Marcial was smoking a cigarette guardedly, holding it in his hand. Belmonte looked ahead, his face wan and yellow, his long wolf jaw out. He was looking at nothing. Neither he nor Romero seemed to have anything in common with the others. They were all alone. The President came in; there was handclapping above us in the grand stand, and I handed the glasses to Brett. There was applause. The music started. Brett looked through the glasses. "Here, take them,"<|quote|>she said. Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero. Marcial straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three matadors walked out. Behind them came all the procession, opening out, all striding in step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics rising like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules and the bull-ring servants. The matadors bowed, holding their hats on, before the President's box, and then came over to the barrera below us. Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold-brocaded cape and handed it over the fence to his sword-handler. He said something to the sword-handler. Close below us we saw Romero's lips were puffed, both eyes were discolored. His face was discolored and swollen. The sword-handler took the cape, looked up at Brett, and came over to us and handed up the cape.</|quote|>"Spread it out in front of you," I said. Brett leaned forward. The cape was heavy and smoothly stiff with gold. The sword-handler looked back, shook his head, and said something. A man beside me leaned over toward Brett. "He doesn't want you to spread it," he said. "You should fold it and keep it in your lap." Brett folded the heavy cape. Romero did not look up at us. He was speaking to Belmonte. Belmonte had sent his formal cape over to some friends. He looked across at them and smiled, his wolf smile that was only with the mouth. Romero leaned over the barrera and asked for the water-jug. The sword-handler brought it and Romero poured water over the percale of his fighting-cape, and then scuffed the lower folds in the sand with his slippered foot. "What's that for?" Brett asked. "To give it weight in the wind." "His face looks bad," Bill said. "He feels very badly," Brett said. "He should be in bed." The first bull was Belmonte's. Belmonte was very good. But because he got thirty thousand pesetas and people had stayed in line all night to buy tickets to see him, the crowd demanded
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The sword-handlers and bull-ring servants came down the callejon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas. They were bloodstained and compactly folded and packed in the baskets. The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details. "He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas," she said. "Why do they call them muletas?" "I don't know." "I wonder if they ever launder them." "I don't think so. It might spoil the color." "The blood must stiffen them," Bill said. "Funny," Brett said. "How one doesn't mind the blood." Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword-handlers arranged everything. All the seats were full. Above, all the boxes were full. There was not an empty seat except in the President's box. When he came in the fight would start. Across the smooth sand, in the high doorway that led into the corrals, the bull-fighters were standing, their arms furled in their capes, talking, waiting for the signal to march in across the arena. Brett was watching them with the glasses. "Here, would you like to look?" I looked through the glasses and saw the three matadors. Romero was in the centre, Belmonte on his left, Marcial on his right. Back of them were their people, and behind the banderilleros, back in the passageway and in the open space of the corral, I saw the picadors. Romero was wearing a black suit. His tricornered hat was low down over his eyes. I could not see his face clearly under the hat, but it looked badly marked. He was looking straight ahead. Marcial was smoking a cigarette guardedly, holding it in his hand. Belmonte looked ahead, his face wan and yellow, his long wolf jaw out. He was looking at nothing. Neither he nor Romero seemed to have anything in common with the others. They were all alone. The President came in; there was handclapping above us in the grand stand, and I handed the glasses to Brett. There was applause. The music started. Brett looked through the glasses. "Here, take them,"<|quote|>she said. Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero. Marcial straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three matadors walked out. Behind them came all the procession, opening out, all striding in step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics rising like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules and the bull-ring servants. The matadors bowed, holding their hats on, before the President's box, and then came over to the barrera below us. Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold-brocaded cape and handed it over the fence to his sword-handler. He said something to the sword-handler. Close below us we saw Romero's lips were puffed, both eyes were discolored. His face was discolored and swollen. The sword-handler took the cape, looked up at Brett, and came over to us and handed up the cape.</|quote|>"Spread it out in front of you," I said. Brett leaned forward. The cape was heavy and smoothly stiff with gold. The sword-handler looked back, shook his head, and said something. A man beside me leaned over toward Brett. "He doesn't want you to spread it," he said. "You should fold it and keep it in your lap." Brett folded the heavy cape. Romero did not look up at us. He was speaking to Belmonte. Belmonte had sent his formal cape over to some friends. He looked across at them and smiled, his wolf smile that was only with the mouth. Romero leaned over the barrera and asked for the water-jug. The sword-handler brought it and Romero poured water over the percale of his fighting-cape, and then scuffed the lower folds in the sand with his slippered foot. "What's that for?" Brett asked. "To give it weight in the wind." "His face looks bad," Bill said. "He feels very badly," Brett said. "He should be in bed." The first bull was Belmonte's. Belmonte was very good. But because he got thirty thousand pesetas and people had stayed in line all night to buy tickets to see him, the crowd demanded that he should be more than very good. Belmonte's great attraction is working close to the bull. In bull-fighting they speak of the terrain of the bull and the terrain of the bull-fighter. As long as a bull-fighter stays in his own terrain he is comparatively safe. Each time he enters into the terrain of the bull he is in great danger. Belmonte, in his best days, worked always in the terrain of the bull. This way he gave the sensation of coming tragedy. People went to the corrida to see Belmonte, to be given tragic sensations, and perhaps to see the death of Belmonte. Fifteen years ago they said if you wanted to see Belmonte you should go quickly, while he was still alive. Since then he has killed more than a thousand bulls. When he retired the legend grew up about how his bull-fighting had been, and when he came out of retirement the public were disappointed because no real man could work as close to the bulls as Belmonte was supposed to have done, not, of course, even Belmonte. Also Belmonte imposed conditions and insisted that his bulls should not be too large, nor too dangerously armed
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eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time." "Let me cover you over." "No. I'm quite warm." "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet." "You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone away." He turned his head and looked at me. "Damned good thing, what?" "Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep." "I'm just start ing. I'm go ing to get a lit tle sleep." He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper. "See Mike?" "Yes." "Let's go and eat." "I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs." "He was snotty to us, too." "Let's go out and eat in the town." We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray. "There goes Brett's lunch," Bill said. "And the kid's," I said. Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite. "I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen," he said. "Go sit at it," Bill said. We went on out across the street. We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square. They were all men eating in the restaurant. It was full of smoke and drinking and singing. The food was good and so was the wine. We did not talk much. Afterward we went to the caf and watched the fiesta come to the boiling-point. Brett came over soon after lunch. She said she had looked in the room and that Mike was asleep. When the fiesta boiled over and toward the bull-ring we went with the crowd. Brett sat at the ringside between Bill and me. Directly below us was the callejon, the passageway between the stands and the red fence of the barrera. Behind us the concrete stands filled solidly. Out in front, beyond the red fence, the sand of the ring was smooth-rolled and yellow. It looked a little heavy from the rain, but it was dry in the sun and firm and smooth. The sword-handlers and bull-ring servants came down the callejon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas. They were bloodstained and compactly folded and packed in the baskets. The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details. "He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas," she said. "Why do they call them muletas?" "I don't know." "I wonder if they ever launder them." "I don't think so. It might spoil the color." "The blood must stiffen them," Bill said. "Funny," Brett said. "How one doesn't mind the blood." Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword-handlers arranged everything. All the seats were full. Above, all the boxes were full. There was not an empty seat except in the President's box. When he came in the fight would start. Across the smooth sand, in the high doorway that led into the corrals, the bull-fighters were standing, their arms furled in their capes, talking, waiting for the signal to march in across the arena. Brett was watching them with the glasses. "Here, would you like to look?" I looked through the glasses and saw the three matadors. Romero was in the centre, Belmonte on his left, Marcial on his right. Back of them were their people, and behind the banderilleros, back in the passageway and in the open space of the corral, I saw the picadors. Romero was wearing a black suit. His tricornered hat was low down over his eyes. I could not see his face clearly under the hat, but it looked badly marked. He was looking straight ahead. Marcial was smoking a cigarette guardedly, holding it in his hand. Belmonte looked ahead, his face wan and yellow, his long wolf jaw out. He was looking at nothing. Neither he nor Romero seemed to have anything in common with the others. They were all alone. The President came in; there was handclapping above us in the grand stand, and I handed the glasses to Brett. There was applause. The music started. Brett looked through the glasses. "Here, take them,"<|quote|>she said. Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero. Marcial straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three matadors walked out. Behind them came all the procession, opening out, all striding in step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics rising like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules and the bull-ring servants. The matadors bowed, holding their hats on, before the President's box, and then came over to the barrera below us. Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold-brocaded cape and handed it over the fence to his sword-handler. He said something to the sword-handler. Close below us we saw Romero's lips were puffed, both eyes were discolored. His face was discolored and swollen. The sword-handler took the cape, looked up at Brett, and came over to us and handed up the cape.</|quote|>"Spread it out in front of you," I said. Brett leaned forward. The cape was heavy and smoothly stiff with gold. The sword-handler looked back, shook his head, and said something. A man beside me leaned over toward Brett. "He doesn't want you to spread it," he said. "You should fold it and keep it in your lap." Brett folded the heavy cape. Romero did not look up at us. He was speaking to Belmonte. Belmonte had sent his formal cape over to some friends. He looked across at them and smiled, his wolf smile that was only with the mouth. Romero leaned over the barrera and asked for the water-jug. The sword-handler brought it and Romero poured water over the percale of his fighting-cape, and then scuffed the lower folds in the sand with his slippered foot. "What's that for?" Brett asked. "To give it weight in the wind." "His face looks bad," Bill said. "He feels very badly," Brett said. "He should be in bed." The first bull was Belmonte's. Belmonte was very good. But because he got thirty thousand pesetas and people had stayed in line all night to buy tickets to see him, the crowd demanded that he should be more than very good. Belmonte's great attraction is working close to the bull. In bull-fighting they speak of the terrain of the bull and the terrain of the bull-fighter. As long as a bull-fighter stays in his own terrain he is comparatively safe. Each time he enters into the terrain of the bull he is in great danger. Belmonte, in his best days, worked always in the terrain of the bull. This way he gave the sensation of coming tragedy. People went to the corrida to see Belmonte, to be given tragic sensations, and perhaps to see the death of Belmonte. Fifteen years ago they said if you wanted to see Belmonte you should go quickly, while he was still alive. Since then he has killed more than a thousand bulls. When he retired the legend grew up about how his bull-fighting had been, and when he came out of retirement the public were disappointed because no real man could work as close to the bulls as Belmonte was supposed to have done, not, of course, even Belmonte. Also Belmonte imposed conditions and insisted that his bulls should not be too large, nor too dangerously armed with horns, and so the element that was necessary to give the sensation of tragedy was not there, and the public, who wanted three times as much from Belmonte, who was sick with a fistula, as Belmonte had ever been able to give, felt defrauded and cheated, and Belmonte's jaw came further out in contempt, and his face turned yellower, and he moved with greater difficulty as his pain increased, and finally the crowd were actively against him, and he was utterly contemptuous and indifferent. He had meant to have a great afternoon, and instead it was an afternoon of sneers, shouted insults, and finally a volley of cushions and pieces of bread and vegetables, thrown down at him in the plaza where he had had his greatest triumphs. His jaw only went further out. Sometimes he turned to smile that toothed, long-jawed, lipless smile when he was called something particularly insulting, and always the pain that any movement produced grew stronger and stronger, until finally his yellow face was parchment color, and after his second bull was dead and the throwing of bread and cushions was over, after he had saluted the President with the same wolf-jawed smile and contemptuous eyes, and handed his sword over the barrera to be wiped, and put back in its case, he passed through into the callejon and leaned on the barrera below us, his head on his arms, not seeing, not hearing anything, only going through his pain. When he looked up, finally, he asked for a drink of water. He swallowed a little, rinsed his mouth, spat the water, took his cape, and went back into the ring. Because they were against Belmonte the public were for Romero. From the moment he left the barrera and went toward the bull they applauded him. Belmonte watched Romero, too, watched him always without seeming to. He paid no attention to Marcial. Marcial was the sort of thing he knew all about. He had come out of retirement to compete with Marcial, knowing it was a competition gained in advance. He had expected to compete with Marcial and the other stars of the decadence of bull-fighting, and he knew that the sincerity of his own bull-fighting would be so set off by the false sthetics of the bull-fighters of the decadent period that he would only have to be in the ring. His return
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but it was dry in the sun and firm and smooth. The sword-handlers and bull-ring servants came down the callejon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas. They were bloodstained and compactly folded and packed in the baskets. The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details. "He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas," she said. "Why do they call them muletas?" "I don't know." "I wonder if they ever launder them." "I don't think so. It might spoil the color." "The blood must stiffen them," Bill said. "Funny," Brett said. "How one doesn't mind the blood." Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword-handlers arranged everything. All the seats were full. Above, all the boxes were full. There was not an empty seat except in the President's box. When he came in the fight would start. Across the smooth sand, in the high doorway that led into the corrals, the bull-fighters were standing, their arms furled in their capes, talking, waiting for the signal to march in across the arena. Brett was watching them with the glasses. "Here, would you like to look?" I looked through the glasses and saw the three matadors. Romero was in the centre, Belmonte on his left, Marcial on his right. Back of them were their people, and behind the banderilleros, back in the passageway and in the open space of the corral, I saw the picadors. Romero was wearing a black suit. His tricornered hat was low down over his eyes. I could not see his face clearly under the hat, but it looked badly marked. He was looking straight ahead. Marcial was smoking a cigarette guardedly, holding it in his hand. Belmonte looked ahead, his face wan and yellow, his long wolf jaw out. He was looking at nothing. Neither he nor Romero seemed to have anything in common with the others. They were all alone. The President came in; there was handclapping above us in the grand stand, and I handed the glasses to Brett. There was applause. The music started. Brett looked through the glasses. "Here, take them,"<|quote|>she said. Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero. Marcial straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three matadors walked out. Behind them came all the procession, opening out, all striding in step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics rising like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules and the bull-ring servants. The matadors bowed, holding their hats on, before the President's box, and then came over to the barrera below us. Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold-brocaded cape and handed it over the fence to his sword-handler. He said something to the sword-handler. Close below us we saw Romero's lips were puffed, both eyes were discolored. His face was discolored and swollen. The sword-handler took the cape, looked up at Brett, and came over to us and handed up the cape.</|quote|>"Spread it out in front of you," I said. Brett leaned forward. The cape was heavy and smoothly stiff with gold. The sword-handler looked back, shook his head, and said something. A man beside me leaned over toward Brett. "He doesn't want you to spread it," he said. "You should fold it and keep it in your lap." Brett folded the heavy cape. Romero did not look up at us. He was speaking to Belmonte. Belmonte had sent his formal cape over to some friends. He looked across at them and smiled, his wolf smile that was only with the mouth. Romero leaned over the barrera and asked for the water-jug. The sword-handler brought it and Romero poured water over the percale of his fighting-cape, and then scuffed the lower folds in the sand with his slippered foot. "What's that for?" Brett asked. "To give it weight in the wind." "His face looks bad," Bill said. "He feels very badly," Brett said. "He should be in bed." The first bull was Belmonte's. Belmonte was very good. But because he got thirty thousand pesetas and people had stayed in line all night to buy tickets to see him, the crowd demanded that he should be more than very good. Belmonte's great attraction is working close to the bull. In bull-fighting they speak of the terrain of the bull and the terrain of the bull-fighter. As long as a bull-fighter stays in his own terrain he is comparatively safe. Each time he enters into the terrain of the bull he is in great danger. Belmonte, in his best days, worked always in the terrain of the bull. This way he gave the sensation of coming tragedy. People went to the corrida to see Belmonte, to be given tragic sensations, and perhaps to see the death of Belmonte. Fifteen years ago they said if you wanted to see Belmonte you should go quickly, while he was still alive. Since then he has killed more than a thousand bulls. When he retired the legend grew up about how his bull-fighting had been, and when he came out of retirement the public were disappointed because no real man could work as close to the bulls as Belmonte was supposed to have done, not, of course, even Belmonte. Also Belmonte imposed conditions and insisted that his bulls should not be too large, nor too dangerously armed with horns, and so the element that was necessary to give the sensation of tragedy was not
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The Sun Also Rises
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"Have another porto."
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Jake Barnes
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"Come on, Harvey," I said.<|quote|>"Have another porto."</|quote|>"No," he said. "I'm going
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don't mean anything to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said.<|quote|>"Have another porto."</|quote|>"No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat.
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would make a difference to you if anybody did it." "No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because you're not intelligent." "Cut it out about me." "Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You don't mean anything to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said.<|quote|>"Have another porto."</|quote|>"No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him."
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you," Harvey said. "You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development." "You're awfully funny, Harvey," Cohn said. "Some day somebody will push your face in." Harvey Stone laughed. "You think so. They won't, though. Because it wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm not a fighter." "It would make a difference to you if anybody did it." "No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because you're not intelligent." "Cut it out about me." "Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You don't mean anything to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said.<|quote|>"Have another porto."</|quote|>"No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time
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bums," he said. "Hello, Robert," Harvey said. "I was just telling Jake here that you're a moron." "What do you mean?" "Tell us right off. Don't think. What would you rather do if you could do anything you wanted?" Cohn started to consider. "Don't think. Bring it right out." "I don't know," Cohn said. "What's it all about, anyway?" "I mean what would you rather do. What comes into your head first. No matter how silly it is." "I don't know," Cohn said. "I think I'd rather play football again with what I know about handling myself, now." "I misjudged you," Harvey said. "You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development." "You're awfully funny, Harvey," Cohn said. "Some day somebody will push your face in." Harvey Stone laughed. "You think so. They won't, though. Because it wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm not a fighter." "It would make a difference to you if anybody did it." "No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because you're not intelligent." "Cut it out about me." "Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You don't mean anything to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said.<|quote|>"Have another porto."</|quote|>"No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time handling it." The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled
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my pocket. "Would a hundred help you any, Harvey?" "Yes." "Come on. Let's go and eat." "There's no hurry. Have a drink." "Better eat." "No. When I get like this I don't care whether I eat or not." We had a drink. Harvey added my saucer to his own pile. "Do you know Mencken, Harvey?" "Yes. Why?" "What's he like?" "He's all right. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had dinner with him we talked about Hoffenheimer." 'The trouble is,' "he said," 'he's a garter snapper.' "That's not bad." "That's not bad." "He's through now," Harvey went on. "He's written about all the things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know." "I guess he's all right," I said. "I just can't read him." "Oh, nobody reads him now," Harvey said, "except the people that used to read the Alexander Hamilton Institute." "Well," I said. "That was a good thing, too." "Sure," said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply for a while. "Have another port?" "All right," said Harvey. "There comes Cohn," I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the street. "That moron," said Harvey. Cohn came up to our table. "Hello, you bums," he said. "Hello, Robert," Harvey said. "I was just telling Jake here that you're a moron." "What do you mean?" "Tell us right off. Don't think. What would you rather do if you could do anything you wanted?" Cohn started to consider. "Don't think. Bring it right out." "I don't know," Cohn said. "What's it all about, anyway?" "I mean what would you rather do. What comes into your head first. No matter how silly it is." "I don't know," Cohn said. "I think I'd rather play football again with what I know about handling myself, now." "I misjudged you," Harvey said. "You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development." "You're awfully funny, Harvey," Cohn said. "Some day somebody will push your face in." Harvey Stone laughed. "You think so. They won't, though. Because it wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm not a fighter." "It would make a difference to you if anybody did it." "No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because you're not intelligent." "Cut it out about me." "Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You don't mean anything to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said.<|quote|>"Have another porto."</|quote|>"No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time handling it." The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here
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of the inventor of the semaphore engaged in doing same, and turned up the Boulevard Raspail, and I sat back to let that part of the ride pass. The Boulevard Raspail always made dull riding. It was like a certain stretch on the P. L. M. between Fontainebleau and Montereau that always made me feel bored and dead and dull until it was over. I suppose it is some association of ideas that makes those dead places in a journey. There are other streets in Paris as ugly as the Boulevard Raspail. It is a street I do not mind walking down at all. But I cannot stand to ride along it. Perhaps I had read something about it once. That was the way Robert Cohn was about all of Paris. I wondered where Cohn got that incapacity to enjoy Paris. Possibly from Mencken. Mencken hates Paris, I believe. So many young men get their likes and dislikes from Mencken. The taxi stopped in front of the Rotonde. No matter what caf in Montparnasse you ask a taxi-driver to bring you to from the right bank of the river, they always take you to the Rotonde. Ten years from now it will probably be the Dome. It was near enough, anyway. I walked past the sad tables of the Rotonde to the Select. There were a few people inside at the bar, and outside, alone, sat Harvey Stone. He had a pile of saucers in front of him, and he needed a shave. "Sit down," said Harvey, "I've been looking for you." "What's the matter?" "Nothing. Just looking for you." "Been out to the races?" "No. Not since Sunday." "What do you hear from the States?" "Nothing. Absolutely nothing." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I'm through with them. I'm absolutely through with them." He leaned forward and looked me in the eye. "Do you want to know something, Jake?" "Yes." "I haven't had anything to eat for five days." I figured rapidly back in my mind. It was three days ago that Harvey had won two hundred francs from me shaking poker dice in the New York Bar. "What's the matter?" "No money. Money hasn't come," he paused. "I tell you it's strange, Jake. When I'm like this I just want to be alone. I want to stay in my own room. I'm like a cat." I felt in my pocket. "Would a hundred help you any, Harvey?" "Yes." "Come on. Let's go and eat." "There's no hurry. Have a drink." "Better eat." "No. When I get like this I don't care whether I eat or not." We had a drink. Harvey added my saucer to his own pile. "Do you know Mencken, Harvey?" "Yes. Why?" "What's he like?" "He's all right. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had dinner with him we talked about Hoffenheimer." 'The trouble is,' "he said," 'he's a garter snapper.' "That's not bad." "That's not bad." "He's through now," Harvey went on. "He's written about all the things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know." "I guess he's all right," I said. "I just can't read him." "Oh, nobody reads him now," Harvey said, "except the people that used to read the Alexander Hamilton Institute." "Well," I said. "That was a good thing, too." "Sure," said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply for a while. "Have another port?" "All right," said Harvey. "There comes Cohn," I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the street. "That moron," said Harvey. Cohn came up to our table. "Hello, you bums," he said. "Hello, Robert," Harvey said. "I was just telling Jake here that you're a moron." "What do you mean?" "Tell us right off. Don't think. What would you rather do if you could do anything you wanted?" Cohn started to consider. "Don't think. Bring it right out." "I don't know," Cohn said. "What's it all about, anyway?" "I mean what would you rather do. What comes into your head first. No matter how silly it is." "I don't know," Cohn said. "I think I'd rather play football again with what I know about handling myself, now." "I misjudged you," Harvey said. "You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development." "You're awfully funny, Harvey," Cohn said. "Some day somebody will push your face in." Harvey Stone laughed. "You think so. They won't, though. Because it wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm not a fighter." "It would make a difference to you if anybody did it." "No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because you're not intelligent." "Cut it out about me." "Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You don't mean anything to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said.<|quote|>"Have another porto."</|quote|>"No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time handling it." The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen." "There she is." Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz----" "What did you do?" "Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?" "Fine." "That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with that Brett one." "Don't you like her?" Cohn asked. "I think she's perfectly charming. Don't you?" Cohn said nothing. "Look, Jake. I want to talk with you. Would you come over with me to the Dome? You'll stay here, won't you, Robert? Come on, Jake." We crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse and sat down at a table. A boy came up with the _Paris Times_, and I bought one and opened it. "What's the matter, Frances?" "Oh, nothing," she said, "except that he wants to leave me." "How do you mean?" "Oh, he told every one that we were going to be married, and I told my mother and every one, and now he doesn't want to do it." "What's the matter?" "He's decided he hasn't lived enough. I knew it would happen when he went to New York." She looked up, very bright-eyed and trying to talk inconsequentially. "I wouldn't marry him if he doesn't want to. Of course I wouldn't. I wouldn't marry him now for anything. But it does seem to me to be a little late now, after we've waited three years, and I've just gotten my divorce." I said nothing. "We were going to celebrate so, and instead
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for five days." I figured rapidly back in my mind. It was three days ago that Harvey had won two hundred francs from me shaking poker dice in the New York Bar. "What's the matter?" "No money. Money hasn't come," he paused. "I tell you it's strange, Jake. When I'm like this I just want to be alone. I want to stay in my own room. I'm like a cat." I felt in my pocket. "Would a hundred help you any, Harvey?" "Yes." "Come on. Let's go and eat." "There's no hurry. Have a drink." "Better eat." "No. When I get like this I don't care whether I eat or not." We had a drink. Harvey added my saucer to his own pile. "Do you know Mencken, Harvey?" "Yes. Why?" "What's he like?" "He's all right. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had dinner with him we talked about Hoffenheimer." 'The trouble is,' "he said," 'he's a garter snapper.' "That's not bad." "That's not bad." "He's through now," Harvey went on. "He's written about all the things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know." "I guess he's all right," I said. "I just can't read him." "Oh, nobody reads him now," Harvey said, "except the people that used to read the Alexander Hamilton Institute." "Well," I said. "That was a good thing, too." "Sure," said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply for a while. "Have another port?" "All right," said Harvey. "There comes Cohn," I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the street. "That moron," said Harvey. Cohn came up to our table. "Hello, you bums," he said. "Hello, Robert," Harvey said. "I was just telling Jake here that you're a moron." "What do you mean?" "Tell us right off. Don't think. What would you rather do if you could do anything you wanted?" Cohn started to consider. "Don't think. Bring it right out." "I don't know," Cohn said. "What's it all about, anyway?" "I mean what would you rather do. What comes into your head first. No matter how silly it is." "I don't know," Cohn said. "I think I'd rather play football again with what I know about handling myself, now." "I misjudged you," Harvey said. "You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development." "You're awfully funny, Harvey," Cohn said. "Some day somebody will push your face in." Harvey Stone laughed. "You think so. They won't, though. Because it wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm not a fighter." "It would make a difference to you if anybody did it." "No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because you're not intelligent." "Cut it out about me." "Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You don't mean anything to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said.<|quote|>"Have another porto."</|quote|>"No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time handling it." The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen." "There she is." Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz----" "What did you do?" "Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are
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The Sun Also Rises
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We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes despatched his wire.
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No speaker
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of use to us yet."<|quote|>We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes despatched his wire.</|quote|>"Whom do you think that
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Toby, for he may be of use to us yet."<|quote|>We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes despatched his wire.</|quote|>"Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as
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we landed near Millbank Penitentiary. "Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour s sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again. Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be of use to us yet."<|quote|>We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes despatched his wire.</|quote|>"Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we resumed our journey. "I am sure I don t know." "You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?" "Well," said I, laughing. "This is just the case where
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no hurry. Jones s energy will be of use to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong scent." "What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank Penitentiary. "Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour s sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again. Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be of use to us yet."<|quote|>We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes despatched his wire.</|quote|>"Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we resumed our journey. "I am sure I don t know." "You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?" "Well," said I, laughing. "This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail, I have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast." It was between eight and nine
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call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself, now that we have gone so far." "Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?" "Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly safe they will be in no hurry. Jones s energy will be of use to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong scent." "What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank Penitentiary. "Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour s sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again. Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be of use to us yet."<|quote|>We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes despatched his wire.</|quote|>"Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we resumed our journey. "I am sure I don t know." "You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?" "Well," said I, laughing. "This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail, I have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast." It was between eight and nine o clock now, and I was conscious of a strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not the professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I look at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem. As far as the death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of him, and could feel no intense antipathy to his murderers. The treasure, however, was a different matter. That, or part of it, belonged rightfully to Miss Morstan. While there was a
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uneasy. A black funnel, you say?" "No, sir. Black with a white band." "Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs. Smith. There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the river." "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want." "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I. "What would you do, then?" "I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the _Aurora_." "My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set about it alone." "Employ the police, then." "No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself, now that we have gone so far." "Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?" "Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly safe they will be in no hurry. Jones s energy will be of use to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong scent." "What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank Penitentiary. "Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour s sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again. Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be of use to us yet."<|quote|>We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes despatched his wire.</|quote|>"Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we resumed our journey. "I am sure I don t know." "You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?" "Well," said I, laughing. "This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail, I have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast." It was between eight and nine o clock now, and I was conscious of a strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not the professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I look at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem. As far as the death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of him, and could feel no intense antipathy to his murderers. The treasure, however, was a different matter. That, or part of it, belonged rightfully to Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it I was ready to devote my life to the one object. True, if I found it it would probably put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be a petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a thought as that. If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had a tenfold stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure. A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up wonderfully. When I came down to our room I found the breakfast laid and Homes pouring out the coffee. "Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to an open newspaper. "The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up between them. But you have had enough of the case. Better have your ham and eggs first." I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was headed "Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood." "About twelve o clock last night," said the _Standard_, "Mr. Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found dead in his room under circumstances which point to foul play. As far as we can learn, no actual traces of
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nothin ; for many a time a job has taken him as far as Gravesend, and then if there was much doin there he might ha stayed over. But what good is a steam launch without coals?" "He might have bought some at a wharf down the river." "He might, sir, but it weren t his way. Many a time I ve heard him call out at the prices they charge for a few odd bags. Besides, I don t like that wooden-legged man, wi his ugly face and outlandish talk. What did he want always knockin about here for?" "A wooden-legged man?" said Holmes, with bland surprise. "Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that s called more n once for my old man. It was him that roused him up yesternight, and, what s more, my man knew he was comin , for he had steam up in the launch. I tell you straight, sir, I don t feel easy in my mind about it." "But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, "You are frightening yourself about nothing. How could you possibly tell that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night? I don t quite understand how you can be so sure." "His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind o thick and foggy. He tapped at the winder, about three it would be." Show a leg, matey, "says he:" time to turn out guard. "My old man woke up Jim, that s my eldest, and away they went, without so much as a word to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin on the stones." "And was this wooden-legged man alone?" "Couldn t say, I am sure, sir. I didn t hear no one else." "I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have heard good reports of the Let me see, what is her name?" "The _Aurora_, sir." "Ah! She s not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in the beam?" "No, indeed. She s as trim a little thing as any on the river. She s been fresh painted, black with two red streaks." "Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see anything of the _Aurora_ I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?" "No, sir. Black with a white band." "Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs. Smith. There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the river." "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want." "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I. "What would you do, then?" "I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the _Aurora_." "My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set about it alone." "Employ the police, then." "No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself, now that we have gone so far." "Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?" "Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly safe they will be in no hurry. Jones s energy will be of use to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong scent." "What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank Penitentiary. "Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour s sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again. Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be of use to us yet."<|quote|>We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes despatched his wire.</|quote|>"Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we resumed our journey. "I am sure I don t know." "You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?" "Well," said I, laughing. "This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail, I have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast." It was between eight and nine o clock now, and I was conscious of a strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not the professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I look at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem. As far as the death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of him, and could feel no intense antipathy to his murderers. The treasure, however, was a different matter. That, or part of it, belonged rightfully to Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it I was ready to devote my life to the one object. True, if I found it it would probably put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be a petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a thought as that. If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had a tenfold stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure. A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up wonderfully. When I came down to our room I found the breakfast laid and Homes pouring out the coffee. "Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to an open newspaper. "The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up between them. But you have had enough of the case. Better have your ham and eggs first." I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was headed "Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood." "About twelve o clock last night," said the _Standard_, "Mr. Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found dead in his room under circumstances which point to foul play. As far as we can learn, no actual traces of violence were found upon Mr. Sholto s person, but a valuable collection of Indian gems which the deceased gentleman had inherited from his father has been carried off. The discovery was first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, who had called at the house with Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother of the deceased. By a singular piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney Jones, the well-known member of the detective police force, happened to be at the Norwood Police Station, and was on the ground within half an hour of the first alarm. His trained and experienced faculties were at once directed towards the detection of the criminals, with the gratifying result that the brother, Thaddeus Sholto, has already been arrested, together with the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, an Indian butler named Lal Rao, and a porter, or gatekeeper, named McMurdo. It is quite certain that the thief or thieves were well acquainted with the house, for Mr. Jones s well-known technical knowledge and his powers of minute observation have enabled him to prove conclusively that the miscreants could not have entered by the door or by the window, but must have made their way across the roof of the building, and so through a trap-door into a room which communicated with that in which the body was found. This fact, which has been very clearly made out, proves conclusively that it was no mere haphazard burglary. The prompt and energetic action of the officers of the law shows the great advantage of the presence on such occasions of a single vigorous and masterful mind. We cannot but think that it supplies an argument to those who would wish to see our detectives more decentralised, and so brought into closer and more effective touch with the cases which it is their duty to investigate." "Isn t it gorgeous!" said Holmes, grinning over his coffee-cup. "What do you think of it?" "I think that we have had a close shave ourselves of being arrested for the crime." "So do I. I wouldn t answer for our safety now, if he should happen to have another of his attacks of energy." At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell, and I could hear Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, raising her voice in a wail of expostulation and dismay. "By heaven, Holmes," I said, half rising, "I believe that they are really
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if I should see anything of the _Aurora_ I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?" "No, sir. Black with a white band." "Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs. Smith. There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the river." "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want." "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I. "What would you do, then?" "I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the _Aurora_." "My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set about it alone." "Employ the police, then." "No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself, now that we have gone so far." "Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?" "Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly safe they will be in no hurry. Jones s energy will be of use to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong scent." "What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank Penitentiary. "Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour s sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again. Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be of use to us yet."<|quote|>We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes despatched his wire.</|quote|>"Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we resumed our journey. "I am sure I don t know." "You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?" "Well," said I, laughing. "This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail, I have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast." It was between eight and nine o clock now, and I was conscious of a strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not the professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I look at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem. As far as the death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of him, and could feel no intense antipathy to his murderers. The treasure, however, was a different matter. That, or part of it, belonged rightfully to Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it I was ready to devote my life to the one object. True, if I found it it would probably put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be a petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a thought as that. If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had a tenfold stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure. A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up wonderfully. When I came down to our room I found the breakfast laid and Homes pouring out the coffee. "Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to an open newspaper. "The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up between them. But you have had enough of the case. Better have your ham and eggs first." I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was headed "Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood." "About twelve o clock last night," said the _Standard_, "Mr. Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found dead in his room under circumstances which point to foul play. As far as we can learn, no actual traces of violence were found upon Mr. Sholto s person, but a valuable collection of Indian gems which the deceased gentleman had inherited from his father has been carried off. The discovery was first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, who had called at the house with Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother of the deceased. By a singular piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney Jones, the well-known member of the detective police force, happened to be at the Norwood Police Station, and was on the ground within half an hour of the first alarm. His trained and experienced faculties were at once directed towards the detection of the criminals, with the gratifying result that the brother, Thaddeus Sholto, has already been arrested, together with the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, an Indian butler named Lal Rao, and a porter, or gatekeeper, named McMurdo. It is quite certain that the thief or thieves were well acquainted with the house, for Mr. Jones s well-known technical knowledge and his powers of minute observation have enabled him to prove conclusively that the miscreants could not have entered by the door or by
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The Sign Of The Four
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he asked.
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No speaker
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you will let me do?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"That is all," she answered.
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again. "Is there anything more you will let me do?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"That is all," she answered. "Ellen can manage the rest."
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as Edna directed. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and went out to wash his hands. Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather duster along the carpet when he came in again. "Is there anything more you will let me do?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"That is all," she answered. "Ellen can manage the rest." She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with Arobin. "What about the dinner?" he asked; "the grand event, the _coup d' tat?_" "It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it
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it impossible to control, when she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as he could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened it at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder, unhooking pictures and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Edna directed. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and went out to wash his hands. Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather duster along the carpet when he came in again. "Is there anything more you will let me do?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"That is all," she answered. "Ellen can manage the rest." She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with Arobin. "What about the dinner?" he asked; "the grand event, the _coup d' tat?_" "It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the _coup d' tat?_' Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything crystal, silver and gold, S vres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I'll let L once pay the bills. I wonder what he'll say when he sees the bills." "And you ask me why
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as he bent himself easily and naturally to the situation which confronted him. "Please come down," he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at her. "No," she answered; "Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is working over at the pigeon house' that's the name Ellen gives it, because it's so small and looks like a pigeon house and some one has to do this." Arobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing to tempt fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps, and went into contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible to control, when she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as he could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened it at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder, unhooking pictures and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Edna directed. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and went out to wash his hands. Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather duster along the carpet when he came in again. "Is there anything more you will let me do?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"That is all," she answered. "Ellen can manage the rest." She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with Arobin. "What about the dinner?" he asked; "the grand event, the _coup d' tat?_" "It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the _coup d' tat?_' Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything crystal, silver and gold, S vres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I'll let L once pay the bills. I wonder what he'll say when he sees the bills." "And you ask me why I call it a _coup d' tat?_" Arobin had put on his coat, and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. She told him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar. "When do you go to the pigeon house?' with all due acknowledgment to Ellen." "Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there." "Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?" asked Arobin. "The dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such a thing, has parched my throat to a crisp." "While Ellen
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who has entered and lingered within the portals of some forbidden temple in which a thousand muffled voices bade her begone. Whatever was her own in the house, everything which she had acquired aside from her husband's bounty, she caused to be transported to the other house, supplying simple and meager deficiencies from her own resources. Arobin found her with rolled sleeves, working in company with the house-maid when he looked in during the afternoon. She was splendid and robust, and had never appeared handsomer than in the old blue gown, with a red silk handkerchief knotted at random around her head to protect her hair from the dust. She was mounted upon a high stepladder, unhooking a picture from the wall when he entered. He had found the front door open, and had followed his ring by walking in unceremoniously. "Come down!" he said. "Do you want to kill yourself?" She greeted him with affected carelessness, and appeared absorbed in her occupation. If he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging in sentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised. He was no doubt prepared for any emergency, ready for any one of the foregoing attitudes, just as he bent himself easily and naturally to the situation which confronted him. "Please come down," he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at her. "No," she answered; "Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is working over at the pigeon house' that's the name Ellen gives it, because it's so small and looks like a pigeon house and some one has to do this." Arobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing to tempt fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps, and went into contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible to control, when she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as he could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened it at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder, unhooking pictures and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Edna directed. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and went out to wash his hands. Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather duster along the carpet when he came in again. "Is there anything more you will let me do?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"That is all," she answered. "Ellen can manage the rest." She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with Arobin. "What about the dinner?" he asked; "the grand event, the _coup d' tat?_" "It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the _coup d' tat?_' Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything crystal, silver and gold, S vres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I'll let L once pay the bills. I wonder what he'll say when he sees the bills." "And you ask me why I call it a _coup d' tat?_" Arobin had put on his coat, and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. She told him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar. "When do you go to the pigeon house?' with all due acknowledgment to Ellen." "Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there." "Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?" asked Arobin. "The dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such a thing, has parched my throat to a crisp." "While Ellen gets the water," said Edna, rising, "I will say good-by and let you go. I must get rid of this grime, and I have a million things to do and think of." "When shall I see you?" asked Arobin, seeking to detain her, the maid having left the room. "At the dinner, of course. You are invited." "Not before? not to-night or to-morrow morning or to-morrow noon or night? or the day after morning or noon? Can't you see yourself, without my telling you, what an eternity it is?" He had followed her into the hall and to the foot of the stairway, looking up at her as she mounted with her face half turned to him. "Not an instant sooner," she said. But she laughed and looked at him with eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to wait. XXX Though Edna had spoken of the dinner as a very grand affair, it was in truth a very small affair and very select, in so much as the guests invited were few and were selected with discrimination. She had counted upon an even dozen seating themselves at her round mahogany board, forgetting for
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like," cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath her head; "but let me think of something else while you do." "I'm jealous of your thoughts to-night. They're making you a little kinder than usual; but some way I feel as if they were wandering, as if they were not here with me." She only looked at him and smiled. His eyes were very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended across her, while the other hand still rested upon her hair. They continued silently to look into each other's eyes. When he leaned forward and kissed her, she clasped his head, holding his lips to hers. It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really responded. It was a flaming torch that kindled desire. XXVIII Edna cried a little that night after Arobin left her. It was only one phase of the multitudinous emotions which had assailed her. There was with her an overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was the shock of the unexpected and the unaccustomed. There was her husband's reproach looking at her from the external things around her which he had provided for her external existence. There was Robert's reproach making itself felt by a quicker, fiercer, more overpowering love, which had awakened within her toward him. Above all, there was understanding. She felt as if a mist had been lifted from her eyes, enabling her to look upon and comprehend the significance of life, that monster made up of beauty and brutality. But among the conflicting sensations which assailed her, there was neither shame nor remorse. There was a dull pang of regret because it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed her, because it was not love which had held this cup of life to her lips. XXIX Without even waiting for an answer from her husband regarding his opinion or wishes in the matter, Edna hastened her preparations for quitting her home on Esplanade Street and moving into the little house around the block. A feverish anxiety attended her every action in that direction. There was no moment of deliberation, no interval of repose between the thought and its fulfillment. Early upon the morning following those hours passed in Arobin's society, Edna set about securing her new abode and hurrying her arrangements for occupying it. Within the precincts of her home she felt like one who has entered and lingered within the portals of some forbidden temple in which a thousand muffled voices bade her begone. Whatever was her own in the house, everything which she had acquired aside from her husband's bounty, she caused to be transported to the other house, supplying simple and meager deficiencies from her own resources. Arobin found her with rolled sleeves, working in company with the house-maid when he looked in during the afternoon. She was splendid and robust, and had never appeared handsomer than in the old blue gown, with a red silk handkerchief knotted at random around her head to protect her hair from the dust. She was mounted upon a high stepladder, unhooking a picture from the wall when he entered. He had found the front door open, and had followed his ring by walking in unceremoniously. "Come down!" he said. "Do you want to kill yourself?" She greeted him with affected carelessness, and appeared absorbed in her occupation. If he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging in sentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised. He was no doubt prepared for any emergency, ready for any one of the foregoing attitudes, just as he bent himself easily and naturally to the situation which confronted him. "Please come down," he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at her. "No," she answered; "Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is working over at the pigeon house' that's the name Ellen gives it, because it's so small and looks like a pigeon house and some one has to do this." Arobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing to tempt fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps, and went into contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible to control, when she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as he could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened it at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder, unhooking pictures and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Edna directed. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and went out to wash his hands. Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather duster along the carpet when he came in again. "Is there anything more you will let me do?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"That is all," she answered. "Ellen can manage the rest." She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with Arobin. "What about the dinner?" he asked; "the grand event, the _coup d' tat?_" "It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the _coup d' tat?_' Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything crystal, silver and gold, S vres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I'll let L once pay the bills. I wonder what he'll say when he sees the bills." "And you ask me why I call it a _coup d' tat?_" Arobin had put on his coat, and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. She told him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar. "When do you go to the pigeon house?' with all due acknowledgment to Ellen." "Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there." "Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?" asked Arobin. "The dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such a thing, has parched my throat to a crisp." "While Ellen gets the water," said Edna, rising, "I will say good-by and let you go. I must get rid of this grime, and I have a million things to do and think of." "When shall I see you?" asked Arobin, seeking to detain her, the maid having left the room. "At the dinner, of course. You are invited." "Not before? not to-night or to-morrow morning or to-morrow noon or night? or the day after morning or noon? Can't you see yourself, without my telling you, what an eternity it is?" He had followed her into the hall and to the foot of the stairway, looking up at her as she mounted with her face half turned to him. "Not an instant sooner," she said. But she laughed and looked at him with eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to wait. XXX Though Edna had spoken of the dinner as a very grand affair, it was in truth a very small affair and very select, in so much as the guests invited were few and were selected with discrimination. She had counted upon an even dozen seating themselves at her round mahogany board, forgetting for the moment that Madame Ratignolle was to the last degree _souffrante_ and unpresentable, and not foreseeing that Madame Lebrun would send a thousand regrets at the last moment. So there were only ten, after all, which made a cozy, comfortable number. There were Mr. and Mrs. Merriman, a pretty, vivacious little woman in the thirties; her husband, a jovial fellow, something of a shallow-pate, who laughed a good deal at other people's witticisms, and had thereby made himself extremely popular. Mrs. Highcamp had accompanied them. Of course, there was Alc e Arobin; and Mademoiselle Reisz had consented to come. Edna had sent her a fresh bunch of violets with black lace trimmings for her hair. Monsieur Ratignolle brought himself and his wife's excuses. Victor Lebrun, who happened to be in the city, bent upon relaxation, had accepted with alacrity. There was a Miss Mayblunt, no longer in her teens, who looked at the world through lorgnettes and with the keenest interest. It was thought and said that she was intellectual; it was suspected of her that she wrote under a _nom de guerre_. She had come with a gentleman by the name of Gouvernail, connected with one of the daily papers, of whom nothing special could be said, except that he was observant and seemed quiet and inoffensive. Edna herself made the tenth, and at half-past eight they seated themselves at table, Arobin and Monsieur Ratignolle on either side of their hostess. Mrs. Highcamp sat between Arobin and Victor Lebrun. Then came Mrs. Merriman, Mr. Gouvernail, Miss Mayblunt, Mr. Merriman, and Mademoiselle Reisz next to Monsieur Ratignolle. There was something extremely gorgeous about the appearance of the table, an effect of splendor conveyed by a cover of pale yellow satin under strips of lace-work. There were wax candles, in massive brass candelabra, burning softly under yellow silk shades; full, fragrant roses, yellow and red, abounded. There were silver and gold, as she had said there would be, and crystal which glittered like the gems which the women wore. The ordinary stiff dining chairs had been discarded for the occasion and replaced by the most commodious and luxurious which could be collected throughout the house. Mademoiselle Reisz, being exceedingly diminutive, was elevated upon cushions, as small children are sometimes hoisted at table upon bulky volumes. "Something new, Edna?" exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, with lorgnette directed toward a magnificent cluster of diamonds that
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splendid and robust, and had never appeared handsomer than in the old blue gown, with a red silk handkerchief knotted at random around her head to protect her hair from the dust. She was mounted upon a high stepladder, unhooking a picture from the wall when he entered. He had found the front door open, and had followed his ring by walking in unceremoniously. "Come down!" he said. "Do you want to kill yourself?" She greeted him with affected carelessness, and appeared absorbed in her occupation. If he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging in sentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised. He was no doubt prepared for any emergency, ready for any one of the foregoing attitudes, just as he bent himself easily and naturally to the situation which confronted him. "Please come down," he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at her. "No," she answered; "Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is working over at the pigeon house' that's the name Ellen gives it, because it's so small and looks like a pigeon house and some one has to do this." Arobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing to tempt fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps, and went into contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible to control, when she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as he could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened it at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder, unhooking pictures and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Edna directed. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and went out to wash his hands. Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather duster along the carpet when he came in again. "Is there anything more you will let me do?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"That is all," she answered. "Ellen can manage the rest." She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with Arobin. "What about the dinner?" he asked; "the grand event, the _coup d' tat?_" "It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the _coup d' tat?_' Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything crystal, silver and gold, S vres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I'll let L once pay the bills. I wonder what he'll say when he sees the bills." "And you ask me why I call it a _coup d' tat?_" Arobin had put on his coat, and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. She told him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar. "When do you go to the pigeon house?' with all due acknowledgment to Ellen." "Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there." "Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?" asked Arobin. "The dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such a thing, has parched my throat to a crisp." "While Ellen gets the water," said Edna, rising, "I will say good-by and let you go. I must get rid of this grime, and I have a million things to do and think of." "When shall I see you?" asked Arobin, seeking to detain her, the maid having left the room. "At the dinner, of course. You are invited." "Not before? not to-night or to-morrow morning or to-morrow noon or night? or the day after morning or noon? Can't you see yourself, without my telling you, what an eternity it is?" He had followed her into the hall and to the foot of the stairway, looking up at her as she mounted with her face half turned to him. "Not an instant sooner," she said. But she laughed and looked at him with eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to wait. XXX Though Edna had spoken of the dinner as a very grand affair, it was in truth a very small affair and very select, in so much as the guests invited were few and were selected with discrimination. She had counted upon an even dozen seating themselves at her round mahogany board, forgetting for the moment that Madame Ratignolle was to the last degree _souffrante_ and unpresentable, and not foreseeing that Madame Lebrun would send a thousand regrets at the last moment. So there were only ten, after all, which made a cozy, comfortable number. There were Mr. and Mrs. Merriman, a pretty, vivacious little woman in the thirties; her husband, a jovial fellow, something of a shallow-pate, who laughed a good deal at other people's witticisms, and had thereby made himself extremely popular. Mrs. Highcamp had accompanied them. Of course, there was Alc e Arobin; and Mademoiselle Reisz had consented to come. Edna had sent her a fresh bunch of violets with black lace trimmings for her hair. Monsieur Ratignolle brought himself and his wife's excuses. Victor Lebrun, who happened to be in the city, bent upon relaxation, had accepted with alacrity. There was a Miss Mayblunt, no longer in her teens, who looked at the world through lorgnettes and with the keenest interest. It was thought and said that she was intellectual; it was suspected of her that she wrote under a _nom de guerre_. She
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The Awakening
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"No, indeed--_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but _we_ are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air."
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Isabella
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off!--and the air so bad!"<|quote|>"No, indeed--_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but _we_ are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air."</|quote|>"Ah! my dear, it is
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to live there! so far off!--and the air so bad!"<|quote|>"No, indeed--_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but _we_ are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air."</|quote|>"Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make
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Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly except--" "Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!--and the air so bad!"<|quote|>"No, indeed--_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but _we_ are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air."</|quote|>"Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it--but after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different creatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I think you are any of you looking well
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good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you mention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy as he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season." "No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly except--" "Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!--and the air so bad!"<|quote|>"No, indeed--_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but _we_ are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air."</|quote|>"Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it--but after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different creatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I think you are any of you looking well at present." "I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were rather pale before they went to bed, it was only
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your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs. Bates--I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.--They are always so pleased to see my children.--And that excellent Miss Bates!--such thorough worthy people!--How are they, sir?" "Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago." "How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more general or heavy--except when it has been quite an influenza." "That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you mention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy as he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season." "No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly except--" "Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!--and the air so bad!"<|quote|>"No, indeed--_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but _we_ are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air."</|quote|>"Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it--but after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different creatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I think you are any of you looking well at present." "I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a little more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of coming. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill," turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband. "Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well." "What is the matter, sir?--Did you speak to me?" cried
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so clever a man any where." "And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow? I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He will be so pleased to see my little ones." "I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes, you had better let him look at little Bella's throat." "Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since August." "It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use to her--and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have spoken to--" "You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates," said Emma, "I have not heard one inquiry after them." "Oh! the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself--but you mention them in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs. Bates--I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.--They are always so pleased to see my children.--And that excellent Miss Bates!--such thorough worthy people!--How are they, sir?" "Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago." "How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more general or heavy--except when it has been quite an influenza." "That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you mention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy as he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season." "No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly except--" "Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!--and the air so bad!"<|quote|>"No, indeed--_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but _we_ are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air."</|quote|>"Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it--but after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different creatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I think you are any of you looking well at present." "I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a little more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of coming. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill," turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband. "Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well." "What is the matter, sir?--Did you speak to me?" cried Mr. John Knightley, hearing his own name. "I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking well--but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left home." "My dear Isabella," "--exclaimed he hastily--" "pray do not concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I chuse." "I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother," cried Emma, "about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailiff from Scotland, to look after his new estate. What will it answer? Will not the old prejudice be too strong?" And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced to give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing worse to hear than Isabella's kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane Fairfax, though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that moment very happy to assist in praising. "That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!" said Mrs. John Knightley.--" "It is so long since I have seen
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thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter. "My poor dear Isabella," said he, fondly taking her hand, and interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her five children--" "How long it is, how terribly long since you were here! And how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early, my dear--and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.--You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel." Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself;--and two basins only were ordered. After a little more discourse in praise of gruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every body, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection, "It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South End instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air." "Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir--or we should not have gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for the weakness in little Bella's throat,--both sea air and bathing." "Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use to any body. I am sure it almost killed me once." "Come, come," cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, "I must beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;--I who have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and he never forgets you." "Oh! good Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?" "Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself--he tells me he has not time to take care of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man any where." "And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow? I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He will be so pleased to see my little ones." "I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes, you had better let him look at little Bella's throat." "Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since August." "It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use to her--and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have spoken to--" "You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates," said Emma, "I have not heard one inquiry after them." "Oh! the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself--but you mention them in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs. Bates--I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.--They are always so pleased to see my children.--And that excellent Miss Bates!--such thorough worthy people!--How are they, sir?" "Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago." "How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more general or heavy--except when it has been quite an influenza." "That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you mention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy as he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season." "No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly except--" "Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!--and the air so bad!"<|quote|>"No, indeed--_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but _we_ are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air."</|quote|>"Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it--but after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different creatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I think you are any of you looking well at present." "I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a little more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of coming. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill," turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband. "Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well." "What is the matter, sir?--Did you speak to me?" cried Mr. John Knightley, hearing his own name. "I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking well--but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left home." "My dear Isabella," "--exclaimed he hastily--" "pray do not concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I chuse." "I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother," cried Emma, "about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailiff from Scotland, to look after his new estate. What will it answer? Will not the old prejudice be too strong?" And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced to give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing worse to hear than Isabella's kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane Fairfax, though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that moment very happy to assist in praising. "That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!" said Mrs. John Knightley.--" "It is so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment accidentally in town! What happiness it must be to her good old grandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them! I always regret excessively on dear Emma's account that she cannot be more at Highbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs. Campbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would be such a delightful companion for Emma." Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added, "Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty kind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a better companion than Harriet." "I am most happy to hear it--but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so very accomplished and superior!--and exactly Emma's age." This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar moment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening did not close without a little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplied a great deal to be said--much praise and many comments--undoubting decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty severe Philippics upon the many houses where it was never met with tolerably;--but, unfortunately, among the failures which the daughter had to instance, the most recent, and therefore most prominent, was in her own cook at South End, a young woman hired for the time, who never had been able to understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth gruel, thin, but not too thin. Often as she had wished for and ordered it, she had never been able to get any thing tolerable. Here was a dangerous opening. "Ah!" said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her with tender concern.--The ejaculation in Emma's ear expressed, "Ah! there is no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End. It does not bear talking of." And for a little while she hoped he would not talk of it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore him to the relish of his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some minutes, however, he began with, "I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn, instead of coming here." "But why should you be sorry, sir?--I assure you, it did the children a great deal of good." "And, moreover,
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in such practice anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man any where." "And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow? I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He will be so pleased to see my little ones." "I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes, you had better let him look at little Bella's throat." "Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since August." "It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use to her--and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have spoken to--" "You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates," said Emma, "I have not heard one inquiry after them." "Oh! the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself--but you mention them in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs. Bates--I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.--They are always so pleased to see my children.--And that excellent Miss Bates!--such thorough worthy people!--How are they, sir?" "Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago." "How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more general or heavy--except when it has been quite an influenza." "That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you mention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy as he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season." "No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly except--" "Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!--and the air so bad!"<|quote|>"No, indeed--_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but _we_ are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air."</|quote|>"Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it--but after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different creatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I think you are any of you looking well at present." "I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a little more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of coming. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill," turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband. "Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well." "What is the matter, sir?--Did you speak to me?" cried Mr. John Knightley, hearing his own name. "I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking well--but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left home." "My dear Isabella," "--exclaimed he hastily--" "pray do not concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I chuse." "I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother," cried Emma, "about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailiff from Scotland, to look after his new estate. What will it answer? Will not the old prejudice be too strong?" And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced to give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing worse to hear than Isabella's kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane Fairfax, though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that moment very happy to assist in praising. "That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!" said Mrs. John Knightley.--" "It is so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment accidentally in town! What happiness it must be to her good old grandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them! I always regret excessively on dear Emma's account that she cannot be more at Highbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs. Campbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would be such a delightful companion for Emma." Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but
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Emma
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Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said,
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No speaker
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"You are funny with names."<|quote|>Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said,</|quote|>"Nanny, I do think that
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did you call me?" "Johnny-boy." "You are funny with names."<|quote|>Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said,</|quote|>"Nanny, I do think that Princess is beautiful, don't you?"
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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."<|quote|>Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said,</|quote|>"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
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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."<|quote|>Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said,</|quote|>"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...
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horsemen were bound to ride right on top of the Moulay, but when they were a few feet away, as near as I am to you, galloping at full speed, they used to rein their horses back, up on 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."<|quote|>Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said,</|quote|>"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
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asked. "How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?" She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye on Tony. She took out a little heavily scented handkerchief and showed John the monogram. "That is my only crown... now," she said. She told him about the horses she used to have--glossy black, with arched necks; foam round their silver bits; plumes tossing on their foreheads; silver studs on the harness, crimson saddle cloths. "On the Moulay's birthday--" "What's the Moulay?" "A beautiful and a very bad man," she said gravely, "and on his birthday all his horsemen used to assemble round a great square, with all their finest clothes and trappings and jewels, with long swords in their hands. The Moulay used to sit on a throne under a great crimson canopy." "What's a canopy?" "Like a tent," she said more sharply, and then, resuming her soft voice, "and all the horsemen used to gallop across the plain, in a great cloud of dust, waving their swords, straight towards the Moulay. And everyone used to hold their breath, thinking the horsemen were bound to ride right on top of the Moulay, but when they were a few feet away, as near as I am to you, galloping at full speed, they used to rein their horses back, up on 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."<|quote|>Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said,</|quote|>"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.
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of the fire, and if you're nice to me I'll purr, and if you're cruel I shall pretend not to notice--just like a cat... Shall I purr, Teddy?" "Er... yes... do, please, if that's what you like doing." "Englishmen are so gentle and considerate. It's wonderful to be back among them... mine own people. Sometimes when I look back at my life, especially at times like this, among lovely old English things and kind people, I think the whole thing must be a frightful nightmare... then I remember my _scars_..." "Brenda tells me you've taken one of the flats in the same house as hers. They must be very convenient." "How English you are, Teddy--so shy of talking about personal things, intimate things... I like you for that, you know. I love everything that's solid and homely and _good_ after... after all I've been through." "You're not studying economics too, are you, like Brenda?" "No; is Brenda? She never told me. What a wonderful person she is. When _does_ she find the time?" "Ah, here comes tea at last," said Tony. "I hope you allow yourself to eat muffins. So many of our guests nowadays are on a diet. I think muffins one of the few things that make the English winter endurable." "Muffins stand for so much," said Jenny. She ate heartily; often she ran her tongue over her lips, collecting crumbs that had become embedded there and melted butter from the muffin. One drop of butter fell on her chin and glittered there unobserved except by Tony. It was a relief to him when John Andrew was brought in. "Come and be introduced to Princess Abdul Akbar." John Andrew had never before seen a Princess; he gazed at her, fascinated. "Aren't you going to give me a kiss?" He walked over to her and she kissed him on the mouth. "Oh," he said, recoiling and rubbing away the taste of the lipstick; and then, "What a beautiful smell." "It's my last link with the East," she said. "You've got butter on your chin." She reached for her bag, laughing. "Why, so I have. Teddy, you _might_ have told me." "Why do you call daddy Teddy?" "Because I hope we are going to be great friends." "What a funny reason." John stayed with them for an hour, and all the time watched, fascinated. "Have you got a crown?" he asked. "How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?" She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye on Tony. She took out a little heavily scented handkerchief and showed John the monogram. "That is my only crown... now," she said. She told him about the horses she used to have--glossy black, with arched necks; foam round their silver bits; plumes tossing on their foreheads; silver studs on the harness, crimson saddle cloths. "On the Moulay's birthday--" "What's the Moulay?" "A beautiful and a very bad man," she said gravely, "and on his birthday all his horsemen used to assemble round a great square, with all their finest clothes and trappings and jewels, with long swords in their hands. The Moulay used to sit on a throne under a great crimson canopy." "What's a canopy?" "Like a tent," she said more sharply, and then, resuming her soft voice, "and all the horsemen used to gallop across the plain, in a great cloud of dust, waving their swords, straight towards the Moulay. And everyone used to hold their breath, thinking the horsemen were bound to ride right on top of the Moulay, but when they were a few feet away, as near as I am to you, galloping at full speed, they used to rein their horses back, up on 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."<|quote|>Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said,</|quote|>"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." * * * * * "Tired?" "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
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towards the Moulay. And everyone used to hold their breath, thinking the horsemen were bound to ride right on top of the Moulay, but when they were a few feet away, as near as I am to you, galloping at full speed, they used to rein their horses back, up on 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."<|quote|>Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said,</|quote|>"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
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A Handful Of Dust
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"I wish I was dead,"
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Mr. Thomas Marvel
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the Voice, with quiet emphasis.<|quote|>"I wish I was dead,"</|quote|>said Marvel. "It ain t
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"You d better not," said the Voice, with quiet emphasis.<|quote|>"I wish I was dead,"</|quote|>said Marvel. "It ain t justice," he said; "you must
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the nerve and strength for the sort of thing you want." "_I ll_ stimulate you." "I wish you wouldn t. I wouldn t like to mess up your plans, you know. But I might out of sheer funk and misery." "You d better not," said the Voice, with quiet emphasis.<|quote|>"I wish I was dead,"</|quote|>said Marvel. "It ain t justice," he said; "you must admit.... It seems to me I ve a perfect right" "_Get_ on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel mended his pace, and for a time they went in silence again. "It s devilish hard," said Mr. Marvel. This was quite ineffectual.
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possible tool you could have," said Marvel. "I m not strong," he said after a discouraging silence. "I m not over strong," he repeated. "No?" "And my heart s weak. That little business I pulled it through, of course but bless you! I could have dropped." "Well?" "I haven t the nerve and strength for the sort of thing you want." "_I ll_ stimulate you." "I wish you wouldn t. I wouldn t like to mess up your plans, you know. But I might out of sheer funk and misery." "You d better not," said the Voice, with quiet emphasis.<|quote|>"I wish I was dead,"</|quote|>said Marvel. "It ain t justice," he said; "you must admit.... It seems to me I ve a perfect right" "_Get_ on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel mended his pace, and for a time they went in silence again. "It s devilish hard," said Mr. Marvel. This was quite ineffectual. He tried another tack. "What do I make by it?" he began again in a tone of unendurable wrong. "Oh! _shut up_!" said the Voice, with sudden amazing vigour. "I ll see to you all right. You do what you re told. You ll do it all right. You re
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the papers! Everybody will be looking for me; everyone on their guard" The Voice broke off into vivid curses and ceased. The despair of Mr. Marvel s face deepened, and his pace slackened. "Go on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel s face assumed a greyish tint between the ruddier patches. "Don t drop those books, stupid," said the Voice, sharply overtaking him. "The fact is," said the Voice, "I shall have to make use of you.... You re a poor tool, but I must." "I m a _miserable_ tool," said Marvel. "You are," said the Voice. "I m the worst possible tool you could have," said Marvel. "I m not strong," he said after a discouraging silence. "I m not over strong," he repeated. "No?" "And my heart s weak. That little business I pulled it through, of course but bless you! I could have dropped." "Well?" "I haven t the nerve and strength for the sort of thing you want." "_I ll_ stimulate you." "I wish you wouldn t. I wouldn t like to mess up your plans, you know. But I might out of sheer funk and misery." "You d better not," said the Voice, with quiet emphasis.<|quote|>"I wish I was dead,"</|quote|>said Marvel. "It ain t justice," he said; "you must admit.... It seems to me I ve a perfect right" "_Get_ on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel mended his pace, and for a time they went in silence again. "It s devilish hard," said Mr. Marvel. This was quite ineffectual. He tried another tack. "What do I make by it?" he began again in a tone of unendurable wrong. "Oh! _shut up_!" said the Voice, with sudden amazing vigour. "I ll see to you all right. You do what you re told. You ll do it all right. You re a fool and all that, but you ll do" "I tell you, sir, I m not the man for it. Respectfully but it _is_ so" "If you don t shut up I shall twist your wrist again," said the Invisible Man. "I want to think." Presently two oblongs of yellow light appeared through the trees, and the square tower of a church loomed through the gloaming. "I shall keep my hand on your shoulder," said the Voice, "all through the village. Go straight through and try no foolery. It will be the worse for you if you do." "I know
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"If you give me the slip again," said the Voice, "if you attempt to give me the slip again" "Lord!" said Mr. Marvel. "That shoulder s a mass of bruises as it is." "On my honour," said the Voice, "I will kill you." "I didn t try to give you the slip," said Marvel, in a voice that was not far remote from tears. "I swear I didn t. I didn t know the blessed turning, that was all! How the devil was I to know the blessed turning? As it is, I ve been knocked about" "You ll get knocked about a great deal more if you don t mind," said the Voice, and Mr. Marvel abruptly became silent. He blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were eloquent of despair. "It s bad enough to let these floundering yokels explode my little secret, without _your_ cutting off with my books. It s lucky for some of them they cut and ran when they did! Here am I ... No one knew I was invisible! And now what am I to do?" "What am _I_ to do?" asked Marvel, _sotto voce_. "It s all about. It will be in the papers! Everybody will be looking for me; everyone on their guard" The Voice broke off into vivid curses and ceased. The despair of Mr. Marvel s face deepened, and his pace slackened. "Go on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel s face assumed a greyish tint between the ruddier patches. "Don t drop those books, stupid," said the Voice, sharply overtaking him. "The fact is," said the Voice, "I shall have to make use of you.... You re a poor tool, but I must." "I m a _miserable_ tool," said Marvel. "You are," said the Voice. "I m the worst possible tool you could have," said Marvel. "I m not strong," he said after a discouraging silence. "I m not over strong," he repeated. "No?" "And my heart s weak. That little business I pulled it through, of course but bless you! I could have dropped." "Well?" "I haven t the nerve and strength for the sort of thing you want." "_I ll_ stimulate you." "I wish you wouldn t. I wouldn t like to mess up your plans, you know. But I might out of sheer funk and misery." "You d better not," said the Voice, with quiet emphasis.<|quote|>"I wish I was dead,"</|quote|>said Marvel. "It ain t justice," he said; "you must admit.... It seems to me I ve a perfect right" "_Get_ on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel mended his pace, and for a time they went in silence again. "It s devilish hard," said Mr. Marvel. This was quite ineffectual. He tried another tack. "What do I make by it?" he began again in a tone of unendurable wrong. "Oh! _shut up_!" said the Voice, with sudden amazing vigour. "I ll see to you all right. You do what you re told. You ll do it all right. You re a fool and all that, but you ll do" "I tell you, sir, I m not the man for it. Respectfully but it _is_ so" "If you don t shut up I shall twist your wrist again," said the Invisible Man. "I want to think." Presently two oblongs of yellow light appeared through the trees, and the square tower of a church loomed through the gloaming. "I shall keep my hand on your shoulder," said the Voice, "all through the village. Go straight through and try no foolery. It will be the worse for you if you do." "I know that," sighed Mr. Marvel, "I know all that." The unhappy-looking figure in the obsolete silk hat passed up the street of the little village with his burdens, and vanished into the gathering darkness beyond the lights of the windows. CHAPTER XIV. AT PORT STOWE Ten o clock the next morning found Mr. Marvel, unshaven, dirty, and travel-stained, sitting with the books beside him and his hands deep in his pockets, looking very weary, nervous, and uncomfortable, and inflating his cheeks at infrequent intervals, on the bench outside a little inn on the outskirts of Port Stowe. Beside him were the books, but now they were tied with string. The bundle had been abandoned in the pine-woods beyond Bramblehurst, in accordance with a change in the plans of the Invisible Man. Mr. Marvel sat on the bench, and although no one took the slightest notice of him, his agitation remained at fever heat. His hands would go ever and again to his various pockets with a curious nervous fumbling. When he had been sitting for the best part of an hour, however, an elderly mariner, carrying a newspaper, came out of the inn and sat down beside him. "Pleasant day," said
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to give a consecutive account of affairs in Iping. Possibly the Invisible Man s original intention was simply to cover Marvel s retreat with the clothes and books. But his temper, at no time very good, seems to have gone completely at some chance blow, and forthwith he set to smiting and overthrowing, for the mere satisfaction of hurting. You must figure the street full of running figures, of doors slamming and fights for hiding-places. You must figure the tumult suddenly striking on the unstable equilibrium of old Fletcher s planks and two chairs with cataclysmic results. You must figure an appalled couple caught dismally in a swing. And then the whole tumultuous rush has passed and the Iping street with its gauds and flags is deserted save for the still raging unseen, and littered with cocoanuts, overthrown canvas screens, and the scattered stock in trade of a sweetstuff stall. Everywhere there is a sound of closing shutters and shoving bolts, and the only visible humanity is an occasional flitting eye under a raised eyebrow in the corner of a window pane. The Invisible Man amused himself for a little while by breaking all the windows in the "Coach and Horses," and then he thrust a street lamp through the parlour window of Mrs. Gribble. He it must have been who cut the telegraph wire to Adderdean just beyond Higgins cottage on the Adderdean road. And after that, as his peculiar qualities allowed, he passed out of human perceptions altogether, and he was neither heard, seen, nor felt in Iping any more. He vanished absolutely. But it was the best part of two hours before any human being ventured out again into the desolation of Iping street. CHAPTER XIII. MR. MARVEL DISCUSSES HIS RESIGNATION When the dusk was gathering and Iping was just beginning to peep timorously forth again upon the shattered wreckage of its Bank Holiday, a short, thick-set man in a shabby silk hat was marching painfully through the twilight behind the beechwoods on the road to Bramblehurst. He carried three books bound together by some sort of ornamental elastic ligature, and a bundle wrapped in a blue table-cloth. His rubicund face expressed consternation and fatigue; he appeared to be in a spasmodic sort of hurry. He was accompanied by a voice other than his own, and ever and again he winced under the touch of unseen hands. "If you give me the slip again," said the Voice, "if you attempt to give me the slip again" "Lord!" said Mr. Marvel. "That shoulder s a mass of bruises as it is." "On my honour," said the Voice, "I will kill you." "I didn t try to give you the slip," said Marvel, in a voice that was not far remote from tears. "I swear I didn t. I didn t know the blessed turning, that was all! How the devil was I to know the blessed turning? As it is, I ve been knocked about" "You ll get knocked about a great deal more if you don t mind," said the Voice, and Mr. Marvel abruptly became silent. He blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were eloquent of despair. "It s bad enough to let these floundering yokels explode my little secret, without _your_ cutting off with my books. It s lucky for some of them they cut and ran when they did! Here am I ... No one knew I was invisible! And now what am I to do?" "What am _I_ to do?" asked Marvel, _sotto voce_. "It s all about. It will be in the papers! Everybody will be looking for me; everyone on their guard" The Voice broke off into vivid curses and ceased. The despair of Mr. Marvel s face deepened, and his pace slackened. "Go on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel s face assumed a greyish tint between the ruddier patches. "Don t drop those books, stupid," said the Voice, sharply overtaking him. "The fact is," said the Voice, "I shall have to make use of you.... You re a poor tool, but I must." "I m a _miserable_ tool," said Marvel. "You are," said the Voice. "I m the worst possible tool you could have," said Marvel. "I m not strong," he said after a discouraging silence. "I m not over strong," he repeated. "No?" "And my heart s weak. That little business I pulled it through, of course but bless you! I could have dropped." "Well?" "I haven t the nerve and strength for the sort of thing you want." "_I ll_ stimulate you." "I wish you wouldn t. I wouldn t like to mess up your plans, you know. But I might out of sheer funk and misery." "You d better not," said the Voice, with quiet emphasis.<|quote|>"I wish I was dead,"</|quote|>said Marvel. "It ain t justice," he said; "you must admit.... It seems to me I ve a perfect right" "_Get_ on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel mended his pace, and for a time they went in silence again. "It s devilish hard," said Mr. Marvel. This was quite ineffectual. He tried another tack. "What do I make by it?" he began again in a tone of unendurable wrong. "Oh! _shut up_!" said the Voice, with sudden amazing vigour. "I ll see to you all right. You do what you re told. You ll do it all right. You re a fool and all that, but you ll do" "I tell you, sir, I m not the man for it. Respectfully but it _is_ so" "If you don t shut up I shall twist your wrist again," said the Invisible Man. "I want to think." Presently two oblongs of yellow light appeared through the trees, and the square tower of a church loomed through the gloaming. "I shall keep my hand on your shoulder," said the Voice, "all through the village. Go straight through and try no foolery. It will be the worse for you if you do." "I know that," sighed Mr. Marvel, "I know all that." The unhappy-looking figure in the obsolete silk hat passed up the street of the little village with his burdens, and vanished into the gathering darkness beyond the lights of the windows. CHAPTER XIV. AT PORT STOWE Ten o clock the next morning found Mr. Marvel, unshaven, dirty, and travel-stained, sitting with the books beside him and his hands deep in his pockets, looking very weary, nervous, and uncomfortable, and inflating his cheeks at infrequent intervals, on the bench outside a little inn on the outskirts of Port Stowe. Beside him were the books, but now they were tied with string. The bundle had been abandoned in the pine-woods beyond Bramblehurst, in accordance with a change in the plans of the Invisible Man. Mr. Marvel sat on the bench, and although no one took the slightest notice of him, his agitation remained at fever heat. His hands would go ever and again to his various pockets with a curious nervous fumbling. When he had been sitting for the best part of an hour, however, an elderly mariner, carrying a newspaper, came out of the inn and sat down beside him. "Pleasant day," said the mariner. Mr. Marvel glanced about him with something very like terror. "Very," he said. "Just seasonable weather for the time of year," said the mariner, taking no denial. "Quite," said Mr. Marvel. The mariner produced a toothpick, and (saving his regard) was engrossed thereby for some minutes. His eyes meanwhile were at liberty to examine Mr. Marvel s dusty figure, and the books beside him. As he had approached Mr. Marvel he had heard a sound like the dropping of coins into a pocket. He was struck by the contrast of Mr. Marvel s appearance with this suggestion of opulence. Thence his mind wandered back again to a topic that had taken a curiously firm hold of his imagination. "Books?" he said suddenly, noisily finishing with the toothpick. Mr. Marvel started and looked at them. "Oh, yes," he said. "Yes, they re books." "There s some extra-ordinary things in books," said the mariner. "I believe you," said Mr. Marvel. "And some extra-ordinary things out of em," said the mariner. "True likewise," said Mr. Marvel. He eyed his interlocutor, and then glanced about him. "There s some extra-ordinary things in newspapers, for example," said the mariner. "There are." "In _this_ newspaper," said the mariner. "Ah!" said Mr. Marvel. "There s a story," said the mariner, fixing Mr. Marvel with an eye that was firm and deliberate; "there s a story about an Invisible Man, for instance." Mr. Marvel pulled his mouth askew and scratched his cheek and felt his ears glowing. "What will they be writing next?" he asked faintly. "Ostria, or America?" "Neither," said the mariner. "_Here_." "Lord!" said Mr. Marvel, starting. "When I say _here_," said the mariner, to Mr. Marvel s intense relief, "I don t of course mean here in this place, I mean hereabouts." "An Invisible Man!" said Mr. Marvel. "And what s _he_ been up to?" "Everything," said the mariner, controlling Marvel with his eye, and then amplifying, "every blessed thing." "I ain t seen a paper these four days," said Marvel. "Iping s the place he started at," said the mariner. "In-_deed_!" said Mr. Marvel. "He started there. And where he came from, nobody don t seem to know. Here it is: Pe-culiar Story from Iping. And it says in this paper that the evidence is extra-ordinary strong extra-ordinary." "Lord!" said Mr. Marvel. "But then, it s an extra-ordinary story. There is a
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When the dusk was gathering and Iping was just beginning to peep timorously forth again upon the shattered wreckage of its Bank Holiday, a short, thick-set man in a shabby silk hat was marching painfully through the twilight behind the beechwoods on the road to Bramblehurst. He carried three books bound together by some sort of ornamental elastic ligature, and a bundle wrapped in a blue table-cloth. His rubicund face expressed consternation and fatigue; he appeared to be in a spasmodic sort of hurry. He was accompanied by a voice other than his own, and ever and again he winced under the touch of unseen hands. "If you give me the slip again," said the Voice, "if you attempt to give me the slip again" "Lord!" said Mr. Marvel. "That shoulder s a mass of bruises as it is." "On my honour," said the Voice, "I will kill you." "I didn t try to give you the slip," said Marvel, in a voice that was not far remote from tears. "I swear I didn t. I didn t know the blessed turning, that was all! How the devil was I to know the blessed turning? As it is, I ve been knocked about" "You ll get knocked about a great deal more if you don t mind," said the Voice, and Mr. Marvel abruptly became silent. He blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were eloquent of despair. "It s bad enough to let these floundering yokels explode my little secret, without _your_ cutting off with my books. It s lucky for some of them they cut and ran when they did! Here am I ... No one knew I was invisible! And now what am I to do?" "What am _I_ to do?" asked Marvel, _sotto voce_. "It s all about. It will be in the papers! Everybody will be looking for me; everyone on their guard" The Voice broke off into vivid curses and ceased. The despair of Mr. Marvel s face deepened, and his pace slackened. "Go on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel s face assumed a greyish tint between the ruddier patches. "Don t drop those books, stupid," said the Voice, sharply overtaking him. "The fact is," said the Voice, "I shall have to make use of you.... You re a poor tool, but I must." "I m a _miserable_ tool," said Marvel. "You are," said the Voice. "I m the worst possible tool you could have," said Marvel. "I m not strong," he said after a discouraging silence. "I m not over strong," he repeated. "No?" "And my heart s weak. That little business I pulled it through, of course but bless you! I could have dropped." "Well?" "I haven t the nerve and strength for the sort of thing you want." "_I ll_ stimulate you." "I wish you wouldn t. I wouldn t like to mess up your plans, you know. But I might out of sheer funk and misery." "You d better not," said the Voice, with quiet emphasis.<|quote|>"I wish I was dead,"</|quote|>said Marvel. "It ain t justice," he said; "you must admit.... It seems to me I ve a perfect right" "_Get_ on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel mended his pace, and for a time they went in silence again. "It s devilish hard," said Mr. Marvel. This was quite ineffectual. He tried another tack. "What do I make by it?" he began again in a tone of unendurable wrong. "Oh! _shut up_!" said the Voice, with sudden amazing vigour. "I ll see to you all right. You do what you re told. You ll do it all right. You re a fool and all that, but you ll do" "I tell you, sir, I m not the man for it. Respectfully but it _is_ so" "If you don t shut up I shall twist your wrist again," said the Invisible Man. "I want to think." Presently two oblongs of yellow light appeared through the trees, and the square tower of a church loomed through the gloaming. "I shall keep my hand on your shoulder," said the Voice, "all through the village. Go straight through and try no foolery. It will be the worse for you if you do." "I know that," sighed Mr. Marvel, "I know all that." The unhappy-looking figure in the obsolete silk hat passed up the street of the little village with his burdens, and vanished into the gathering darkness beyond the lights of the windows. CHAPTER XIV. AT PORT STOWE Ten o clock the next morning found Mr. Marvel, unshaven, dirty, and travel-stained, sitting with the books beside him and his hands deep in his pockets, looking very weary, nervous, and uncomfortable, and inflating his cheeks at infrequent intervals, on the bench outside a little inn on the outskirts of Port Stowe. Beside him were the books, but now they were tied with string. The bundle had been abandoned in the pine-woods beyond Bramblehurst, in accordance with a change in the plans of the Invisible Man. Mr. Marvel sat on the bench, and although no one took the slightest notice of him, his agitation remained at fever heat. His hands would go ever and again to his various pockets with a curious nervous fumbling. When he had been sitting for the best part of an hour, however, an elderly mariner, carrying a newspaper, came out of the inn and sat down beside him. "Pleasant day," said the mariner. Mr. Marvel glanced about
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The Invisible Man
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"Think so?"
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Mr. Sowerberry
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friendly manner, with his cane.<|quote|>"Think so?"</|quote|>said the undertaker in a
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on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.<|quote|>"Think so?"</|quote|>said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and
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the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.<|quote|>"Think so?"</|quote|>said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to
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professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand. "I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.<|quote|>"Think so?"</|quote|>said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and
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had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand. "I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.<|quote|>"Think so?"</|quote|>said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!" "Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which
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anybody who would take possession of him. CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand. "I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.<|quote|>"Think so?"</|quote|>said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!" "Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye," said Mr. Bumble, "you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct
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Oliver to Mr. Limbkins; who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspect. "My boy!" said the old gentleman, "you look pale and alarmed. What is the matter?" "Stand a little away from him, Beadle," said the other magistrate: laying aside the paper, and leaning forward with an expression of interest. "Now, boy, tell us what's the matter: don't be afraid." Oliver fell on his knees, and clasping his hands together, prayed that they would order him back to the dark room that they would starve him beat him kill him if they pleased rather than send him away with that dreadful man. "Well!" said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnity. "Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest." "Hold your tongue, Beadle," said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective. "I beg your worship's pardon," said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having heard aright. "Did your worship speak to me?" "Yes. Hold your tongue." Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moral revolution! The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion, he nodded significantly. "We refuse to sanction these indentures," said the old gentleman: tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke. "I hope," stammered Mr. Limbkins: "I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a child." "The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter," said the second old gentleman sharply. "Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it." That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him. CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand. "I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.<|quote|>"Think so?"</|quote|>said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!" "Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye," said Mr. Bumble, "you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds": which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. "Gadso!" said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before." "Yes, I think it rather pretty," said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. "The die is the same as the porochial seal the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight." "I recollect," said the undertaker. "The jury brought it in, Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,' didn't they?" Mr. Bumble nodded. "And they made it a special verdict, I think," said the undertaker, "by adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had" "Tush! Foolery!" interposed the beadle. "If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do." "Very true," said the undertaker; "they would indeed." "Juries," said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: "juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches." "So they are," said the undertaker. "They haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about 'em than that," said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously. "No more they have," acquiesced the undertaker. "I despise 'em," said the beadle, growing very red in the face. "So do I," rejoined the undertaker. "And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two," said the beadle; "the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for 'em." "Let 'em alone for that," replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer. Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice: "Well; what about the
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it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand. "I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.<|quote|>"Think so?"</|quote|>said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!" "Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye," said Mr. Bumble, "you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he
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Oliver Twist
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Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot.
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No speaker
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Come here, child, I say."<|quote|>Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot.</|quote|>"I hate you," she cried
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hair as red as carrots! Come here, child, I say."<|quote|>Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot.</|quote|>"I hate you," she cried in a choked voice, stamping
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popular people who pride themselves on speaking their mind without fear or favor. "She's terrible skinny and homely, Marilla. Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart, did any one ever see such freckles? And hair as red as carrots! Come here, child, I say."<|quote|>Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot.</|quote|>"I hate you," she cried in a choked voice, stamping her foot on the floor. "I hate you--I hate you--I hate you--" a louder stamp with each assertion of hatred. "How dare you call me skinny and ugly? How dare you say I'm freckled and redheaded? You are a rude,
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numerous and obtrusive than ever; the wind had ruffled her hatless hair into over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked redder than at that moment. "Well, they didn't pick you for your looks, that's sure and certain," was Mrs. Rachel Lynde's emphatic comment. Mrs. Rachel was one of those delightful and popular people who pride themselves on speaking their mind without fear or favor. "She's terrible skinny and homely, Marilla. Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart, did any one ever see such freckles? And hair as red as carrots! Come here, child, I say."<|quote|>Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot.</|quote|>"I hate you," she cried in a choked voice, stamping her foot on the floor. "I hate you--I hate you--I hate you--" a louder stamp with each assertion of hatred. "How dare you call me skinny and ugly? How dare you say I'm freckled and redheaded? You are a rude, impolite, unfeeling woman!" "Anne!" exclaimed Marilla in consternation. But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly, head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere. "How dare you say such things about me?" she repeated vehemently. "How would you like to have such things said
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Marilla." "I'm not feeling discouraged," was Marilla's dry response, "when I make up my mind to do a thing it stays made up. I suppose you'd like to see Anne. I'll call her in." Anne came running in presently, her face sparkling with the delight of her orchard rovings; but, abashed at finding the delight herself in the unexpected presence of a stranger, she halted confusedly inside the door. She certainly was an odd-looking little creature in the short tight wincey dress she had worn from the asylum, below which her thin legs seemed ungracefully long. Her freckles were more numerous and obtrusive than ever; the wind had ruffled her hatless hair into over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked redder than at that moment. "Well, they didn't pick you for your looks, that's sure and certain," was Mrs. Rachel Lynde's emphatic comment. Mrs. Rachel was one of those delightful and popular people who pride themselves on speaking their mind without fear or favor. "She's terrible skinny and homely, Marilla. Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart, did any one ever see such freckles? And hair as red as carrots! Come here, child, I say."<|quote|>Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot.</|quote|>"I hate you," she cried in a choked voice, stamping her foot on the floor. "I hate you--I hate you--I hate you--" a louder stamp with each assertion of hatred. "How dare you call me skinny and ugly? How dare you say I'm freckled and redheaded? You are a rude, impolite, unfeeling woman!" "Anne!" exclaimed Marilla in consternation. But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly, head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere. "How dare you say such things about me?" she repeated vehemently. "How would you like to have such things said about you? How would you like to be told that you are fat and clumsy and probably hadn't a spark of imagination in you? I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated husband. And I'll _never_ forgive you for it, never, never!" Stamp! Stamp! "Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Rachel. "Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up," said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech
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illness fully over, describing every ache and pulse beat with such evident enjoyment that Marilla thought even grippe must bring its compensations. When details were exhausted Mrs. Rachel introduced the real reason of her call. "I've been hearing some surprising things about you and Matthew." "I don't suppose you are any more surprised than I am myself," said Marilla. "I'm getting over my surprise now." "It was too bad there was such a mistake," said Mrs. Rachel sympathetically. "Couldn't you have sent her back?" "I suppose we could, but we decided not to. Matthew took a fancy to her. And I must say I like her myself--although I admit she has her faults. The house seems a different place already. She's a real bright little thing." Marilla said more than she had intended to say when she began, for she read disapproval in Mrs. Rachel's expression. "It's a great responsibility you've taken on yourself," said that lady gloomily, "especially when you've never had any experience with children. You don't know much about her or her real disposition, I suppose, and there's no guessing how a child like that will turn out. But I don't want to discourage you I'm sure, Marilla." "I'm not feeling discouraged," was Marilla's dry response, "when I make up my mind to do a thing it stays made up. I suppose you'd like to see Anne. I'll call her in." Anne came running in presently, her face sparkling with the delight of her orchard rovings; but, abashed at finding the delight herself in the unexpected presence of a stranger, she halted confusedly inside the door. She certainly was an odd-looking little creature in the short tight wincey dress she had worn from the asylum, below which her thin legs seemed ungracefully long. Her freckles were more numerous and obtrusive than ever; the wind had ruffled her hatless hair into over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked redder than at that moment. "Well, they didn't pick you for your looks, that's sure and certain," was Mrs. Rachel Lynde's emphatic comment. Mrs. Rachel was one of those delightful and popular people who pride themselves on speaking their mind without fear or favor. "She's terrible skinny and homely, Marilla. Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart, did any one ever see such freckles? And hair as red as carrots! Come here, child, I say."<|quote|>Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot.</|quote|>"I hate you," she cried in a choked voice, stamping her foot on the floor. "I hate you--I hate you--I hate you--" a louder stamp with each assertion of hatred. "How dare you call me skinny and ugly? How dare you say I'm freckled and redheaded? You are a rude, impolite, unfeeling woman!" "Anne!" exclaimed Marilla in consternation. But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly, head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere. "How dare you say such things about me?" she repeated vehemently. "How would you like to have such things said about you? How would you like to be told that you are fat and clumsy and probably hadn't a spark of imagination in you? I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated husband. And I'll _never_ forgive you for it, never, never!" Stamp! Stamp! "Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Rachel. "Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up," said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty. Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door, slammed it until the tins on the porch wall outside rattled in sympathy, and fled through the hall and up the stairs like a whirlwind. A subdued slam above told that the door of the east gable had been shut with equal vehemence. "Well, I don't envy you your job bringing _that_ up, Marilla," said Mrs. Rachel with unspeakable solemnity. Marilla opened her lips to say she knew not what of apology or deprecation. What she did say was a surprise to herself then and ever afterwards. "You shouldn't have twitted her about her looks, Rachel." "Marilla Cuthbert, you don't mean to say that you are upholding her in such a terrible display of temper as we've just seen?" demanded Mrs. Rachel indignantly. "No," said Marilla slowly, "I'm not trying to excuse her. She's been very naughty and I'll have to give her a talking to about it. But we must make allowances for her. She's never been taught what is right. And you _were_ too hard on her, Rachel." Marilla could not help tacking on that last sentence, although she was again surprised at herself for doing it.
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since the occasion of her last visit to Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel was not often sick and had a well-defined contempt for people who were; but grippe, she asserted, was like no other illness on earth and could only be interpreted as one of the special visitations of Providence. As soon as her doctor allowed her to put her foot out-of-doors she hurried up to Green Gables, bursting with curiosity to see Matthew and Marilla's orphan, concerning whom all sorts of stories and suppositions had gone abroad in Avonlea. Anne had made good use of every waking moment of that fortnight. Already she was acquainted with every tree and shrub about the place. She had discovered that a lane opened out below the apple orchard and ran up through a belt of woodland; and she had explored it to its furthest end in all its delicious vagaries of brook and bridge, fir coppice and wild cherry arch, corners thick with fern, and branching byways of maple and mountain ash. She had made friends with the spring down in the hollow--that wonderful deep, clear icy-cold spring; it was set about with smooth red sandstones and rimmed in by great palm-like clumps of water fern; and beyond it was a log bridge over the brook. That bridge led Anne's dancing feet up over a wooded hill beyond, where perpetual twilight reigned under the straight, thick-growing firs and spruces; the only flowers there were myriads of delicate "June bells," those shyest and sweetest of woodland blooms, and a few pale, aerial starflowers, like the spirits of last year's blossoms. Gossamers glimmered like threads of silver among the trees and the fir boughs and tassels seemed to utter friendly speech. All these raptured voyages of exploration were made in the odd half hours which she was allowed for play, and Anne talked Matthew and Marilla half-deaf over her discoveries. Not that Matthew complained, to be sure; he listened to it all with a wordless smile of enjoyment on his face; Marilla permitted the "chatter" until she found herself becoming too interested in it, whereupon she always promptly quenched Anne by a curt command to hold her tongue. Anne was out in the orchard when Mrs. Rachel came, wandering at her own sweet will through the lush, tremulous grasses splashed with ruddy evening sunshine; so that good lady had an excellent chance to talk her illness fully over, describing every ache and pulse beat with such evident enjoyment that Marilla thought even grippe must bring its compensations. When details were exhausted Mrs. Rachel introduced the real reason of her call. "I've been hearing some surprising things about you and Matthew." "I don't suppose you are any more surprised than I am myself," said Marilla. "I'm getting over my surprise now." "It was too bad there was such a mistake," said Mrs. Rachel sympathetically. "Couldn't you have sent her back?" "I suppose we could, but we decided not to. Matthew took a fancy to her. And I must say I like her myself--although I admit she has her faults. The house seems a different place already. She's a real bright little thing." Marilla said more than she had intended to say when she began, for she read disapproval in Mrs. Rachel's expression. "It's a great responsibility you've taken on yourself," said that lady gloomily, "especially when you've never had any experience with children. You don't know much about her or her real disposition, I suppose, and there's no guessing how a child like that will turn out. But I don't want to discourage you I'm sure, Marilla." "I'm not feeling discouraged," was Marilla's dry response, "when I make up my mind to do a thing it stays made up. I suppose you'd like to see Anne. I'll call her in." Anne came running in presently, her face sparkling with the delight of her orchard rovings; but, abashed at finding the delight herself in the unexpected presence of a stranger, she halted confusedly inside the door. She certainly was an odd-looking little creature in the short tight wincey dress she had worn from the asylum, below which her thin legs seemed ungracefully long. Her freckles were more numerous and obtrusive than ever; the wind had ruffled her hatless hair into over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked redder than at that moment. "Well, they didn't pick you for your looks, that's sure and certain," was Mrs. Rachel Lynde's emphatic comment. Mrs. Rachel was one of those delightful and popular people who pride themselves on speaking their mind without fear or favor. "She's terrible skinny and homely, Marilla. Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart, did any one ever see such freckles? And hair as red as carrots! Come here, child, I say."<|quote|>Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot.</|quote|>"I hate you," she cried in a choked voice, stamping her foot on the floor. "I hate you--I hate you--I hate you--" a louder stamp with each assertion of hatred. "How dare you call me skinny and ugly? How dare you say I'm freckled and redheaded? You are a rude, impolite, unfeeling woman!" "Anne!" exclaimed Marilla in consternation. But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly, head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere. "How dare you say such things about me?" she repeated vehemently. "How would you like to have such things said about you? How would you like to be told that you are fat and clumsy and probably hadn't a spark of imagination in you? I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated husband. And I'll _never_ forgive you for it, never, never!" Stamp! Stamp! "Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Rachel. "Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up," said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty. Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door, slammed it until the tins on the porch wall outside rattled in sympathy, and fled through the hall and up the stairs like a whirlwind. A subdued slam above told that the door of the east gable had been shut with equal vehemence. "Well, I don't envy you your job bringing _that_ up, Marilla," said Mrs. Rachel with unspeakable solemnity. Marilla opened her lips to say she knew not what of apology or deprecation. What she did say was a surprise to herself then and ever afterwards. "You shouldn't have twitted her about her looks, Rachel." "Marilla Cuthbert, you don't mean to say that you are upholding her in such a terrible display of temper as we've just seen?" demanded Mrs. Rachel indignantly. "No," said Marilla slowly, "I'm not trying to excuse her. She's been very naughty and I'll have to give her a talking to about it. But we must make allowances for her. She's never been taught what is right. And you _were_ too hard on her, Rachel." Marilla could not help tacking on that last sentence, although she was again surprised at herself for doing it. Mrs. Rachel got up with an air of offended dignity. "Well, I see that I'll have to be very careful what I say after this, Marilla, since the fine feelings of orphans, brought from goodness knows where, have to be considered before anything else. Oh, no, I'm not vexed--don't worry yourself. I'm too sorry for you to leave any room for anger in my mind. You'll have your own troubles with that child. But if you'll take my advice--which I suppose you won't do, although I've brought up ten children and buried two--you'll do that ?talking to' you mention with a fair-sized birch switch. I should think _that_ would be the most effective language for that kind of a child. Her temper matches her hair I guess. Well, good evening, Marilla. I hope you'll come down to see me often as usual. But you can't expect me to visit here again in a hurry, if I'm liable to be flown at and insulted in such a fashion. It's something new in _my_ experience." Whereat Mrs. Rachel swept out and away--if a fat woman who always waddled _could_ be said to sweep away--and Marilla with a very solemn face betook herself to the east gable. On the way upstairs she pondered uneasily as to what she ought to do. She felt no little dismay over the scene that had just been enacted. How unfortunate that Anne should have displayed such temper before Mrs. Rachel Lynde, of all people! Then Marilla suddenly became aware of an uncomfortable and rebuking consciousness that she felt more humiliation over this than sorrow over the discovery of such a serious defect in Anne's disposition. And how was she to punish her? The amiable suggestion of the birch switch--to the efficiency of which all of Mrs. Rachel's own children could have borne smarting testimony--did not appeal to Marilla. She did not believe she could whip a child. No, some other method of punishment must be found to bring Anne to a proper realization of the enormity of her offense. Marilla found Anne face downward on her bed, crying bitterly, quite oblivious of muddy boots on a clean counterpane. "Anne," she said not ungently. No answer. "Anne," with greater severity, "get off that bed this minute and listen to what I have to say to you." Anne squirmed off the bed and sat rigidly on a chair beside
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said more than she had intended to say when she began, for she read disapproval in Mrs. Rachel's expression. "It's a great responsibility you've taken on yourself," said that lady gloomily, "especially when you've never had any experience with children. You don't know much about her or her real disposition, I suppose, and there's no guessing how a child like that will turn out. But I don't want to discourage you I'm sure, Marilla." "I'm not feeling discouraged," was Marilla's dry response, "when I make up my mind to do a thing it stays made up. I suppose you'd like to see Anne. I'll call her in." Anne came running in presently, her face sparkling with the delight of her orchard rovings; but, abashed at finding the delight herself in the unexpected presence of a stranger, she halted confusedly inside the door. She certainly was an odd-looking little creature in the short tight wincey dress she had worn from the asylum, below which her thin legs seemed ungracefully long. Her freckles were more numerous and obtrusive than ever; the wind had ruffled her hatless hair into over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked redder than at that moment. "Well, they didn't pick you for your looks, that's sure and certain," was Mrs. Rachel Lynde's emphatic comment. Mrs. Rachel was one of those delightful and popular people who pride themselves on speaking their mind without fear or favor. "She's terrible skinny and homely, Marilla. Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart, did any one ever see such freckles? And hair as red as carrots! Come here, child, I say."<|quote|>Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot.</|quote|>"I hate you," she cried in a choked voice, stamping her foot on the floor. "I hate you--I hate you--I hate you--" a louder stamp with each assertion of hatred. "How dare you call me skinny and ugly? How dare you say I'm freckled and redheaded? You are a rude, impolite, unfeeling woman!" "Anne!" exclaimed Marilla in consternation. But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly, head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere. "How dare you say such things about me?" she repeated vehemently. "How would you like to have such things said about you? How would you like to be told that you are fat and clumsy and probably hadn't a spark of imagination in you? I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated husband. And I'll _never_ forgive you for it, never, never!" Stamp! Stamp! "Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Rachel. "Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up," said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty. Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door, slammed it until the tins on the porch wall outside rattled in sympathy, and fled through the hall and up the stairs like a whirlwind. A subdued slam above told that the door
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Anne Of Green Gables
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"Extolled be the perfection of God, the Creator of this damsel! How elegant is she, saving that she doth not speak!"
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Shahzeman
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the king said within himself:<|quote|>"Extolled be the perfection of God, the Creator of this damsel! How elegant is she, saving that she doth not speak!"</|quote|>--Then the king asked the
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her tenderness of manner. So the king said within himself:<|quote|>"Extolled be the perfection of God, the Creator of this damsel! How elegant is she, saving that she doth not speak!"</|quote|>--Then the king asked the female slaves whether she had
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her her name; but she was silent, not uttering a word, nor returning him an answer, ceasing not to hang down her head toward the ground; and what protected her from the anger of the king was her beauty, and her tenderness of manner. So the king said within himself:<|quote|>"Extolled be the perfection of God, the Creator of this damsel! How elegant is she, saving that she doth not speak!"</|quote|>--Then the king asked the female slaves whether she had spoken; and they answered him: "From the time of her arrival to the present moment she hath not spoken one word, and we have not heard her talk." The king therefore caused some of them to come, and sing to
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to be sweeter than honey. After this, he gave orders to bring tables of the richest viands, comprising dishes of every kind; and he ate, and put morsels into her mouth until she was satisfied; but she spoke not a single word. The king talked to her, and inquired of her her name; but she was silent, not uttering a word, nor returning him an answer, ceasing not to hang down her head toward the ground; and what protected her from the anger of the king was her beauty, and her tenderness of manner. So the king said within himself:<|quote|>"Extolled be the perfection of God, the Creator of this damsel! How elegant is she, saving that she doth not speak!"</|quote|>--Then the king asked the female slaves whether she had spoken; and they answered him: "From the time of her arrival to the present moment she hath not spoken one word, and we have not heard her talk." The king therefore caused some of them to come, and sing to her, and make merry with her, thinking that then she might perhaps speak. Accordingly the female slaves played before her with all kinds of musical instruments, and enacted sports and other performances, and they sang so that every one who was present was moved with delight, except the damsel, who
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to him, nor took any notice of him. So the king said: "It seemeth that she hath been with people who have not taught her good manners." And looking at the damsel, he saw her to be a person surpassing in loveliness, her face was like the disk of the moon at the full, or the shining sun in the clear sky; and he wondered at her beauty, extolling the perfection of God, the Creator: then the king advanced to the damsel, and seated himself by her side, pressed her to his bosom, and kissed her lips, which he found to be sweeter than honey. After this, he gave orders to bring tables of the richest viands, comprising dishes of every kind; and he ate, and put morsels into her mouth until she was satisfied; but she spoke not a single word. The king talked to her, and inquired of her her name; but she was silent, not uttering a word, nor returning him an answer, ceasing not to hang down her head toward the ground; and what protected her from the anger of the king was her beauty, and her tenderness of manner. So the king said within himself:<|quote|>"Extolled be the perfection of God, the Creator of this damsel! How elegant is she, saving that she doth not speak!"</|quote|>--Then the king asked the female slaves whether she had spoken; and they answered him: "From the time of her arrival to the present moment she hath not spoken one word, and we have not heard her talk." The king therefore caused some of them to come, and sing to her, and make merry with her, thinking that then she might perhaps speak. Accordingly the female slaves played before her with all kinds of musical instruments, and enacted sports and other performances, and they sang so that every one who was present was moved with delight, except the damsel, who looked at them and was silent, neither laughing nor speaking. So the heart of the king was contracted. He however inclined to her entirely, paying no regard to others, but relinquishing all the rest of his favourites. He remained with her a whole year, which seemed as one day, and still she spoke not; and he said to her one day, when his passion was excessive: "O desire of souls, verily the love that I have for thee is great, and I have relinquished for thy sake all my worldly portion, and been patient with thee a whole year. I
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I have been for three years travelling with her, and she hath cost, to the period of her arrival at this place, three thousand pieces of gold; and she is a present from me unto thee." Upon this, the king conferred upon him a magnificent robe of honour, and gave orders to present him with ten thousand pieces of gold. So he took them, and kissed the hands of the king, thanking him for his beneficence, and departed. Then the king committed the damsel to the tirewomen, saying to them: "Amend the state of this damsel, and deck her, and furnish for her a private chamber, and take her into it." He also gave orders to his chamberlains that everything which she required should be conveyed to her. The seat of government where he resided was on the shore of the sea, and his city was called the White City. And they conducted the damsel into a private chamber, which chamber had windows overlooking the sea; and the king commanded his chamberlains to close all the doors upon her after taking to her all that she required. The king then went in to visit the damsel; but she rose not to him, nor took any notice of him. So the king said: "It seemeth that she hath been with people who have not taught her good manners." And looking at the damsel, he saw her to be a person surpassing in loveliness, her face was like the disk of the moon at the full, or the shining sun in the clear sky; and he wondered at her beauty, extolling the perfection of God, the Creator: then the king advanced to the damsel, and seated himself by her side, pressed her to his bosom, and kissed her lips, which he found to be sweeter than honey. After this, he gave orders to bring tables of the richest viands, comprising dishes of every kind; and he ate, and put morsels into her mouth until she was satisfied; but she spoke not a single word. The king talked to her, and inquired of her her name; but she was silent, not uttering a word, nor returning him an answer, ceasing not to hang down her head toward the ground; and what protected her from the anger of the king was her beauty, and her tenderness of manner. So the king said within himself:<|quote|>"Extolled be the perfection of God, the Creator of this damsel! How elegant is she, saving that she doth not speak!"</|quote|>--Then the king asked the female slaves whether she had spoken; and they answered him: "From the time of her arrival to the present moment she hath not spoken one word, and we have not heard her talk." The king therefore caused some of them to come, and sing to her, and make merry with her, thinking that then she might perhaps speak. Accordingly the female slaves played before her with all kinds of musical instruments, and enacted sports and other performances, and they sang so that every one who was present was moved with delight, except the damsel, who looked at them and was silent, neither laughing nor speaking. So the heart of the king was contracted. He however inclined to her entirely, paying no regard to others, but relinquishing all the rest of his favourites. He remained with her a whole year, which seemed as one day, and still she spoke not; and he said to her one day, when his passion was excessive: "O desire of souls, verily the love that I have for thee is great, and I have relinquished for thy sake all my worldly portion, and been patient with thee a whole year. I beg God that He will, in His grace, soften thy heart toward me, and that thou mayest speak to me. Or, if thou be dumb, inform me by a sign, that I may give up hope of thy speaking. I also beg of God that He will bless thee with a son that may inherit my kingdom after me; for I am solitary, having none to be my heir, and my age hath become great. I conjure thee, then, by Allah, if thou love me, that thou return me a reply." And upon this, the damsel hung her head toward the ground, meditating. Then she raised her head, and smiled in the face of the king, whereat it appeared to the king that lightning filled the private chamber; and she said: "O magnanimous King, God hath answered thy prayer; for I am about to bring thee a child, and the time is almost come. And were it not that I knew this thing, I had not spoken to thee one word." And when the king heard what she said, his face brightened up with happiness, and he kissed her hands by reason of the violence of his joy, and said:
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THE STORY OF GULNARE OF THE SEA There was, in olden time, and in an ancient age and period, in the land of the Persians, a king named Shahzeman, and the place of his residence was Khorassan. He had not been blest, during his whole life, with a male child nor a female; and he reflected upon this, one day, and lamented that the greater portion of his life had passed, and he had no heir to take the kingdom after him as he had inherited it from his fathers and forefathers. So the utmost grief befell him on this account. Now while he was sitting one day, one of his mamelukes came in to him, and said to him: "O my lord, at the door is a slave-girl with a merchant: none more beautiful than she hath been seen." And he replied: "Bring to me the merchant and the slave-girl." The merchant and the slave-girl therefore came to him; and when he saw her, he found her to resemble the lance in straightness and slenderness. She was wrapped in a garment of silk embroidered with gold, and the merchant uncovered her face, whereupon the place was illuminated by her beauty, and there hung down from her forehead seven locks of hair reaching to her anklets. The King, therefore, wondered at the sight of her, and at her beauty, and her stature and justness of form; and he said to the merchant: "O sheikh, for how much is this damsel to be sold?" The merchant answered: "O my lord, I purchased her for two thousand pieces of gold of the merchant who owned her before me, and I have been for three years travelling with her, and she hath cost, to the period of her arrival at this place, three thousand pieces of gold; and she is a present from me unto thee." Upon this, the king conferred upon him a magnificent robe of honour, and gave orders to present him with ten thousand pieces of gold. So he took them, and kissed the hands of the king, thanking him for his beneficence, and departed. Then the king committed the damsel to the tirewomen, saying to them: "Amend the state of this damsel, and deck her, and furnish for her a private chamber, and take her into it." He also gave orders to his chamberlains that everything which she required should be conveyed to her. The seat of government where he resided was on the shore of the sea, and his city was called the White City. And they conducted the damsel into a private chamber, which chamber had windows overlooking the sea; and the king commanded his chamberlains to close all the doors upon her after taking to her all that she required. The king then went in to visit the damsel; but she rose not to him, nor took any notice of him. So the king said: "It seemeth that she hath been with people who have not taught her good manners." And looking at the damsel, he saw her to be a person surpassing in loveliness, her face was like the disk of the moon at the full, or the shining sun in the clear sky; and he wondered at her beauty, extolling the perfection of God, the Creator: then the king advanced to the damsel, and seated himself by her side, pressed her to his bosom, and kissed her lips, which he found to be sweeter than honey. After this, he gave orders to bring tables of the richest viands, comprising dishes of every kind; and he ate, and put morsels into her mouth until she was satisfied; but she spoke not a single word. The king talked to her, and inquired of her her name; but she was silent, not uttering a word, nor returning him an answer, ceasing not to hang down her head toward the ground; and what protected her from the anger of the king was her beauty, and her tenderness of manner. So the king said within himself:<|quote|>"Extolled be the perfection of God, the Creator of this damsel! How elegant is she, saving that she doth not speak!"</|quote|>--Then the king asked the female slaves whether she had spoken; and they answered him: "From the time of her arrival to the present moment she hath not spoken one word, and we have not heard her talk." The king therefore caused some of them to come, and sing to her, and make merry with her, thinking that then she might perhaps speak. Accordingly the female slaves played before her with all kinds of musical instruments, and enacted sports and other performances, and they sang so that every one who was present was moved with delight, except the damsel, who looked at them and was silent, neither laughing nor speaking. So the heart of the king was contracted. He however inclined to her entirely, paying no regard to others, but relinquishing all the rest of his favourites. He remained with her a whole year, which seemed as one day, and still she spoke not; and he said to her one day, when his passion was excessive: "O desire of souls, verily the love that I have for thee is great, and I have relinquished for thy sake all my worldly portion, and been patient with thee a whole year. I beg God that He will, in His grace, soften thy heart toward me, and that thou mayest speak to me. Or, if thou be dumb, inform me by a sign, that I may give up hope of thy speaking. I also beg of God that He will bless thee with a son that may inherit my kingdom after me; for I am solitary, having none to be my heir, and my age hath become great. I conjure thee, then, by Allah, if thou love me, that thou return me a reply." And upon this, the damsel hung her head toward the ground, meditating. Then she raised her head, and smiled in the face of the king, whereat it appeared to the king that lightning filled the private chamber; and she said: "O magnanimous King, God hath answered thy prayer; for I am about to bring thee a child, and the time is almost come. And were it not that I knew this thing, I had not spoken to thee one word." And when the king heard what she said, his face brightened up with happiness, and he kissed her hands by reason of the violence of his joy, and said: "Praise be to God who hath favoured me with things that I desired; the first, thy speaking; and the second, thy information that thou art about to bring me a child." Then the king arose and went forth from her, and seated himself upon the throne of his kingdom in a state of exceeding happiness; and he ordered the vizier to give out to the poor and the needy a hundred thousand pieces of gold as a thank-offering to God. So the vizier did as the king had commanded him. And after that, the king went in to the damsel, and embraced her, saying to her: "O my mistress, wherefore hath been this silence, seeing that thou hast been with me a whole year, awake and asleep, yet hast not spoken to me, except on this day?" The damsel answered: "Hear, O King of the age, and know that I am a poor person, a stranger, broken-hearted: I have become separated from my mother, and my family, and my brother." And when the king heard her words, he knew her desire, and he replied: "As to thy saying that thou art poor, there is no occasion for such an assertion; for all my kingdom and possessions are at thy service, and as to thy saying, 'I have become separated from my mother and my family and my brother'--inform me in what place they are, and I will send to them, and bring them to thee." So she said to him: "Know, O King, that my name is Gulnare (_Pomegranate Flower_) of the Sea. My father was one of the Kings of the Sea, and he died, and left to us the kingdom; but while we were enjoying it, another of the kings came upon us, and took the kingdom from our hands. I have also a brother named Saleh, and my mother is of the women of the sea; and I quarrelled with my brother, and swore that I would throw myself into the hands of a man of the inhabitants of the land. Accordingly I came forth from the sea, and sat upon the shore of an island in the moonlight, and there passed by a man who took me and sold me to this man from whom thou tookest me, and he was an excellent, virtuous man, a person of religion and fidelity and kindness. But had not
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him; and when he saw her, he found her to resemble the lance in straightness and slenderness. She was wrapped in a garment of silk embroidered with gold, and the merchant uncovered her face, whereupon the place was illuminated by her beauty, and there hung down from her forehead seven locks of hair reaching to her anklets. The King, therefore, wondered at the sight of her, and at her beauty, and her stature and justness of form; and he said to the merchant: "O sheikh, for how much is this damsel to be sold?" The merchant answered: "O my lord, I purchased her for two thousand pieces of gold of the merchant who owned her before me, and I have been for three years travelling with her, and she hath cost, to the period of her arrival at this place, three thousand pieces of gold; and she is a present from me unto thee." Upon this, the king conferred upon him a magnificent robe of honour, and gave orders to present him with ten thousand pieces of gold. So he took them, and kissed the hands of the king, thanking him for his beneficence, and departed. Then the king committed the damsel to the tirewomen, saying to them: "Amend the state of this damsel, and deck her, and furnish for her a private chamber, and take her into it." He also gave orders to his chamberlains that everything which she required should be conveyed to her. The seat of government where he resided was on the shore of the sea, and his city was called the White City. And they conducted the damsel into a private chamber, which chamber had windows overlooking the sea; and the king commanded his chamberlains to close all the doors upon her after taking to her all that she required. The king then went in to visit the damsel; but she rose not to him, nor took any notice of him. So the king said: "It seemeth that she hath been with people who have not taught her good manners." And looking at the damsel, he saw her to be a person surpassing in loveliness, her face was like the disk of the moon at the full, or the shining sun in the clear sky; and he wondered at her beauty, extolling the perfection of God, the Creator: then the king advanced to the damsel, and seated himself by her side, pressed her to his bosom, and kissed her lips, which he found to be sweeter than honey. After this, he gave orders to bring tables of the richest viands, comprising dishes of every kind; and he ate, and put morsels into her mouth until she was satisfied; but she spoke not a single word. The king talked to her, and inquired of her her name; but she was silent, not uttering a word, nor returning him an answer, ceasing not to hang down her head toward the ground; and what protected her from the anger of the king was her beauty, and her tenderness of manner. So the king said within himself:<|quote|>"Extolled be the perfection of God, the Creator of this damsel! How elegant is she, saving that she doth not speak!"</|quote|>--Then the king asked the female slaves whether she had spoken; and they answered him: "From the time of her arrival to the present moment she hath not spoken one word, and we have not heard her talk." The king therefore caused some of them to come, and sing to her, and make merry with her, thinking that then she might perhaps speak. Accordingly the female slaves played before her with all kinds of musical instruments, and enacted sports and other performances, and they sang so that every one who was present was moved with delight, except the damsel, who looked at them and was silent, neither laughing nor speaking. So the heart of the king was contracted. He however inclined to her entirely, paying no regard to others, but relinquishing all the rest of his favourites. He remained with her a whole year, which seemed as one day, and still she spoke not; and he said to her one day, when his passion was excessive: "O desire of souls, verily the love that I have for thee is great, and I have relinquished for thy sake all my worldly portion, and been patient with thee a whole year. I beg God that He
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Arabian Nights (9)
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It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed no sign of elation at the prospect. On the contrary, she gave a toss of her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took small interest.
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No speaker
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the world at your feet!"<|quote|>It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed no sign of elation at the prospect. On the contrary, she gave a toss of her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took small interest.</|quote|>"It is for Mr. Thaddeus
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so rich, and to have the world at your feet!"<|quote|>It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed no sign of elation at the prospect. On the contrary, she gave a toss of her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took small interest.</|quote|>"It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious,"
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the rescue," added Miss Morstan, with a bright glance at me. "Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of this search. I don t think that you are nearly excited enough. Just imagine what it must be to be so rich, and to have the world at your feet!"<|quote|>It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed no sign of elation at the prospect. On the contrary, she gave a toss of her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took small interest.</|quote|>"It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious," she said. "Nothing else is of any consequence; but I think that he has behaved most kindly and honourably throughout. It is our duty to clear him of this dreadful and unfounded charge." It was evening before I left Camberwell,
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With all my omissions, however, there was enough to startle and amaze them. "It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester. "An injured lady, half a million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian. They take the place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl." "And two knight-errants to the rescue," added Miss Morstan, with a bright glance at me. "Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of this search. I don t think that you are nearly excited enough. Just imagine what it must be to be so rich, and to have the world at your feet!"<|quote|>It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed no sign of elation at the prospect. On the contrary, she gave a toss of her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took small interest.</|quote|>"It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious," she said. "Nothing else is of any consequence; but I think that he has behaved most kindly and honourably throughout. It is our duty to clear him of this dreadful and unfounded charge." It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite dark by the time I reached home. My companion s book and pipe lay by his chair, but he had disappeared. I looked about in the hope of seeing a note, but there was none. "I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone out," I said to Mrs.
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think it is at all likely that we shall have any use for him now." I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, together with a half-sovereign, at the old naturalist s in Pinchin Lane. At Camberwell I found Miss Morstan a little weary after her night s adventures, but very eager to hear the news. Mrs. Forrester, too, was full of curiosity. I told them all that we had done, suppressing, however, the more dreadful parts of the tragedy. Thus, although I spoke of Mr. Sholto s death, I said nothing of the exact manner and method of it. With all my omissions, however, there was enough to startle and amaze them. "It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester. "An injured lady, half a million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian. They take the place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl." "And two knight-errants to the rescue," added Miss Morstan, with a bright glance at me. "Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of this search. I don t think that you are nearly excited enough. Just imagine what it must be to be so rich, and to have the world at your feet!"<|quote|>It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed no sign of elation at the prospect. On the contrary, she gave a toss of her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took small interest.</|quote|>"It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious," she said. "Nothing else is of any consequence; but I think that he has behaved most kindly and honourably throughout. It is our duty to clear him of this dreadful and unfounded charge." It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite dark by the time I reached home. My companion s book and pipe lay by his chair, but he had disappeared. I looked about in the hope of seeing a note, but there was none. "I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone out," I said to Mrs. Hudson as she came up to lower the blinds. "No, sir. He has gone to his room, sir. Do you know, sir," sinking her voice into an impressive whisper, "I am afraid for his health?" "Why so, Mrs. Hudson?" "Well, he s that strange, sir. After you was gone he walked and he walked, up and down, and up and down, until I was weary of the sound of his footstep. Then I heard him talking to himself and muttering, and every time the bell rang out he came on the stairhead, with" What is that, Mrs. Hudson? "And now
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I expected something definite by this time. Wiggins has just been up to report. He says that no trace can be found of the launch. It is a provoking check, for every hour is of importance." "Can I do anything? I am perfectly fresh now, and quite ready for another night s outing." "No, we can do nothing. We can only wait. If we go ourselves, the message might come in our absence, and delay be caused. You can do what you will, but I must remain on guard." "Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call upon Mrs. Cecil Forrester. She asked me to, yesterday." "On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?" asked Holmes, with the twinkle of a smile in his eyes. "Well, of course Miss Morstan too. They were anxious to hear what happened." "I would not tell them too much," said Holmes. "Women are never to be entirely trusted, not the best of them." I did not pause to argue over this atrocious sentiment. "I shall be back in an hour or two," I remarked. "All right! Good luck! But, I say, if you are crossing the river you may as well return Toby, for I don t think it is at all likely that we shall have any use for him now." I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, together with a half-sovereign, at the old naturalist s in Pinchin Lane. At Camberwell I found Miss Morstan a little weary after her night s adventures, but very eager to hear the news. Mrs. Forrester, too, was full of curiosity. I told them all that we had done, suppressing, however, the more dreadful parts of the tragedy. Thus, although I spoke of Mr. Sholto s death, I said nothing of the exact manner and method of it. With all my omissions, however, there was enough to startle and amaze them. "It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester. "An injured lady, half a million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian. They take the place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl." "And two knight-errants to the rescue," added Miss Morstan, with a bright glance at me. "Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of this search. I don t think that you are nearly excited enough. Just imagine what it must be to be so rich, and to have the world at your feet!"<|quote|>It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed no sign of elation at the prospect. On the contrary, she gave a toss of her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took small interest.</|quote|>"It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious," she said. "Nothing else is of any consequence; but I think that he has behaved most kindly and honourably throughout. It is our duty to clear him of this dreadful and unfounded charge." It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite dark by the time I reached home. My companion s book and pipe lay by his chair, but he had disappeared. I looked about in the hope of seeing a note, but there was none. "I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone out," I said to Mrs. Hudson as she came up to lower the blinds. "No, sir. He has gone to his room, sir. Do you know, sir," sinking her voice into an impressive whisper, "I am afraid for his health?" "Why so, Mrs. Hudson?" "Well, he s that strange, sir. After you was gone he walked and he walked, up and down, and up and down, until I was weary of the sound of his footstep. Then I heard him talking to himself and muttering, and every time the bell rang out he came on the stairhead, with" What is that, Mrs. Hudson? "And now he has slammed off to his room, but I can hear him walking away the same as ever. I hope he s not going to be ill, sir. I ventured to say something to him about cooling medicine, but he turned on me, sir, with such a look that I don t know how ever I got out of the room." "I don t think that you have any cause to be uneasy, Mrs. Hudson," I answered. "I have seen him like this before. He has some small matter upon his mind which makes him restless." I tried to speak lightly to our worthy landlady, but I was myself somewhat uneasy when through the long night I still from time to time heard the dull sound of his tread, and knew how his keen spirit was chafing against this involuntary inaction. At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard, with a little fleck of feverish colour upon either cheek. "You are knocking yourself up, old man," I remarked. "I heard you marching about in the night." "No, I could not sleep," he answered. "This infernal problem is consuming me. It is too much to be balked by so petty an obstacle,
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capable of forming most devoted friendships when their confidence has once been gained. "Mark that, Watson. Now, then, listen to this." They are naturally hideous, having large, misshapen heads, small, fierce eyes, and distorted features. Their feet and hands, however, are remarkably small. So intractable and fierce are they that all the efforts of the British official have failed to win them over in any degree. They have always been a terror to shipwrecked crews, braining the survivors with their stone-headed clubs, or shooting them with their poisoned arrows. These massacres are invariably concluded by a cannibal feast. "Nice, amiable people, Watson! If this fellow had been left to his own unaided devices this affair might have taken an even more ghastly turn. I fancy that, even as it is, Jonathan Small would give a good deal not to have employed him." "But how came he to have so singular a companion?" "Ah, that is more than I can tell. Since, however, we had already determined that Small had come from the Andamans, it is not so very wonderful that this islander should be with him. No doubt we shall know all about it in time. Look here, Watson; you look regularly done. Lie down there on the sofa, and see if I can put you to sleep." He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air, his own, no doubt, for he had a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a vague remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face, and the rise and fall of his bow. Then I seemed to be floated peacefully away upon a soft sea of sound, until I found myself in dreamland, with the sweet face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me. Chapter IX A Break in the Chain It was late in the afternoon before I woke, strengthened and refreshed. Sherlock Holmes still sat exactly as I had left him, save that he had laid aside his violin and was deep in a book. He looked across at me, as I stirred, and I noticed that his face was dark and troubled. "You have slept soundly," he said. "I feared that our talk would wake you." "I heard nothing," I answered. "Have you had fresh news, then?" "Unfortunately, no. I confess that I am surprised and disappointed. I expected something definite by this time. Wiggins has just been up to report. He says that no trace can be found of the launch. It is a provoking check, for every hour is of importance." "Can I do anything? I am perfectly fresh now, and quite ready for another night s outing." "No, we can do nothing. We can only wait. If we go ourselves, the message might come in our absence, and delay be caused. You can do what you will, but I must remain on guard." "Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call upon Mrs. Cecil Forrester. She asked me to, yesterday." "On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?" asked Holmes, with the twinkle of a smile in his eyes. "Well, of course Miss Morstan too. They were anxious to hear what happened." "I would not tell them too much," said Holmes. "Women are never to be entirely trusted, not the best of them." I did not pause to argue over this atrocious sentiment. "I shall be back in an hour or two," I remarked. "All right! Good luck! But, I say, if you are crossing the river you may as well return Toby, for I don t think it is at all likely that we shall have any use for him now." I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, together with a half-sovereign, at the old naturalist s in Pinchin Lane. At Camberwell I found Miss Morstan a little weary after her night s adventures, but very eager to hear the news. Mrs. Forrester, too, was full of curiosity. I told them all that we had done, suppressing, however, the more dreadful parts of the tragedy. Thus, although I spoke of Mr. Sholto s death, I said nothing of the exact manner and method of it. With all my omissions, however, there was enough to startle and amaze them. "It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester. "An injured lady, half a million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian. They take the place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl." "And two knight-errants to the rescue," added Miss Morstan, with a bright glance at me. "Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of this search. I don t think that you are nearly excited enough. Just imagine what it must be to be so rich, and to have the world at your feet!"<|quote|>It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed no sign of elation at the prospect. On the contrary, she gave a toss of her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took small interest.</|quote|>"It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious," she said. "Nothing else is of any consequence; but I think that he has behaved most kindly and honourably throughout. It is our duty to clear him of this dreadful and unfounded charge." It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite dark by the time I reached home. My companion s book and pipe lay by his chair, but he had disappeared. I looked about in the hope of seeing a note, but there was none. "I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone out," I said to Mrs. Hudson as she came up to lower the blinds. "No, sir. He has gone to his room, sir. Do you know, sir," sinking her voice into an impressive whisper, "I am afraid for his health?" "Why so, Mrs. Hudson?" "Well, he s that strange, sir. After you was gone he walked and he walked, up and down, and up and down, until I was weary of the sound of his footstep. Then I heard him talking to himself and muttering, and every time the bell rang out he came on the stairhead, with" What is that, Mrs. Hudson? "And now he has slammed off to his room, but I can hear him walking away the same as ever. I hope he s not going to be ill, sir. I ventured to say something to him about cooling medicine, but he turned on me, sir, with such a look that I don t know how ever I got out of the room." "I don t think that you have any cause to be uneasy, Mrs. Hudson," I answered. "I have seen him like this before. He has some small matter upon his mind which makes him restless." I tried to speak lightly to our worthy landlady, but I was myself somewhat uneasy when through the long night I still from time to time heard the dull sound of his tread, and knew how his keen spirit was chafing against this involuntary inaction. At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard, with a little fleck of feverish colour upon either cheek. "You are knocking yourself up, old man," I remarked. "I heard you marching about in the night." "No, I could not sleep," he answered. "This infernal problem is consuming me. It is too much to be balked by so petty an obstacle, when all else had been overcome. I know the men, the launch, everything; and yet I can get no news. I have set other agencies at work, and used every means at my disposal. The whole river has been searched on either side, but there is no news, nor has Mrs. Smith heard of her husband. I shall come to the conclusion soon that they have scuttled the craft. But there are objections to that." "Or that Mrs. Smith has put us on a wrong scent." "No, I think that may be dismissed. I had inquiries made, and there is a launch of that description." "Could it have gone up the river?" "I have considered that possibility too, and there is a search-party who will work up as far as Richmond. If no news comes to-day, I shall start off myself to-morrow, and go for the men rather than the boat. But surely, surely, we shall hear something." We did not, however. Not a word came to us either from Wiggins or from the other agencies. There were articles in most of the papers upon the Norwood tragedy. They all appeared to be rather hostile to the unfortunate Thaddeus Sholto. No fresh details were to be found, however, in any of them, save that an inquest was to be held upon the following day. I walked over to Camberwell in the evening to report our ill success to the ladies, and on my return I found Holmes dejected and somewhat morose. He would hardly reply to my questions, and busied himself all evening in an abstruse chemical analysis which involved much heating of retorts and distilling of vapours, ending at last in a smell which fairly drove me out of the apartment. Up to the small hours of the morning I could hear the clinking of his test-tubes which told me that he was still engaged in his malodorous experiment. In the early dawn I woke with a start, and was surprised to find him standing by my bedside, clad in a rude sailor dress with a pea-jacket, and a coarse red scarf round his neck. "I am off down the river, Watson," said he. "I have been turning it over in my mind, and I can see only one way out of it. It is worth trying, at all events." "Surely I can come with you, then?" said I.
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argue over this atrocious sentiment. "I shall be back in an hour or two," I remarked. "All right! Good luck! But, I say, if you are crossing the river you may as well return Toby, for I don t think it is at all likely that we shall have any use for him now." I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, together with a half-sovereign, at the old naturalist s in Pinchin Lane. At Camberwell I found Miss Morstan a little weary after her night s adventures, but very eager to hear the news. Mrs. Forrester, too, was full of curiosity. I told them all that we had done, suppressing, however, the more dreadful parts of the tragedy. Thus, although I spoke of Mr. Sholto s death, I said nothing of the exact manner and method of it. With all my omissions, however, there was enough to startle and amaze them. "It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester. "An injured lady, half a million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian. They take the place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl." "And two knight-errants to the rescue," added Miss Morstan, with a bright glance at me. "Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of this search. I don t think that you are nearly excited enough. Just imagine what it must be to be so rich, and to have the world at your feet!"<|quote|>It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed no sign of elation at the prospect. On the contrary, she gave a toss of her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took small interest.</|quote|>"It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious," she said. "Nothing else is of any consequence; but I think that he has behaved most kindly and honourably throughout. It is our duty to clear him of this dreadful and unfounded charge." It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite dark by the time I reached home. My companion s book and pipe lay by his chair, but he had disappeared. I looked about in the hope of seeing a note, but there was none. "I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone out," I said to Mrs. Hudson as she came up to lower the blinds. "No, sir. He has gone to his room, sir. Do you know, sir," sinking her voice into an impressive whisper, "I am afraid for his health?" "Why so, Mrs. Hudson?" "Well, he s that strange, sir. After you was gone he walked and he walked, up and down, and up and down, until I was weary of the sound of his footstep. Then I heard him talking to himself and muttering, and every time the bell rang out he came on the stairhead, with" What is that, Mrs. Hudson? "And now he has slammed off to his room, but I can hear him walking away the same as ever. I hope he s not going to be ill, sir. I ventured to say something to him about cooling medicine, but he turned on me, sir, with such a look that I don t know how ever I got out of the room." "I don t think that you have any cause to be uneasy, Mrs. Hudson," I answered. "I have seen him like this before. He has some small matter upon his mind which makes him restless." I tried to speak lightly to our worthy landlady, but I was myself somewhat uneasy when through the long night I still from time to time heard the dull sound of his tread, and knew how his keen spirit was chafing against this involuntary inaction. At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard, with a little fleck of feverish colour upon either cheek. "You are knocking yourself up, old man," I remarked. "I heard you marching about in the night." "No, I could not sleep," he answered. "This infernal problem is consuming me. It is too much to be balked by so petty an obstacle, when all else had been overcome. I know the men, the launch, everything; and yet I can get no news. I have set other agencies at work, and used every means at my disposal. The whole river has been searched on either side, but there is no news, nor has Mrs. Smith heard of her husband. I shall come to the conclusion soon that they have scuttled the craft. But there are objections to that." "Or that Mrs. Smith has put us on
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The Sign Of The Four
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Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her aunt's composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together for the first time; the third act would bring a scene between them which interested her most particularly, and which she was longing and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject of it was love a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman, and very little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady. She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet rehearsed it, even in private. The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny's consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very diligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr. Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, and she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Miss Crawford.
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No speaker
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up into very handsome festoons."<|quote|>Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her aunt's composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together for the first time; the third act would bring a scene between them which interested her most particularly, and which she was longing and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject of it was love a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman, and very little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady. She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet rehearsed it, even in private. The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny's consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very diligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr. Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, and she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Miss Crawford.</|quote|>"Am I right? Yes; this
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do not find it draw up into very handsome festoons."<|quote|>Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her aunt's composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together for the first time; the third act would bring a scene between them which interested her most particularly, and which she was longing and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject of it was love a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman, and very little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady. She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet rehearsed it, even in private. The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny's consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very diligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr. Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, and she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Miss Crawford.</|quote|>"Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My
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"You had better stay till the curtain is hung," interposed Mrs. Norris; "the curtain will be hung in a day or two there is very little sense in a play without a curtain and I am much mistaken if you do not find it draw up into very handsome festoons."<|quote|>Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her aunt's composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together for the first time; the third act would bring a scene between them which interested her most particularly, and which she was longing and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject of it was love a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman, and very little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady. She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet rehearsed it, even in private. The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny's consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very diligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr. Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, and she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Miss Crawford.</|quote|>"Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help." Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the room by her civilities, and looked at the bright
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Fanny is not one of those who can talk and work at the same time. It is about Lovers' Vows." "I believe," said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, "there will be three acts rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of seeing all the actors at once." "You had better stay till the curtain is hung," interposed Mrs. Norris; "the curtain will be hung in a day or two there is very little sense in a play without a curtain and I am much mistaken if you do not find it draw up into very handsome festoons."<|quote|>Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her aunt's composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together for the first time; the third act would bring a scene between them which interested her most particularly, and which she was longing and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject of it was love a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman, and very little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady. She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet rehearsed it, even in private. The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny's consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very diligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr. Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, and she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Miss Crawford.</|quote|>"Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help." Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the room by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty grate with concern. "Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little while, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought my book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should
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we should not get on very fast." Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence; but her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf "One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted: it is all new to her, you know; you and I used to be very fond of a play ourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at leisure, _I_ mean to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play about, Fanny? you have never told me." "Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who can talk and work at the same time. It is about Lovers' Vows." "I believe," said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, "there will be three acts rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of seeing all the actors at once." "You had better stay till the curtain is hung," interposed Mrs. Norris; "the curtain will be hung in a day or two there is very little sense in a play without a curtain and I am much mistaken if you do not find it draw up into very handsome festoons."<|quote|>Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her aunt's composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together for the first time; the third act would bring a scene between them which interested her most particularly, and which she was longing and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject of it was love a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman, and very little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady. She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet rehearsed it, even in private. The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny's consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very diligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr. Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, and she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Miss Crawford.</|quote|>"Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help." Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the room by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty grate with concern. "Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little while, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought my book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be _so_ obliged! I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund by ourselves against the evening, but he is not in the way; and if he _were_, I do not think I could go through it with _him_, till I have hardened myself a little; for really there is a speech or two. You will be so good, won't you?" Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could not give them in a very steady voice. "Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?" continued Miss Crawford, opening her book. "Here it is.
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a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from having no demand on her leisure as on her compassion. The gloom of her first anticipations was proved to have been unfounded. She was occasionally useful to all; she was perhaps as much at peace as any. There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover, in which her help was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off as the rest, was evident by the manner in which she claimed it "Come, Fanny," she cried, "these are fine times for you, but you must not be always walking from one room to the other, and doing the lookings-on at your ease, in this way; I want you here. I have been slaving myself till I can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak without sending for any more satin; and now I think you may give me your help in putting it together. There are but three seams; you may do them in a trice. It would be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive part to do. _You_ are best off, I can tell you: but if nobody did more than _you_, we should not get on very fast." Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence; but her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf "One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted: it is all new to her, you know; you and I used to be very fond of a play ourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at leisure, _I_ mean to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play about, Fanny? you have never told me." "Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who can talk and work at the same time. It is about Lovers' Vows." "I believe," said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, "there will be three acts rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of seeing all the actors at once." "You had better stay till the curtain is hung," interposed Mrs. Norris; "the curtain will be hung in a day or two there is very little sense in a play without a curtain and I am much mistaken if you do not find it draw up into very handsome festoons."<|quote|>Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her aunt's composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together for the first time; the third act would bring a scene between them which interested her most particularly, and which she was longing and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject of it was love a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman, and very little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady. She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet rehearsed it, even in private. The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny's consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very diligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr. Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, and she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Miss Crawford.</|quote|>"Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help." Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the room by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty grate with concern. "Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little while, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought my book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be _so_ obliged! I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund by ourselves against the evening, but he is not in the way; and if he _were_, I do not think I could go through it with _him_, till I have hardened myself a little; for really there is a speech or two. You will be so good, won't you?" Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could not give them in a very steady voice. "Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?" continued Miss Crawford, opening her book. "Here it is. I did not think much of it at first but, upon my word. There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_, and _that_. How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things? Could you do it? But then he is your cousin, which makes all the difference. You must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy _you_ him, and get on by degrees. You _have_ a look of _his_ sometimes." "Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness; but I must _read_ the part, for I can say very little of it." "_None_ of it, I suppose. You are to have the book, of course. Now for it. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring forward to the front of the stage. There very good school-room chairs, not made for a theatre, I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and kick their feet against when they are learning a lesson. What would your governess and your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose? Could Sir Thomas look in upon us just now, he would bless himself, for we are rehearsing all
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was a pleasure to _her_ to creep into the theatre, and attend the rehearsal of the first act, in spite of the feelings it excited in some speeches for Maria. Maria, she also thought, acted well, too well; and after the first rehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience; and sometimes as prompter, sometimes as spectator, was often very useful. As far as she could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor of all: he had more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom, more talent and taste than Mr. Yates. She did not like him as a man, but she must admit him to be the best actor, and on this point there were not many who differed from her. Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed against his tameness and insipidity; and the day came at last, when Mr. Rushworth turned to her with a black look, and said, "Do you think there is anything so very fine in all this? For the life and soul of me, I cannot admire him; and, between ourselves, to see such an undersized, little, mean-looking man, set up for a fine actor, is very ridiculous in my opinion." From this moment there was a return of his former jealousy, which Maria, from increasing hopes of Crawford, was at little pains to remove; and the chances of Mr. Rushworth's ever attaining to the knowledge of his two-and-forty speeches became much less. As to his ever making anything _tolerable_ of them, nobody had the smallest idea of that except his mother; _she_, indeed, regretted that his part was not more considerable, and deferred coming over to Mansfield till they were forward enough in their rehearsal to comprehend all his scenes; but the others aspired at nothing beyond his remembering the catchword, and the first line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter through the rest. Fanny, in her pity and kindheartedness, was at great pains to teach him how to learn, giving him all the helps and directions in her power, trying to make an artificial memory for him, and learning every word of his part herself, but without his being much the forwarder. Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she certainly had; but with all these, and other claims on her time and attention, she was as far from finding herself without employment or utility amongst them, as without a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from having no demand on her leisure as on her compassion. The gloom of her first anticipations was proved to have been unfounded. She was occasionally useful to all; she was perhaps as much at peace as any. There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover, in which her help was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off as the rest, was evident by the manner in which she claimed it "Come, Fanny," she cried, "these are fine times for you, but you must not be always walking from one room to the other, and doing the lookings-on at your ease, in this way; I want you here. I have been slaving myself till I can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak without sending for any more satin; and now I think you may give me your help in putting it together. There are but three seams; you may do them in a trice. It would be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive part to do. _You_ are best off, I can tell you: but if nobody did more than _you_, we should not get on very fast." Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence; but her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf "One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted: it is all new to her, you know; you and I used to be very fond of a play ourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at leisure, _I_ mean to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play about, Fanny? you have never told me." "Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who can talk and work at the same time. It is about Lovers' Vows." "I believe," said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, "there will be three acts rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of seeing all the actors at once." "You had better stay till the curtain is hung," interposed Mrs. Norris; "the curtain will be hung in a day or two there is very little sense in a play without a curtain and I am much mistaken if you do not find it draw up into very handsome festoons."<|quote|>Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her aunt's composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together for the first time; the third act would bring a scene between them which interested her most particularly, and which she was longing and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject of it was love a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman, and very little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady. She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet rehearsed it, even in private. The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny's consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very diligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr. Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, and she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Miss Crawford.</|quote|>"Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help." Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the room by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty grate with concern. "Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little while, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought my book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be _so_ obliged! I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund by ourselves against the evening, but he is not in the way; and if he _were_, I do not think I could go through it with _him_, till I have hardened myself a little; for really there is a speech or two. You will be so good, won't you?" Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could not give them in a very steady voice. "Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?" continued Miss Crawford, opening her book. "Here it is. I did not think much of it at first but, upon my word. There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_, and _that_. How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things? Could you do it? But then he is your cousin, which makes all the difference. You must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy _you_ him, and get on by degrees. You _have_ a look of _his_ sometimes." "Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness; but I must _read_ the part, for I can say very little of it." "_None_ of it, I suppose. You are to have the book, of course. Now for it. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring forward to the front of the stage. There very good school-room chairs, not made for a theatre, I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and kick their feet against when they are learning a lesson. What would your governess and your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose? Could Sir Thomas look in upon us just now, he would bless himself, for we are rehearsing all over the house. Yates is storming away in the dining-room. I heard him as I came upstairs, and the theatre is engaged of course by those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha and Frederick. If _they_ are not perfect, I _shall_ be surprised. By the bye, I looked in upon them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at one of the times when they were trying _not_ to embrace, and Mr. Rushworth was with me. I thought he began to look a little queer, so I turned it off as well as I could, by whispering to him, We shall have an excellent Agatha; there is something so _maternal_ in her manner, so completely _maternal_ in her voice and countenance.' Was not that well done of me? He brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy." She began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling which the idea of representing Edmund was so strongly calculated to inspire; but with looks and voice so truly feminine as to be no very good picture of a man. With such an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough; and they had got through half the scene, when a tap at the door brought a pause, and the entrance of Edmund, the next moment, suspended it all. Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each of the three on this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund was come on the very same business that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure were likely to be more than momentary in _them_. He too had his book, and was seeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him, and help him to prepare for the evening, without knowing Miss Crawford to be in the house; and great was the joy and animation of being thus thrown together, of comparing schemes, and sympathising in praise of Fanny's kind offices. _She_ could not equal them in their warmth. _Her_ spirits sank under the glow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing to both to have any comfort in having been sought by either. They must now rehearse together. Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady, not very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was wanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested, indeed, with the office of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it and tell them all
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herself, but without his being much the forwarder. Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she certainly had; but with all these, and other claims on her time and attention, she was as far from finding herself without employment or utility amongst them, as without a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from having no demand on her leisure as on her compassion. The gloom of her first anticipations was proved to have been unfounded. She was occasionally useful to all; she was perhaps as much at peace as any. There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover, in which her help was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off as the rest, was evident by the manner in which she claimed it "Come, Fanny," she cried, "these are fine times for you, but you must not be always walking from one room to the other, and doing the lookings-on at your ease, in this way; I want you here. I have been slaving myself till I can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak without sending for any more satin; and now I think you may give me your help in putting it together. There are but three seams; you may do them in a trice. It would be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive part to do. _You_ are best off, I can tell you: but if nobody did more than _you_, we should not get on very fast." Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence; but her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf "One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted: it is all new to her, you know; you and I used to be very fond of a play ourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at leisure, _I_ mean to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play about, Fanny? you have never told me." "Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who can talk and work at the same time. It is about Lovers' Vows." "I believe," said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, "there will be three acts rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of seeing all the actors at once." "You had better stay till the curtain is hung," interposed Mrs. Norris; "the curtain will be hung in a day or two there is very little sense in a play without a curtain and I am much mistaken if you do not find it draw up into very handsome festoons."<|quote|>Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her aunt's composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together for the first time; the third act would bring a scene between them which interested her most particularly, and which she was longing and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject of it was love a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman, and very little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady. She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet rehearsed it, even in private. The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny's consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very diligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr. Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, and she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Miss Crawford.</|quote|>"Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help." Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the room by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty grate with concern. "Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little while, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought my book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be _so_ obliged! I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund by ourselves against the evening, but he is not in the way; and if he _were_, I do not think I could go through it with _him_, till I have hardened myself a little; for really there is a speech or two. You will be so good, won't you?" Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could not give them in a very steady voice. "Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?" continued Miss Crawford, opening her book. "Here it is. I did not think much of it at first but, upon my word. There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_, and _that_. How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things? Could you do it? But then he is your cousin, which makes all the difference. You must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy _you_ him, and get on by degrees. You _have_ a look of _his_ sometimes." "Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness; but I must _read_ the part, for I can say very little of it." "_None_ of it, I suppose. You are to have the book, of course. Now for it. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring forward to the front of the stage.
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Mansfield Park
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"Is this the real reason of your coming?"
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Elinor
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from Ma from your sister."<|quote|>"Is this the real reason of your coming?"</|quote|>"Upon my soul it is,"
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to obtain something like forgiveness from Ma from your sister."<|quote|>"Is this the real reason of your coming?"</|quote|>"Upon my soul it is," was his answer, with a
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mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from Ma from your sister."<|quote|>"Is this the real reason of your coming?"</|quote|>"Upon my soul it is," was his answer, with a warmth which brought all the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made her think him sincere. "If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne _does_, she has _long_ forgiven you." "Has she?" he
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has passed, your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, that you mean by it?" "I mean," said he, with serious energy, "if I can, to make you hate me one degree less than you do _now_. I mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from Ma from your sister."<|quote|>"Is this the real reason of your coming?"</|quote|>"Upon my soul it is," was his answer, with a warmth which brought all the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made her think him sincere. "If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne _does_, she has _long_ forgiven you." "Has she?" he cried, in the same eager tone. "Then she has forgiven me before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable grounds. _Now_ will you listen to me?" Elinor bowed her assent. "I do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation
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Marlborough!" cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand what he would be at. "Yes, I left London this morning at eight o clock, and the only ten minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a nuncheon at Marlborough." The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment s recollection, "Mr. Willoughby, you _ought_ to feel, and I certainly _do_, that after what has passed, your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, that you mean by it?" "I mean," said he, with serious energy, "if I can, to make you hate me one degree less than you do _now_. I mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from Ma from your sister."<|quote|>"Is this the real reason of your coming?"</|quote|>"Upon my soul it is," was his answer, with a warmth which brought all the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made her think him sincere. "If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne _does_, she has _long_ forgiven you." "Has she?" he cried, in the same eager tone. "Then she has forgiven me before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable grounds. _Now_ will you listen to me?" Elinor bowed her assent. "I do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and thoughtfulness on his own, "how _you_ may have accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me, it is worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. When I first became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before. Your sister s lovely person and interesting manners could
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or is she not?" "We hope she is." He rose up, and walked across the room. "Had I known as much half an hour ago; but since I _am_ here," speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat, "what does it signify? For once, Miss Dashwood it will be the last time, perhaps let us be cheerful together. I am in a fine mood for gaiety. Tell me honestly" a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks, "do you think me most a knave or a fool?" Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to think that he must be in liquor; the strangeness of such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this impression she immediately rose, saying, "Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe. I am not at leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be with me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow." "I understand you," he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice perfectly calm; "yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold beef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me." "At Marlborough!" cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand what he would be at. "Yes, I left London this morning at eight o clock, and the only ten minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a nuncheon at Marlborough." The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment s recollection, "Mr. Willoughby, you _ought_ to feel, and I certainly _do_, that after what has passed, your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, that you mean by it?" "I mean," said he, with serious energy, "if I can, to make you hate me one degree less than you do _now_. I mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from Ma from your sister."<|quote|>"Is this the real reason of your coming?"</|quote|>"Upon my soul it is," was his answer, with a warmth which brought all the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made her think him sincere. "If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne _does_, she has _long_ forgiven you." "Has she?" he cried, in the same eager tone. "Then she has forgiven me before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable grounds. _Now_ will you listen to me?" Elinor bowed her assent. "I do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and thoughtfulness on his own, "how _you_ may have accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me, it is worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. When I first became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before. Your sister s lovely person and interesting manners could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a kind it is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what _she_ was, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first I must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning her affection." Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by saying, "It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by any thing. Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the subject." "I insist on you hearing the whole of it," he replied, "My fortune was never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since my
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had to tell! with such knowledge it was impossible to be calm. All that remained to be done was to be speedy; and, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings s maid with her sister, she hurried down stairs. The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby, assured her that they were already in the house. She rushed to the drawing-room, she entered it, and saw only Willoughby. CHAPTER XLIV. Elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room, and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than supplication, "Miss Dashwood, for half an hour for ten minutes I entreat you to stay." "No, sir," she replied with firmness, "I shall _not_ stay. Your business cannot be with _me_. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that Mr. Palmer was not in the house." "Had they told me," he cried with vehemence, "that Mr. Palmer and all his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the door. My business is with you, and only you." "With me!" in the utmost amazement "well, sir, be quick and if you can less violent." "Sit down, and I will be both." She hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel Brandon s arriving and finding her there, came across her. But she had promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was engaged. After a moment s recollection, therefore, concluding that prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. He took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by either. "Pray be quick, sir," said Elinor, impatiently; "I have no time to spare." He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to hear her. "Your sister," said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards "is out of danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised! But is it true? is it really true?" Elinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness. "For God s sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?" "We hope she is." He rose up, and walked across the room. "Had I known as much half an hour ago; but since I _am_ here," speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat, "what does it signify? For once, Miss Dashwood it will be the last time, perhaps let us be cheerful together. I am in a fine mood for gaiety. Tell me honestly" a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks, "do you think me most a knave or a fool?" Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to think that he must be in liquor; the strangeness of such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this impression she immediately rose, saying, "Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe. I am not at leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be with me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow." "I understand you," he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice perfectly calm; "yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold beef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me." "At Marlborough!" cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand what he would be at. "Yes, I left London this morning at eight o clock, and the only ten minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a nuncheon at Marlborough." The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment s recollection, "Mr. Willoughby, you _ought_ to feel, and I certainly _do_, that after what has passed, your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, that you mean by it?" "I mean," said he, with serious energy, "if I can, to make you hate me one degree less than you do _now_. I mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from Ma from your sister."<|quote|>"Is this the real reason of your coming?"</|quote|>"Upon my soul it is," was his answer, with a warmth which brought all the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made her think him sincere. "If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne _does_, she has _long_ forgiven you." "Has she?" he cried, in the same eager tone. "Then she has forgiven me before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable grounds. _Now_ will you listen to me?" Elinor bowed her assent. "I do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and thoughtfulness on his own, "how _you_ may have accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me, it is worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. When I first became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before. Your sister s lovely person and interesting manners could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a kind it is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what _she_ was, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first I must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning her affection." Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by saying, "It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by any thing. Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the subject." "I insist on you hearing the whole of it," he replied, "My fortune was never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a thing to be thought of; and with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty, which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much, I was acting in this manner, trying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it. But one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I did not _then_ know what it was to love. But have I ever known it? Well may it be doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? or, what is more, could I have sacrificed hers? But I have done it. To avoid a comparative poverty, which her affection and her society would have deprived of all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that could make it a blessing." "You did then," said Elinor, a little softened, "believe yourself at one time attached to her?" "To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness! Is there a man on earth who could have done it? Yes, I found myself, by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my life were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless. Even _then_, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here nor will I stop for _you_ to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound. The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing with great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible and wretched for ever. At last, however,
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possibility of Colonel Brandon s arriving and finding her there, came across her. But she had promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was engaged. After a moment s recollection, therefore, concluding that prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. He took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by either. "Pray be quick, sir," said Elinor, impatiently; "I have no time to spare." He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to hear her. "Your sister," said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards "is out of danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised! But is it true? is it really true?" Elinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness. "For God s sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?" "We hope she is." He rose up, and walked across the room. "Had I known as much half an hour ago; but since I _am_ here," speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat, "what does it signify? For once, Miss Dashwood it will be the last time, perhaps let us be cheerful together. I am in a fine mood for gaiety. Tell me honestly" a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks, "do you think me most a knave or a fool?" Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to think that he must be in liquor; the strangeness of such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this impression she immediately rose, saying, "Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe. I am not at leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be with me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow." "I understand you," he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice perfectly calm; "yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold beef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me." "At Marlborough!" cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand what he would be at. "Yes, I left London this morning at eight o clock, and the only ten minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a nuncheon at Marlborough." The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment s recollection, "Mr. Willoughby, you _ought_ to feel, and I certainly _do_, that after what has passed, your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, that you mean by it?" "I mean," said he, with serious energy, "if I can, to make you hate me one degree less than you do _now_. I mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from Ma from your sister."<|quote|>"Is this the real reason of your coming?"</|quote|>"Upon my soul it is," was his answer, with a warmth which brought all the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made her think him sincere. "If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne _does_, she has _long_ forgiven you." "Has she?" he cried, in the same eager tone. "Then she has forgiven me before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable grounds. _Now_ will you listen to me?" Elinor bowed her assent. "I do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and thoughtfulness on his own, "how _you_ may have accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me, it is worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. When I first became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before. Your sister s lovely person and interesting manners could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a kind it is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what _she_ was, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first I must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning her affection." Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by saying, "It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by any thing. Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the subject." "I insist on you hearing the whole of it," he replied, "My fortune was never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to
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Sense And Sensibility
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"You ve gone too far."
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William Rodney
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can t wait," he replied.<|quote|>"You ve gone too far."</|quote|>His hand remained upon the
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don t allow you." "You can t wait," he replied.<|quote|>"You ve gone too far."</|quote|>His hand remained upon the curtain. "Why don t you
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out there. I shall tell him to come in." Rodney spoke with such decision that when he raised his arm Katharine expected him to draw the curtain instantly. She caught his hand with a little exclamation. "Wait!" she cried. "I don t allow you." "You can t wait," he replied.<|quote|>"You ve gone too far."</|quote|>His hand remained upon the curtain. "Why don t you admit, Katharine," he broke out, looking at her with an expression of contempt as well as of anger, "that you love him? Are you going to treat him as you treated me?" She looked at him, wondering, in spite of
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full of authority. Katharine felt almost as if he accused her of some crime. She was pale and uncomfortably agitated, as much by the strangeness of Rodney s behavior as by the sight of Ralph Denham. "If he chooses to come" she said defiantly. "You can t let him wait out there. I shall tell him to come in." Rodney spoke with such decision that when he raised his arm Katharine expected him to draw the curtain instantly. She caught his hand with a little exclamation. "Wait!" she cried. "I don t allow you." "You can t wait," he replied.<|quote|>"You ve gone too far."</|quote|>His hand remained upon the curtain. "Why don t you admit, Katharine," he broke out, looking at her with an expression of contempt as well as of anger, "that you love him? Are you going to treat him as you treated me?" She looked at him, wondering, in spite of all her perplexity, at the spirit that possessed him. "I forbid you to draw the curtain," she said. He reflected, and then took his hand away. "I ve no right to interfere," he concluded. "I ll leave you. Or, if you like, we ll go back to the drawing-room." "No.
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about. A vague feeling of alarm and mystery possessed her. She saw a man standing on the opposite side of the road facing the house beneath a lamp-post. As they looked the figure turned, walked a few steps, and came back again to his old position. It seemed to her that he was looking fixedly at her, and was conscious of her gaze on him. She knew, in a flash, who the man was who was watching them. She drew the curtain abruptly. "Denham," said Rodney. "He was there last night too." He spoke sternly. His whole manner had become full of authority. Katharine felt almost as if he accused her of some crime. She was pale and uncomfortably agitated, as much by the strangeness of Rodney s behavior as by the sight of Ralph Denham. "If he chooses to come" she said defiantly. "You can t let him wait out there. I shall tell him to come in." Rodney spoke with such decision that when he raised his arm Katharine expected him to draw the curtain instantly. She caught his hand with a little exclamation. "Wait!" she cried. "I don t allow you." "You can t wait," he replied.<|quote|>"You ve gone too far."</|quote|>His hand remained upon the curtain. "Why don t you admit, Katharine," he broke out, looking at her with an expression of contempt as well as of anger, "that you love him? Are you going to treat him as you treated me?" She looked at him, wondering, in spite of all her perplexity, at the spirit that possessed him. "I forbid you to draw the curtain," she said. He reflected, and then took his hand away. "I ve no right to interfere," he concluded. "I ll leave you. Or, if you like, we ll go back to the drawing-room." "No. I can t go back," she said, shaking her head. She bent her head in thought. "You love him, Katharine," Rodney said suddenly. His tone had lost something of its sternness, and might have been used to urge a child to confess its fault. She raised her eyes and fixed them upon him. "I love him?" she repeated. He nodded. She searched his face, as if for further confirmation of his words, and, as he remained silent and expectant, turned away once more and continued her thoughts. He observed her closely, but without stirring, as if he gave her time
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listened to every note. She played her best, and won his approval. Leaning slightly forward in his chair, and turning his little green stone, he weighed the intention of her phrases approvingly, but stopped her suddenly to complain of a noise behind him. The window was unhasped. He signed to Rodney, who crossed the room immediately to put the matter right. He stayed a moment longer by the window than was, perhaps, necessary, and having done what was needed, drew his chair a little closer than before to Katharine s side. The music went on. Under cover of some exquisite run of melody, he leant towards her and whispered something. She glanced at her father and mother, and a moment later left the room, almost unobserved, with Rodney. "What is it?" she asked, as soon as the door was shut. Rodney made no answer, but led her downstairs into the dining-room on the ground floor. Even when he had shut the door he said nothing, but went straight to the window and parted the curtains. He beckoned to Katharine. "There he is again," he said. "Look, there under the lamp-post." Katharine looked. She had no idea what Rodney was talking about. A vague feeling of alarm and mystery possessed her. She saw a man standing on the opposite side of the road facing the house beneath a lamp-post. As they looked the figure turned, walked a few steps, and came back again to his old position. It seemed to her that he was looking fixedly at her, and was conscious of her gaze on him. She knew, in a flash, who the man was who was watching them. She drew the curtain abruptly. "Denham," said Rodney. "He was there last night too." He spoke sternly. His whole manner had become full of authority. Katharine felt almost as if he accused her of some crime. She was pale and uncomfortably agitated, as much by the strangeness of Rodney s behavior as by the sight of Ralph Denham. "If he chooses to come" she said defiantly. "You can t let him wait out there. I shall tell him to come in." Rodney spoke with such decision that when he raised his arm Katharine expected him to draw the curtain instantly. She caught his hand with a little exclamation. "Wait!" she cried. "I don t allow you." "You can t wait," he replied.<|quote|>"You ve gone too far."</|quote|>His hand remained upon the curtain. "Why don t you admit, Katharine," he broke out, looking at her with an expression of contempt as well as of anger, "that you love him? Are you going to treat him as you treated me?" She looked at him, wondering, in spite of all her perplexity, at the spirit that possessed him. "I forbid you to draw the curtain," she said. He reflected, and then took his hand away. "I ve no right to interfere," he concluded. "I ll leave you. Or, if you like, we ll go back to the drawing-room." "No. I can t go back," she said, shaking her head. She bent her head in thought. "You love him, Katharine," Rodney said suddenly. His tone had lost something of its sternness, and might have been used to urge a child to confess its fault. She raised her eyes and fixed them upon him. "I love him?" she repeated. He nodded. She searched his face, as if for further confirmation of his words, and, as he remained silent and expectant, turned away once more and continued her thoughts. He observed her closely, but without stirring, as if he gave her time to make up her mind to fulfil her obvious duty. The strains of Mozart reached them from the room above. "Now," she said suddenly, with a sort of desperation, rising from her chair and seeming to command Rodney to fulfil his part. He drew the curtain instantly, and she made no attempt to stop him. Their eyes at once sought the same spot beneath the lamp-post. "He s not there!" she exclaimed. No one was there. William threw the window up and looked out. The wind rushed into the room, together with the sound of distant wheels, footsteps hurrying along the pavement, and the cries of sirens hooting down the river. "Denham!" William cried. "Ralph!" said Katharine, but she spoke scarcely louder than she might have spoken to some one in the same room. With their eyes fixed upon the opposite side of the road, they did not notice a figure close to the railing which divided the garden from the street. But Denham had crossed the road and was standing there. They were startled by his voice close at hand. "Rodney!" "There you are! Come in, Denham." Rodney went to the front door and opened it. "Here he is,"
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manner returned as he glanced at Katharine. "We will never discuss these matters again. It s not that I m timid and conventional, as you think, Katharine. It s that it spoils things to discuss them; it unsettles people s minds; and now we re all so happy" Cassandra ratified this conclusion so far as she was concerned, and William, after receiving the exquisite pleasure of her glance, with its absolute affection and trust, looked anxiously at Katharine. "Yes, I m happy," she assured him. "And I agree. We will never talk about it again." "Oh, Katharine, Katharine!" Cassandra cried, holding out her arms while the tears ran down her cheeks. CHAPTER XXX The day was so different from other days to three people in the house that the common routine of household life the maid waiting at table, Mrs. Hilbery writing a letter, the clock striking, and the door opening, and all the other signs of long-established civilization appeared suddenly to have no meaning save as they lulled Mr. and Mrs. Hilbery into the belief that nothing unusual had taken place. It chanced that Mrs. Hilbery was depressed without visible cause, unless a certain crudeness verging upon coarseness in the temper of her favorite Elizabethans could be held responsible for the mood. At any rate, she had shut up "The Duchess of Malfi" with a sigh, and wished to know, so she told Rodney at dinner, whether there wasn t some young writer with a touch of the great spirit somebody who made you believe that life was _beautiful?_ She got little help from Rodney, and after singing her plaintive requiem for the death of poetry by herself, she charmed herself into good spirits again by remembering the existence of Mozart. She begged Cassandra to play to her, and when they went upstairs Cassandra opened the piano directly, and did her best to create an atmosphere of unmixed beauty. At the sound of the first notes Katharine and Rodney both felt an enormous sense of relief at the license which the music gave them to loosen their hold upon the mechanism of behavior. They lapsed into the depths of thought. Mrs. Hilbery was soon spirited away into a perfectly congenial mood, that was half reverie and half slumber, half delicious melancholy and half pure bliss. Mr. Hilbery alone attended. He was extremely musical, and made Cassandra aware that he listened to every note. She played her best, and won his approval. Leaning slightly forward in his chair, and turning his little green stone, he weighed the intention of her phrases approvingly, but stopped her suddenly to complain of a noise behind him. The window was unhasped. He signed to Rodney, who crossed the room immediately to put the matter right. He stayed a moment longer by the window than was, perhaps, necessary, and having done what was needed, drew his chair a little closer than before to Katharine s side. The music went on. Under cover of some exquisite run of melody, he leant towards her and whispered something. She glanced at her father and mother, and a moment later left the room, almost unobserved, with Rodney. "What is it?" she asked, as soon as the door was shut. Rodney made no answer, but led her downstairs into the dining-room on the ground floor. Even when he had shut the door he said nothing, but went straight to the window and parted the curtains. He beckoned to Katharine. "There he is again," he said. "Look, there under the lamp-post." Katharine looked. She had no idea what Rodney was talking about. A vague feeling of alarm and mystery possessed her. She saw a man standing on the opposite side of the road facing the house beneath a lamp-post. As they looked the figure turned, walked a few steps, and came back again to his old position. It seemed to her that he was looking fixedly at her, and was conscious of her gaze on him. She knew, in a flash, who the man was who was watching them. She drew the curtain abruptly. "Denham," said Rodney. "He was there last night too." He spoke sternly. His whole manner had become full of authority. Katharine felt almost as if he accused her of some crime. She was pale and uncomfortably agitated, as much by the strangeness of Rodney s behavior as by the sight of Ralph Denham. "If he chooses to come" she said defiantly. "You can t let him wait out there. I shall tell him to come in." Rodney spoke with such decision that when he raised his arm Katharine expected him to draw the curtain instantly. She caught his hand with a little exclamation. "Wait!" she cried. "I don t allow you." "You can t wait," he replied.<|quote|>"You ve gone too far."</|quote|>His hand remained upon the curtain. "Why don t you admit, Katharine," he broke out, looking at her with an expression of contempt as well as of anger, "that you love him? Are you going to treat him as you treated me?" She looked at him, wondering, in spite of all her perplexity, at the spirit that possessed him. "I forbid you to draw the curtain," she said. He reflected, and then took his hand away. "I ve no right to interfere," he concluded. "I ll leave you. Or, if you like, we ll go back to the drawing-room." "No. I can t go back," she said, shaking her head. She bent her head in thought. "You love him, Katharine," Rodney said suddenly. His tone had lost something of its sternness, and might have been used to urge a child to confess its fault. She raised her eyes and fixed them upon him. "I love him?" she repeated. He nodded. She searched his face, as if for further confirmation of his words, and, as he remained silent and expectant, turned away once more and continued her thoughts. He observed her closely, but without stirring, as if he gave her time to make up her mind to fulfil her obvious duty. The strains of Mozart reached them from the room above. "Now," she said suddenly, with a sort of desperation, rising from her chair and seeming to command Rodney to fulfil his part. He drew the curtain instantly, and she made no attempt to stop him. Their eyes at once sought the same spot beneath the lamp-post. "He s not there!" she exclaimed. No one was there. William threw the window up and looked out. The wind rushed into the room, together with the sound of distant wheels, footsteps hurrying along the pavement, and the cries of sirens hooting down the river. "Denham!" William cried. "Ralph!" said Katharine, but she spoke scarcely louder than she might have spoken to some one in the same room. With their eyes fixed upon the opposite side of the road, they did not notice a figure close to the railing which divided the garden from the street. But Denham had crossed the road and was standing there. They were startled by his voice close at hand. "Rodney!" "There you are! Come in, Denham." Rodney went to the front door and opened it. "Here he is," he said, bringing Ralph with him into the dining-room where Katharine stood, with her back to the open window. Their eyes met for a second. Denham looked half dazed by the strong light, and, buttoned in his overcoat, with his hair ruffled across his forehead by the wind, he seemed like somebody rescued from an open boat out at sea. William promptly shut the window and drew the curtains. He acted with a cheerful decision as if he were master of the situation, and knew exactly what he meant to do. "You re the first to hear the news, Denham," he said. "Katharine isn t going to marry me, after all." "Where shall I put" Ralph began vaguely, holding out his hat and glancing about him; he balanced it carefully against a silver bowl that stood upon the sideboard. He then sat himself down rather heavily at the head of the oval dinner-table. Rodney stood on one side of him and Katharine on the other. He appeared to be presiding over some meeting from which most of the members were absent. Meanwhile, he waited, and his eyes rested upon the glow of the beautifully polished mahogany table. "William is engaged to Cassandra," said Katharine briefly. At that Denham looked up quickly at Rodney. Rodney s expression changed. He lost his self-possession. He smiled a little nervously, and then his attention seemed to be caught by a fragment of melody from the floor above. He seemed for a moment to forget the presence of the others. He glanced towards the door. "I congratulate you," said Denham. "Yes, yes. We re all mad quite out of our minds, Denham," he said. "It s partly Katharine s doing partly mine." He looked oddly round the room as if he wished to make sure that the scene in which he played a part had some real existence. "Quite mad," he repeated. "Even Katharine" His gaze rested upon her finally, as if she, too, had changed from his old view of her. He smiled at her as if to encourage her. "Katharine shall explain," he said, and giving a little nod to Denham, he left the room. Katharine sat down at once, and leant her chin upon her hands. So long as Rodney was in the room the proceedings of the evening had seemed to be in his charge, and had been marked by a
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needed, drew his chair a little closer than before to Katharine s side. The music went on. Under cover of some exquisite run of melody, he leant towards her and whispered something. She glanced at her father and mother, and a moment later left the room, almost unobserved, with Rodney. "What is it?" she asked, as soon as the door was shut. Rodney made no answer, but led her downstairs into the dining-room on the ground floor. Even when he had shut the door he said nothing, but went straight to the window and parted the curtains. He beckoned to Katharine. "There he is again," he said. "Look, there under the lamp-post." Katharine looked. She had no idea what Rodney was talking about. A vague feeling of alarm and mystery possessed her. She saw a man standing on the opposite side of the road facing the house beneath a lamp-post. As they looked the figure turned, walked a few steps, and came back again to his old position. It seemed to her that he was looking fixedly at her, and was conscious of her gaze on him. She knew, in a flash, who the man was who was watching them. She drew the curtain abruptly. "Denham," said Rodney. "He was there last night too." He spoke sternly. His whole manner had become full of authority. Katharine felt almost as if he accused her of some crime. She was pale and uncomfortably agitated, as much by the strangeness of Rodney s behavior as by the sight of Ralph Denham. "If he chooses to come" she said defiantly. "You can t let him wait out there. I shall tell him to come in." Rodney spoke with such decision that when he raised his arm Katharine expected him to draw the curtain instantly. She caught his hand with a little exclamation. "Wait!" she cried. "I don t allow you." "You can t wait," he replied.<|quote|>"You ve gone too far."</|quote|>His hand remained upon the curtain. "Why don t you admit, Katharine," he broke out, looking at her with an expression of contempt as well as of anger, "that you love him? Are you going to treat him as you treated me?" She looked at him, wondering, in spite of all her perplexity, at the spirit that possessed him. "I forbid you to draw the curtain," she said. He reflected, and then took his hand away. "I ve no right to interfere," he concluded. "I ll leave you. Or, if you like, we ll go back to the drawing-room." "No. I can t go back," she said, shaking her head. She bent her head in thought. "You love him, Katharine," Rodney said suddenly. His tone had lost something of its sternness, and might have been used to urge a child to confess its fault. She raised her eyes and fixed them upon him. "I love him?" she repeated. He nodded. She searched his face, as if for further confirmation of his words, and, as he remained silent and expectant, turned away once more and continued her thoughts. He observed her closely, but without stirring, as if he gave her time to make up her mind to fulfil her obvious duty. The strains of Mozart reached them from the room above. "Now," she said suddenly, with a sort of desperation, rising from her chair and seeming to command Rodney to fulfil his part. He drew the curtain instantly, and she made no attempt to stop him. Their eyes at once sought the same spot beneath the lamp-post. "He s not there!" she exclaimed. No one was there. William threw the window up and looked out. The wind rushed into the room, together with the sound of distant wheels, footsteps hurrying along the pavement, and the cries of sirens hooting down the river. "Denham!" William cried. "Ralph!" said Katharine, but she spoke scarcely louder than she might have spoken
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Night And Day
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said Tony lightly,
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No speaker
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all--more than two years." "Well,"<|quote|>said Tony lightly,</|quote|>"they will well last out
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long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well,"<|quote|>said Tony lightly,</|quote|>"they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope
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but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well,"<|quote|>said Tony lightly,</|quote|>"they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed
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first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well,"<|quote|>said Tony lightly,</|quote|>"they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat
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propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well,"<|quote|>said Tony lightly,</|quote|>"they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though
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that Tony left the house Mr Todd took him for a little stroll around the farm. "I will show you the black man's grave," he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. "He was very kind. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross--to commemorate his death and your arrival--a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?" "I suppose so. I've never really thought about it much." "I have thought about it a _great_ deal and I still do not know... Dickens did." "I suppose so." "Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well,"<|quote|>said Tony lightly,</|quote|>"they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."
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remedies. "It's very nasty," said Tony, "but it does do good." "There is medicine for everything in the forest," said Mr Todd; "to make you well and to make you ill. My mother was an Indian and she taught me many of them. I have learned others from time to time from my wives. There are plants to cure you and give you fever, to kill you and send you mad, to keep away snakes, to intoxicate fish so that you can pick them out of the water with your hands like fruit from a tree. There are medicines even I do not know. They say that it is possible to bring dead people to life after they have begun to stink, but I have not seen it done." "But surely you are English?" "My father was--at least a Barbadian. He came to Guiana as a missionary. He was married to a white woman but he left her in Guiana to look for gold. Then he took my mother. The Pie-wie women are ugly but very devoted. I have had many. Most of the men and women living in this savannah are my children. That is why they obey--for that reason and because I have the gun. My father lived to a great age. It is not twenty years since he died. He was a man of education. Can you read?" "Yes, of course." "It is not everyone who is so fortunate. I cannot." Tony laughed apologetically. "But I suppose you haven't much opportunity here." "Oh yes, that is just it. I have a _great_ many books. I will show you when you are better. Until five years ago there was an Englishman--at least a black man, but he was well educated in Georgetown. He died. He used to read to me every day until he died. You shall read to me when you are better." "I shall be delighted to." "Yes, you shall read to me," Mr Todd repeated, nodding over the calabash. During the early days of his convalescence Tony had little conversation with his host, he lay in the hammock staring up at the thatched roof and thinking about Brenda. The days, exactly twelve hours each, passed without distinction. Mr Todd retired to sleep at sundown, leaving a little lamp burning--a handwoven wick drooping from a pot of beef fat--to keep away vampire bats. The first time that Tony left the house Mr Todd took him for a little stroll around the farm. "I will show you the black man's grave," he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. "He was very kind. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross--to commemorate his death and your arrival--a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?" "I suppose so. I've never really thought about it much." "I have thought about it a _great_ deal and I still do not know... Dickens did." "I suppose so." "Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well,"<|quote|>said Tony lightly,</|quote|>"they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go."
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when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well,"<|quote|>said Tony lightly,</|quote|>"they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You
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A Handful Of Dust
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cried Piglet,
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No speaker
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Piglet looked down. "Help, help!"<|quote|>cried Piglet,</|quote|>"a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!"
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was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!"<|quote|>cried Piglet,</|quote|>"a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as
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he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!"<|quote|>cried Piglet,</|quote|>"a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?"
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the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!"<|quote|>cried Piglet,</|quote|>"a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing,
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be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!"<|quote|>cried Piglet,</|quote|>"a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well," said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes, "I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh
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Pigs, did it make any difference _what sort of Pig_? Supposing it was Fierce with Pigs, would it make any difference _if the Pig had a grandfather called TRESPASSERS WILLIAM_? He didn't know the answer to any of these questions ... and he was going to see his first Heffalump in about an hour from now! Of course Pooh would be with him, and it was much more Friendly with two. But suppose Heffalumps were Very Fierce with Pigs _and_ Bears? Wouldn't it be better to pretend that he had a headache, and couldn't go up to the Six Pine Trees this morning? But then suppose that it was a very fine day, and there was no Heffalump in the trap, here he would be, in bed all the morning, simply wasting his time for nothing. What should he do? And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was_ a Heffalump there. And if there was, he would go back to bed, and if there wasn't, he wouldn't. So off he went. At first he thought that there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!"<|quote|>cried Piglet,</|quote|>"a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well," said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes, "I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water. "Pathetic," he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise in the bracken behind him, and out came Pooh. "Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Good
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way, when suddenly he remembered. He had put it into the Cunning Trap to catch the Heffalump. "Bother!" said Pooh. "It all comes of trying to be kind to Heffalumps." And he got back into bed. But he couldn't sleep. The more he tried to sleep, the more he couldn't. He tried Counting Sheep, which is sometimes a good way of getting to sleep, and, as that was no good, he tried counting Heffalumps. And that was worse. Because every Heffalump that he counted was making straight for a pot of Pooh's honey, _and eating it all_. For some minutes he lay there miserably, but when the five hundred and eighty-seventh Heffalump was licking its jaws, and saying to itself, "Very good honey this, I don't know when I've tasted better," Pooh could bear it no longer. He jumped out of bed, he ran out of the house, and he ran straight to the Six Pine Trees. The Sun was still in bed, but there was a lightness in the sky over the Hundred Acre Wood which seemed to show that it was waking up and would soon be kicking off the clothes. In the half-light the Pine Trees looked cold and lonely, and the Very Deep Pit seemed deeper than it was, and Pooh's jar of honey at the bottom was something mysterious, a shape and no more. But as he got nearer to it his nose told him that it was indeed honey, and his tongue came out and began to polish up his mouth, ready for it. "Bother!" said Pooh, as he got his nose inside the jar. "A Heffalump has been eating it!" And then he thought a little and said, "Oh, no, _I_ did. I forgot." Indeed, he had eaten most of it. But there was a little left at the very bottom of the jar, and he pushed his head right in, and began to lick.... By and by Piglet woke up. As soon as he woke he said to himself, "Oh!" Then he said bravely, "Yes," and then, still more bravely, "Quite so." But he didn't feel very brave, for the word which was really jiggeting about in his brain was "Heffalumps." What was a Heffalump like? Was it Fierce? _Did_ it come when you whistled? And _how_ did it come? Was it Fond of Pigs at all? If it was Fond of Pigs, did it make any difference _what sort of Pig_? Supposing it was Fierce with Pigs, would it make any difference _if the Pig had a grandfather called TRESPASSERS WILLIAM_? He didn't know the answer to any of these questions ... and he was going to see his first Heffalump in about an hour from now! Of course Pooh would be with him, and it was much more Friendly with two. But suppose Heffalumps were Very Fierce with Pigs _and_ Bears? Wouldn't it be better to pretend that he had a headache, and couldn't go up to the Six Pine Trees this morning? But then suppose that it was a very fine day, and there was no Heffalump in the trap, here he would be, in bed all the morning, simply wasting his time for nothing. What should he do? And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was_ a Heffalump there. And if there was, he would go back to bed, and if there wasn't, he wouldn't. So off he went. At first he thought that there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!"<|quote|>cried Piglet,</|quote|>"a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well," said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes, "I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water. "Pathetic," he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise in the bracken behind him, and out came Pooh. "Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it _is_ a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he. "Why, what's the matter?" "Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it." "Can't all _what_?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose. "Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush." "Oh!" said Pooh. He thought for a long time, and then asked, "What mulberry bush is that?" "Bon-hommy," went on Eeyore gloomily. "French word meaning bonhommy," he explained. "I'm not complaining, but There It Is." Pooh sat down on a large stone, and tried to think this out. It sounded to him like a riddle, and he was never much good at riddles, being a Bear of Very Little Brain. So he sang _Cottleston Pie_ instead: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fly can't bird, but a bird can fly. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie._"" That was the first verse. When he had finished it, Eeyore didn't actually say that he didn't like it, so Pooh very kindly sang the second verse to him: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fish can't whistle and neither can I. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie_."" Eeyore still said nothing at all, so Pooh hummed the third verse quietly to himself: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, Why does a chicken, I don't know why. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie_."" "That's right," said Eeyore. "Sing. Umty-tiddly, umty-too. Here we go gathering Nuts and May. Enjoy yourself." "I am," said Pooh. "Some can," said Eeyore. "Why, what's the matter?" "_Is_ anything the matter?" "You seem so sad, Eeyore." "Sad? Why should I be sad? It's my birthday. The happiest day of the year." "Your birthday?" said Pooh in great surprise. "Of course it is. Can't you see? Look at all the presents I have had." He waved a foot from side to side. "Look at the birthday cake. Candles and pink sugar." Pooh looked--first to the right and then to the left. "Presents?" said Pooh. "Birthday cake?" said Pooh. "_Where?_" "Can't you see them?" "No," said Pooh. "Neither can I," said Eeyore. "Joke," he explained. "Ha ha!" Pooh scratched his head, being a little puzzled by all this. "But is it really your birthday?" he asked. "It is." "Oh! Well, Many happy returns
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was, and Pooh's jar of honey at the bottom was something mysterious, a shape and no more. But as he got nearer to it his nose told him that it was indeed honey, and his tongue came out and began to polish up his mouth, ready for it. "Bother!" said Pooh, as he got his nose inside the jar. "A Heffalump has been eating it!" And then he thought a little and said, "Oh, no, _I_ did. I forgot." Indeed, he had eaten most of it. But there was a little left at the very bottom of the jar, and he pushed his head right in, and began to lick.... By and by Piglet woke up. As soon as he woke he said to himself, "Oh!" Then he said bravely, "Yes," and then, still more bravely, "Quite so." But he didn't feel very brave, for the word which was really jiggeting about in his brain was "Heffalumps." What was a Heffalump like? Was it Fierce? _Did_ it come when you whistled? And _how_ did it come? Was it Fond of Pigs at all? If it was Fond of Pigs, did it make any difference _what sort of Pig_? Supposing it was Fierce with Pigs, would it make any difference _if the Pig had a grandfather called TRESPASSERS WILLIAM_? He didn't know the answer to any of these questions ... and he was going to see his first Heffalump in about an hour from now! Of course Pooh would be with him, and it was much more Friendly with two. But suppose Heffalumps were Very Fierce with Pigs _and_ Bears? Wouldn't it be better to pretend that he had a headache, and couldn't go up to the Six Pine Trees this morning? But then suppose that it was a very fine day, and there was no Heffalump in the trap, here he would be, in bed all the morning, simply wasting his time for nothing. What should he do? And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was_ a Heffalump there. And if there was, he would go back to bed, and if there wasn't, he wouldn't. So off he went. At first he thought that there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!"<|quote|>cried Piglet,</|quote|>"a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well," said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes, "I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water. "Pathetic," he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise in the bracken behind him, and out came Pooh. "Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it _is_ a good morning," he said. "Which
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Winnie The Pooh
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Emma pondered a moment, and then replied,
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No speaker
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his conduct we cannot excuse."<|quote|>Emma pondered a moment, and then replied,</|quote|>"I will not pretend _not_
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father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we cannot excuse."<|quote|>Emma pondered a moment, and then replied,</|quote|>"I will not pretend _not_ to understand you; and to
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think of at least half a day, before I can at all comprehend it. What!--engaged to her all the winter--before either of them came to Highbury?" "Engaged since October,--secretly engaged.--It has hurt me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we cannot excuse."<|quote|>Emma pondered a moment, and then replied,</|quote|>"I will not pretend _not_ to understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of." Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was as steady as her
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scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between two ideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor Harriet;--and for some time she could only exclaim, and require confirmation, repeated confirmation. "Well," said she at last, trying to recover herself; "this is a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at all comprehend it. What!--engaged to her all the winter--before either of them came to Highbury?" "Engaged since October,--secretly engaged.--It has hurt me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we cannot excuse."<|quote|>Emma pondered a moment, and then replied,</|quote|>"I will not pretend _not_ to understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of." Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was as steady as her words. "That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my present perfect indifference," she continued, "I will farther tell you, that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to
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You do not mean it?" "You may well be amazed," returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover-- "You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn engagement between them ever since October--formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but themselves--neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.--It is so wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.--I thought I knew him." Emma scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between two ideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor Harriet;--and for some time she could only exclaim, and require confirmation, repeated confirmation. "Well," said she at last, trying to recover herself; "this is a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at all comprehend it. What!--engaged to her all the winter--before either of them came to Highbury?" "Engaged since October,--secretly engaged.--It has hurt me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we cannot excuse."<|quote|>Emma pondered a moment, and then replied,</|quote|>"I will not pretend _not_ to understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of." Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was as steady as her words. "That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my present perfect indifference," she continued, "I will farther tell you, that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him--nay, was attached--and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder. Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past, for at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth." Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good than any thing else in the world could do. "Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself," said she. "On this point we have been wretched. It was our
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know directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be." "Have you indeed no idea?" said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice. "Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear?" "So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess." "You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;" (resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) "He has been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a subject,--to announce an attachment--" She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of Harriet. "More than an attachment, indeed," resumed Mrs. Weston; "an engagement--a positive engagement.--What will you say, Emma--what will any body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are engaged;--nay, that they have been long engaged!" Emma even jumped with surprize;--and, horror-struck, exclaimed, "Jane Fairfax!--Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?" "You may well be amazed," returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover-- "You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn engagement between them ever since October--formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but themselves--neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.--It is so wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.--I thought I knew him." Emma scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between two ideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor Harriet;--and for some time she could only exclaim, and require confirmation, repeated confirmation. "Well," said she at last, trying to recover herself; "this is a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at all comprehend it. What!--engaged to her all the winter--before either of them came to Highbury?" "Engaged since October,--secretly engaged.--It has hurt me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we cannot excuse."<|quote|>Emma pondered a moment, and then replied,</|quote|>"I will not pretend _not_ to understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of." Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was as steady as her words. "That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my present perfect indifference," she continued, "I will farther tell you, that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him--nay, was attached--and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder. Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past, for at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth." Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good than any thing else in the world could do. "Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself," said she. "On this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you might be attached to each other--and we were persuaded that it was so.-- Imagine what we have been feeling on your account." "I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit _him_, Mrs. Weston; and I must say, that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he to come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so _very_ disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he certainly did--to distinguish any one young woman with persevering attention, as he certainly did--while he really belonged to another?--How could he tell what mischief he might be doing?--How could he tell that he might not be making me in love with him?--very wrong, very wrong indeed." "From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine--" "And how could _she_ bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness! to look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman, before her face, and not resent it.--That is a degree of placidity, which I can neither comprehend nor respect." "There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so
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name of Knightley." Emma's courage returned, and she walked on. "I was wrong," he continued, "in talking of its being _broke_ to you. I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern you--it concerns only myself,--that is, we hope.--Humph!--In short, my dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don't say that it is not a disagreeable business--but things might be much worse.--If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls." Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money concern--something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the circumstances of the family,--something which the late event at Richmond had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural children, perhaps--and poor Frank cut off!--This, though very undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more than an animating curiosity. "Who is that gentleman on horseback?" said she, as they proceeded--speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret, than with any other view. "I do not know.--One of the Otways.--Not Frank;--it is not Frank, I assure you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this time." "Has your son been with you, then?" "Oh! yes--did not you know?--Well, well, never mind." For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded and demure, "Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did." They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.--" "Well, my dear," said he, as they entered the room--" "I have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me." "--And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,--" "I have been as good as my word. She has not the least idea." Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said, "What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be." "Have you indeed no idea?" said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice. "Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear?" "So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess." "You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;" (resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) "He has been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a subject,--to announce an attachment--" She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of Harriet. "More than an attachment, indeed," resumed Mrs. Weston; "an engagement--a positive engagement.--What will you say, Emma--what will any body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are engaged;--nay, that they have been long engaged!" Emma even jumped with surprize;--and, horror-struck, exclaimed, "Jane Fairfax!--Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?" "You may well be amazed," returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover-- "You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn engagement between them ever since October--formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but themselves--neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.--It is so wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.--I thought I knew him." Emma scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between two ideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor Harriet;--and for some time she could only exclaim, and require confirmation, repeated confirmation. "Well," said she at last, trying to recover herself; "this is a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at all comprehend it. What!--engaged to her all the winter--before either of them came to Highbury?" "Engaged since October,--secretly engaged.--It has hurt me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we cannot excuse."<|quote|>Emma pondered a moment, and then replied,</|quote|>"I will not pretend _not_ to understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of." Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was as steady as her words. "That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my present perfect indifference," she continued, "I will farther tell you, that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him--nay, was attached--and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder. Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past, for at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth." Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good than any thing else in the world could do. "Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself," said she. "On this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you might be attached to each other--and we were persuaded that it was so.-- Imagine what we have been feeling on your account." "I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit _him_, Mrs. Weston; and I must say, that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he to come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so _very_ disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he certainly did--to distinguish any one young woman with persevering attention, as he certainly did--while he really belonged to another?--How could he tell what mischief he might be doing?--How could he tell that he might not be making me in love with him?--very wrong, very wrong indeed." "From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine--" "And how could _she_ bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness! to look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman, before her face, and not resent it.--That is a degree of placidity, which I can neither comprehend nor respect." "There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so expressly. He had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow the full use even of the time he could stay--but that there had been misunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed, seemed to be brought on by them; and those misunderstandings might very possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct." "Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston--it is too calm a censure. Much, much beyond impropriety!--It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk him in my opinion. So unlike what a man should be!--None of that upright integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain of trick and littleness, which a man should display in every transaction of his life." "Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been wrong in this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having many, very many, good qualities; and--" "Good God!" cried Emma, not attending to her.--" "Mrs. Smallridge, too! Jane actually on the point of going as governess! What could he mean by such horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself--to suffer her even to think of such a measure!" "He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit him. It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him--or at least not communicated in a way to carry conviction.--Till yesterday, I know he said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I do not know how, but by some letter or message--and it was the discovery of what she was doing, of this very project of hers, which determined him to come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on his kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of concealment that had been carrying on so long." Emma began to listen better. "I am to hear from him soon," continued Mrs. Weston. "He told me at parting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now. Let us wait, therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It may make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to be understood. Don't
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and demure, "Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did." They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.--" "Well, my dear," said he, as they entered the room--" "I have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me." "--And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,--" "I have been as good as my word. She has not the least idea." Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said, "What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be." "Have you indeed no idea?" said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice. "Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear?" "So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess." "You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;" (resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) "He has been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a subject,--to announce an attachment--" She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of Harriet. "More than an attachment, indeed," resumed Mrs. Weston; "an engagement--a positive engagement.--What will you say, Emma--what will any body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are engaged;--nay, that they have been long engaged!" Emma even jumped with surprize;--and, horror-struck, exclaimed, "Jane Fairfax!--Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?" "You may well be amazed," returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover-- "You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn engagement between them ever since October--formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but themselves--neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.--It is so wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.--I thought I knew him." Emma scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between two ideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor Harriet;--and for some time she could only exclaim, and require confirmation, repeated confirmation. "Well," said she at last, trying to recover herself; "this is a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at all comprehend it. What!--engaged to her all the winter--before either of them came to Highbury?" "Engaged since October,--secretly engaged.--It has hurt me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we cannot excuse."<|quote|>Emma pondered a moment, and then replied,</|quote|>"I will not pretend _not_ to understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of." Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was as steady as her words. "That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my present perfect indifference," she continued, "I will farther tell you, that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him--nay, was attached--and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder. Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past, for at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth." Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good than any thing else in the world could do. "Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself," said she. "On this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you might be attached to each other--and we were persuaded that it was so.-- Imagine what we have been feeling on your account." "I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit _him_, Mrs. Weston;
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Emma
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"That's enough,"
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Jake Barnes
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"All right. I'll take that."<|quote|>"That's enough,"</|quote|>I said. "Or you'll have
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a hundred if you like." "All right. I'll take that."<|quote|>"That's enough,"</|quote|>I said. "Or you'll have to make a book and
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it myself," Bill said. I saw he was angry and wanted to smooth him down. "It's a sure thing they'll come," I said. "But maybe not to-night." "Want to call it off?" Cohn asked. "No. Why should I? Make it a hundred if you like." "All right. I'll take that."<|quote|>"That's enough,"</|quote|>I said. "Or you'll have to make a book and give me some of it." "I'm satisfied," Cohn said. He smiled. "You'll probably win it back at bridge, anyway." "You haven't got it yet," Bill said. We went out to walk around under the arcade to the Caf Iru a
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said it with an air of superior knowledge that irritated both of us. "I'll bet you fifty pesetas they're here to-night," Bill said. He always bets when he is angered, and so he usually bets foolishly. "I'll take it," Cohn said. "Good. You remember it, Jake. Fifty pesetas." "I'll remember it myself," Bill said. I saw he was angry and wanted to smooth him down. "It's a sure thing they'll come," I said. "But maybe not to-night." "Want to call it off?" Cohn asked. "No. Why should I? Make it a hundred if you like." "All right. I'll take that."<|quote|>"That's enough,"</|quote|>I said. "Or you'll have to make a book and give me some of it." "I'm satisfied," Cohn said. He smiled. "You'll probably win it back at bridge, anyway." "You haven't got it yet," Bill said. We went out to walk around under the arcade to the Caf Iru a for coffee. Cohn said he was going over and get a shave. "Say," Bill said to me, "have I got any chance on that bet?" "You've got a rotten chance. They've never been on time anywhere. If their money doesn't come it's a cinch they won't get in to-night." "I
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course, but we would not interpret for him, and so the waitress brought him something else as a replacement, a plate of cold meats, I think. Cohn had been rather nervous ever since we had met at Bayonne. He did not know whether we knew Brett had been with him at San Sebastian, and it made him rather awkward. "Well," I said, "Brett and Mike ought to get in to-night." "I'm not sure they'll come," Cohn said. "Why not?" Bill said. "Of course they'll come." "They're always late," I said. "I rather think they're not coming," Robert Cohn said. He said it with an air of superior knowledge that irritated both of us. "I'll bet you fifty pesetas they're here to-night," Bill said. He always bets when he is angered, and so he usually bets foolishly. "I'll take it," Cohn said. "Good. You remember it, Jake. Fifty pesetas." "I'll remember it myself," Bill said. I saw he was angry and wanted to smooth him down. "It's a sure thing they'll come," I said. "But maybe not to-night." "Want to call it off?" Cohn asked. "No. Why should I? Make it a hundred if you like." "All right. I'll take that."<|quote|>"That's enough,"</|quote|>I said. "Or you'll have to make a book and give me some of it." "I'm satisfied," Cohn said. He smiled. "You'll probably win it back at bridge, anyway." "You haven't got it yet," Bill said. We went out to walk around under the arcade to the Caf Iru a for coffee. Cohn said he was going over and get a shave. "Say," Bill said to me, "have I got any chance on that bet?" "You've got a rotten chance. They've never been on time anywhere. If their money doesn't come it's a cinch they won't get in to-night." "I was sorry as soon as I opened my mouth. But I had to call him. He's all right, I guess, but where does he get this inside stuff? Mike and Brett fixed it up with us about coming down here." I saw Cohn coming over across the square. "Here he comes." "Well, let him not get superior and Jewish." "The barber shop's closed," Cohn said. "It's not open till four." We had coffee at the Iru a, sitting in comfortable wicker chairs looking out from the cool of the arcade at the big square. After a while Bill went to
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get out of the sun and under the shade of the arcade that runs all the way around the square. Montoya was glad to see us, and shook hands and gave us good rooms looking out on the square, and then we washed and cleaned up and went down-stairs in the dining-room for lunch. The driver stayed for lunch, too, and afterward we paid him and he started back to Bayonne. There are two dining-rooms in the Montoya. One is up-stairs on the second floor and looks out on the square. The other is down one floor below the level of the square and has a door that opens on the back street that the bulls pass along when they run through the streets early in the morning on their way to the ring. It is always cool in the down-stairs dining-room and we had a very good lunch. The first meal in Spain was always a shock with the hors d'oeuvres, an egg course, two meat courses, vegetables, salad, and dessert and fruit. You have to drink plenty of wine to get it all down. Robert Cohn tried to say he did not want any of the second meat course, but we would not interpret for him, and so the waitress brought him something else as a replacement, a plate of cold meats, I think. Cohn had been rather nervous ever since we had met at Bayonne. He did not know whether we knew Brett had been with him at San Sebastian, and it made him rather awkward. "Well," I said, "Brett and Mike ought to get in to-night." "I'm not sure they'll come," Cohn said. "Why not?" Bill said. "Of course they'll come." "They're always late," I said. "I rather think they're not coming," Robert Cohn said. He said it with an air of superior knowledge that irritated both of us. "I'll bet you fifty pesetas they're here to-night," Bill said. He always bets when he is angered, and so he usually bets foolishly. "I'll take it," Cohn said. "Good. You remember it, Jake. Fifty pesetas." "I'll remember it myself," Bill said. I saw he was angry and wanted to smooth him down. "It's a sure thing they'll come," I said. "But maybe not to-night." "Want to call it off?" Cohn asked. "No. Why should I? Make it a hundred if you like." "All right. I'll take that."<|quote|>"That's enough,"</|quote|>I said. "Or you'll have to make a book and give me some of it." "I'm satisfied," Cohn said. He smiled. "You'll probably win it back at bridge, anyway." "You haven't got it yet," Bill said. We went out to walk around under the arcade to the Caf Iru a for coffee. Cohn said he was going over and get a shave. "Say," Bill said to me, "have I got any chance on that bet?" "You've got a rotten chance. They've never been on time anywhere. If their money doesn't come it's a cinch they won't get in to-night." "I was sorry as soon as I opened my mouth. But I had to call him. He's all right, I guess, but where does he get this inside stuff? Mike and Brett fixed it up with us about coming down here." I saw Cohn coming over across the square. "Here he comes." "Well, let him not get superior and Jewish." "The barber shop's closed," Cohn said. "It's not open till four." We had coffee at the Iru a, sitting in comfortable wicker chairs looking out from the cool of the arcade at the big square. After a while Bill went to write some letters and Cohn went over to the barber-shop. It was still closed, so he decided to go up to the hotel and get a bath, and I sat out in front of the caf and then went for a walk in the town. It was very hot, but I kept on the shady side of the streets and went through the market and had a good time seeing the town again. I went to the Ayuntamiento and found the old gentleman who subscribes for the bull-fight tickets for me every year, and he had gotten the money I sent him from Paris and renewed my subscriptions, so that was all set. He was the archivist, and all the archives of the town were in his office. That has nothing to do with the story. Anyway, his office had a green baize door and a big wooden door, and when I went out I left him sitting among the archives that covered all the walls, and I shut both the doors, and as I went out of the building into the street the porter stopped me to brush off my coat. "You must have been in a motor-car," he
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that were sleeping in the road. We came down out of the mountains and through an oak forest, and there were white cattle grazing in the forest. Down below there were grassy plains and clear streams, and then we crossed a stream and went through a gloomy little village, and started to climb again. We climbed up and up and crossed another high Col and turned along it, and the road ran down to the right, and we saw a whole new range of mountains off to the south, all brown and baked-looking and furrowed in strange shapes. After a while we came out of the mountains, and there were trees along both sides of the road, and a stream and ripe fields of grain, and the road went on, very white and straight ahead, and then lifted to a little rise, and off on the left was a hill with an old castle, with buildings close around it and a field of grain going right up to the walls and shifting in the wind. I was up in front with the driver and I turned around. Robert Cohn was asleep, but Bill looked and nodded his head. Then we crossed a wide plain, and there was a big river off on the right shining in the sun from between the line of trees, and away off you could see the plateau of Pamplona rising out of the plain, and the walls of the city, and the great brown cathedral, and the broken skyline of the other churches. In back of the plateau were the mountains, and every way you looked there were other mountains, and ahead the road stretched out white across the plain going toward Pamplona. We came into the town on the other side of the plateau, the road slanting up steeply and dustily with shade-trees on both sides, and then levelling out through the new part of town they are building up outside the old walls. We passed the bull-ring, high and white and concrete-looking in the sun, and then came into the big square by a side street and stopped in front of the Hotel Montoya. The driver helped us down with the bags. There was a crowd of kids watching the car, and the square was hot, and the trees were green, and the flags hung on their staffs, and it was good to get out of the sun and under the shade of the arcade that runs all the way around the square. Montoya was glad to see us, and shook hands and gave us good rooms looking out on the square, and then we washed and cleaned up and went down-stairs in the dining-room for lunch. The driver stayed for lunch, too, and afterward we paid him and he started back to Bayonne. There are two dining-rooms in the Montoya. One is up-stairs on the second floor and looks out on the square. The other is down one floor below the level of the square and has a door that opens on the back street that the bulls pass along when they run through the streets early in the morning on their way to the ring. It is always cool in the down-stairs dining-room and we had a very good lunch. The first meal in Spain was always a shock with the hors d'oeuvres, an egg course, two meat courses, vegetables, salad, and dessert and fruit. You have to drink plenty of wine to get it all down. Robert Cohn tried to say he did not want any of the second meat course, but we would not interpret for him, and so the waitress brought him something else as a replacement, a plate of cold meats, I think. Cohn had been rather nervous ever since we had met at Bayonne. He did not know whether we knew Brett had been with him at San Sebastian, and it made him rather awkward. "Well," I said, "Brett and Mike ought to get in to-night." "I'm not sure they'll come," Cohn said. "Why not?" Bill said. "Of course they'll come." "They're always late," I said. "I rather think they're not coming," Robert Cohn said. He said it with an air of superior knowledge that irritated both of us. "I'll bet you fifty pesetas they're here to-night," Bill said. He always bets when he is angered, and so he usually bets foolishly. "I'll take it," Cohn said. "Good. You remember it, Jake. Fifty pesetas." "I'll remember it myself," Bill said. I saw he was angry and wanted to smooth him down. "It's a sure thing they'll come," I said. "But maybe not to-night." "Want to call it off?" Cohn asked. "No. Why should I? Make it a hundred if you like." "All right. I'll take that."<|quote|>"That's enough,"</|quote|>I said. "Or you'll have to make a book and give me some of it." "I'm satisfied," Cohn said. He smiled. "You'll probably win it back at bridge, anyway." "You haven't got it yet," Bill said. We went out to walk around under the arcade to the Caf Iru a for coffee. Cohn said he was going over and get a shave. "Say," Bill said to me, "have I got any chance on that bet?" "You've got a rotten chance. They've never been on time anywhere. If their money doesn't come it's a cinch they won't get in to-night." "I was sorry as soon as I opened my mouth. But I had to call him. He's all right, I guess, but where does he get this inside stuff? Mike and Brett fixed it up with us about coming down here." I saw Cohn coming over across the square. "Here he comes." "Well, let him not get superior and Jewish." "The barber shop's closed," Cohn said. "It's not open till four." We had coffee at the Iru a, sitting in comfortable wicker chairs looking out from the cool of the arcade at the big square. After a while Bill went to write some letters and Cohn went over to the barber-shop. It was still closed, so he decided to go up to the hotel and get a bath, and I sat out in front of the caf and then went for a walk in the town. It was very hot, but I kept on the shady side of the streets and went through the market and had a good time seeing the town again. I went to the Ayuntamiento and found the old gentleman who subscribes for the bull-fight tickets for me every year, and he had gotten the money I sent him from Paris and renewed my subscriptions, so that was all set. He was the archivist, and all the archives of the town were in his office. That has nothing to do with the story. Anyway, his office had a green baize door and a big wooden door, and when I went out I left him sitting among the archives that covered all the walls, and I shut both the doors, and as I went out of the building into the street the porter stopped me to brush off my coat. "You must have been in a motor-car," he said. The back of the collar and the upper part of the shoulders were gray with dust. "From Bayonne." "Well, well," he said. "I knew you were in a motor-car from the way the dust was." So I gave him two copper coins. At the end of the street I saw the cathedral and walked up toward it. The first time I ever saw it I thought the fa ade was ugly but I liked it now. I went inside. It was dim and dark and the pillars went high up, and there were people praying, and it smelt of incense, and there were some wonderful big windows. I knelt and started to pray and prayed for everybody I thought of, Brett and Mike and Bill and Robert Cohn and myself, and all the bull-fighters, separately for the ones I liked, and lumping all the rest, then I prayed for myself again, and while I was praying for myself I found I was getting sleepy, so I prayed that the bull-fights would be good, and that it would be a fine fiesta, and that we would get some fishing. I wondered if there was anything else I might pray for, and I thought I would like to have some money, so I prayed that I would make a lot of money, and then I started to think how I would make it, and thinking of making money reminded me of the count, and I started wondering about where he was, and regretting I hadn't seen him since that night in Montmartre, and about something funny Brett told me about him, and as all the time I was kneeling with my forehead on the wood in front of me, and was thinking of myself as praying, I was a little ashamed, and regretted that I was such a rotten Catholic, but realized there was nothing I could do about it, at least for a while, and maybe never, but that anyway it was a grand religion, and I only wished I felt religious and maybe I would the next time; and then I was out in the hot sun on the steps of the cathedral, and the forefingers and the thumb of my right hand were still damp, and I felt them dry in the sun. The sunlight was hot and hard, and I crossed over beside some buildings, and walked
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the line of trees, and away off you could see the plateau of Pamplona rising out of the plain, and the walls of the city, and the great brown cathedral, and the broken skyline of the other churches. In back of the plateau were the mountains, and every way you looked there were other mountains, and ahead the road stretched out white across the plain going toward Pamplona. We came into the town on the other side of the plateau, the road slanting up steeply and dustily with shade-trees on both sides, and then levelling out through the new part of town they are building up outside the old walls. We passed the bull-ring, high and white and concrete-looking in the sun, and then came into the big square by a side street and stopped in front of the Hotel Montoya. The driver helped us down with the bags. There was a crowd of kids watching the car, and the square was hot, and the trees were green, and the flags hung on their staffs, and it was good to get out of the sun and under the shade of the arcade that runs all the way around the square. Montoya was glad to see us, and shook hands and gave us good rooms looking out on the square, and then we washed and cleaned up and went down-stairs in the dining-room for lunch. The driver stayed for lunch, too, and afterward we paid him and he started back to Bayonne. There are two dining-rooms in the Montoya. One is up-stairs on the second floor and looks out on the square. The other is down one floor below the level of the square and has a door that opens on the back street that the bulls pass along when they run through the streets early in the morning on their way to the ring. It is always cool in the down-stairs dining-room and we had a very good lunch. The first meal in Spain was always a shock with the hors d'oeuvres, an egg course, two meat courses, vegetables, salad, and dessert and fruit. You have to drink plenty of wine to get it all down. Robert Cohn tried to say he did not want any of the second meat course, but we would not interpret for him, and so the waitress brought him something else as a replacement, a plate of cold meats, I think. Cohn had been rather nervous ever since we had met at Bayonne. He did not know whether we knew Brett had been with him at San Sebastian, and it made him rather awkward. "Well," I said, "Brett and Mike ought to get in to-night." "I'm not sure they'll come," Cohn said. "Why not?" Bill said. "Of course they'll come." "They're always late," I said. "I rather think they're not coming," Robert Cohn said. He said it with an air of superior knowledge that irritated both of us. "I'll bet you fifty pesetas they're here to-night," Bill said. He always bets when he is angered, and so he usually bets foolishly. "I'll take it," Cohn said. "Good. You remember it, Jake. Fifty pesetas." "I'll remember it myself," Bill said. I saw he was angry and wanted to smooth him down. "It's a sure thing they'll come," I said. "But maybe not to-night." "Want to call it off?" Cohn asked. "No. Why should I? Make it a hundred if you like." "All right. I'll take that."<|quote|>"That's enough,"</|quote|>I said. "Or you'll have to make a book and give me some of it." "I'm satisfied," Cohn said. He smiled. "You'll probably win it back at bridge, anyway." "You haven't got it yet," Bill said. We went out to walk around under the arcade to the Caf Iru a for coffee. Cohn said he was going over and get a shave. "Say," Bill said to me, "have I got any chance on that bet?" "You've got a rotten chance. They've never been on time anywhere. If their money doesn't come it's a cinch they won't get in to-night." "I was sorry as soon as I opened my mouth. But I had to call him. He's all right, I guess, but where does he get this inside stuff? Mike and Brett fixed it up with us about coming down here." I saw Cohn coming over across the square. "Here he comes." "Well, let him not get superior and Jewish." "The barber shop's closed," Cohn said. "It's not open till four." We had coffee at the Iru a, sitting in comfortable wicker chairs looking out from the cool of the arcade at the big square. After a while Bill went to write some letters and Cohn went over to the barber-shop. It was still closed, so he decided to go up to the hotel and get a bath, and I sat out in front of the caf and then went for a walk in the town. It was very hot, but I kept on the shady side of the streets and went through the market and had a good time seeing the town again. I went to the Ayuntamiento and found the old gentleman who subscribes for the bull-fight tickets for me every year, and he had gotten the money I sent him from Paris and renewed my subscriptions, so that was all set. He was the archivist, and all the archives of the town were in his office. That has nothing to do with the story. Anyway, his office had a green baize door and a big wooden door, and when I went out I left him sitting among the archives that covered all the walls, and I shut both the doors, and as I went out of the building into the street the porter stopped me to brush off my coat. "You must have been in a motor-car," he said. The back of the collar and the upper part of the shoulders were gray with dust. "From Bayonne." "Well, well," he said. "I knew you were in a motor-car from the way the dust was." So I gave him two copper coins. At the end of the street I saw the cathedral and walked up toward it. The first time I ever saw it I thought the fa ade was ugly but I liked it now. I went inside. It was dim and dark and the pillars went high up, and there were people praying, and it smelt of incense, and there were some wonderful big windows. I knelt and started to pray and prayed for everybody I
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The Sun Also Rises
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"Who was her companion?"
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Winterbourne
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great papal portrait was enshrined.<|quote|>"Who was her companion?"</|quote|>asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian
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secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined.<|quote|>"Who was her companion?"</|quote|>asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his
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contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined.<|quote|>"Who was her companion?"</|quote|>asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy
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where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said, "And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined.<|quote|>"Who was her companion?"</|quote|>asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy s absence. "She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller. "She s always going
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and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said, "And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined.<|quote|>"Who was her companion?"</|quote|>asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy s absence. "She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller. "She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." "I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I ve made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?" Winterbourne replied
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it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said, "And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined.<|quote|>"Who was her companion?"</|quote|>asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy s absence. "She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller. "She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." "I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I ve made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?" Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of Daisy s mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard. After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. He said to himself that she was too light and childish, too uncultivated and unreasoning, too provincial, to have reflected upon her ostracism, or even to have perceived it. Then at other moments he believed that she carried about in her elegant and irresponsible little organism a defiant, passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of
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rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded. "I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue." "I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him." "They are certainly very intimate," said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument. "He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying the young lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission." "I don t believe she thinks of marrying him," said Winterbourne, "and I don t believe he hopes to marry her." "You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time," added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged." "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said, "And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined.<|quote|>"Who was her companion?"</|quote|>asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy s absence. "She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller. "She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." "I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I ve made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?" Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of Daisy s mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard. After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. He said to himself that she was too light and childish, too uncultivated and unreasoning, too provincial, to have reflected upon her ostracism, or even to have perceived it. Then at other moments he believed that she carried about in her elegant and irresponsible little organism a defiant, passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of the impression she produced. He asked himself whether Daisy s defiance came from the consciousness of innocence, or from her being, essentially, a young person of the reckless class. It must be admitted that holding one s self to a belief in Daisy s "innocence" came to seem to Winterbourne more and more a matter of fine-spun gallantry. As I have already had occasion to relate, he was angry at finding himself reduced to chopping logic about this young lady; he was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view of them he had somehow missed her, and now it was too late. She was "carried away" by Mr. Giovanelli. A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of the Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting
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this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said, "And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined.<|quote|>"Who was her companion?"</|quote|>asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy s absence. "She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller. "She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." "I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I ve made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?" Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of Daisy s mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard. After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. He said to himself that she was too light and childish, too uncultivated and unreasoning, too provincial, to have reflected upon her ostracism, or even to have perceived it. Then at other moments he believed that she carried about in her elegant and irresponsible little organism a defiant, passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of the impression she produced. He asked himself whether Daisy s defiance came from the consciousness of innocence, or from her being, essentially, a young person of the reckless class. It must be admitted that holding one s self to a belief in Daisy s "innocence" came to seem to Winterbourne more and more a matter of fine-spun gallantry. As I have already had occasion to relate, he was angry at finding himself reduced to chopping logic about this young lady; he was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view of them he had somehow missed her, and now it was too late. She was "carried away" by Mr. Giovanelli. A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her in that beautiful
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Daisy Miller
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"I was willing to look over everything--to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false."
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Josiah Christmas
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find him!" he replied angrily,<|quote|>"I was willing to look over everything--to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false."</|quote|>"Yes, yes, and you will
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"for my sake." "Try and find him!" he replied angrily,<|quote|>"I was willing to look over everything--to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false."</|quote|>"Yes, yes, and you will do so now--Josiah--brother." "I cannot,"
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with you." "Yes," said Uncle Josiah bitterly; "at the magistrate's office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say to that?" Mrs Lavington gave him an imploring look. "Try and find him," she whispered, "for my sake." "Try and find him!" he replied angrily,<|quote|>"I was willing to look over everything--to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false."</|quote|>"Yes, yes, and you will do so now--Josiah--brother." "I cannot," said the old man sternly. "He has disgraced me, and openly declared to the world that the accusation of that scoundrel is true." CHAPTER ELEVEN. THINKING BETTER OF IT. Don stood looking at Jem Wimble for some few minutes in
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heard at the door. Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring. "Well, what is it?" said Uncle Josiah. "If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you're to be at the magistrate's office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you." "Yes," said Uncle Josiah bitterly; "at the magistrate's office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say to that?" Mrs Lavington gave him an imploring look. "Try and find him," she whispered, "for my sake." "Try and find him!" he replied angrily,<|quote|>"I was willing to look over everything--to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false."</|quote|>"Yes, yes, and you will do so now--Josiah--brother." "I cannot," said the old man sternly. "He has disgraced me, and openly declared to the world that the accusation of that scoundrel is true." CHAPTER ELEVEN. THINKING BETTER OF IT. Don stood looking at Jem Wimble for some few minutes in silence, as if the sight of some one else in trouble did him good. Then he sat down on the stock of an old anchor, to begin picking at the red rust scales as he too stared at the ships moored here and there. The tall masts and rigging had
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road, my good woman," said Uncle Josiah coldly, "and he must suffer for it." "But what's to become of me, sir? What shall I do without a husband?" "Go back home and wait." "But I have no home, sir, now," sobbed Sally. "You'll want the cottage for some other man." "Go back home and wait." "But you'll try and fetch him back, sir?" "I don't know what I shall do yet," said the old man sternly. "I'm afraid I do not know the worst. There, go away now. Who's that?" There was a general excitement, for a loud knock was heard at the door. Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring. "Well, what is it?" said Uncle Josiah. "If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you're to be at the magistrate's office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you." "Yes," said Uncle Josiah bitterly; "at the magistrate's office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say to that?" Mrs Lavington gave him an imploring look. "Try and find him," she whispered, "for my sake." "Try and find him!" he replied angrily,<|quote|>"I was willing to look over everything--to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false."</|quote|>"Yes, yes, and you will do so now--Josiah--brother." "I cannot," said the old man sternly. "He has disgraced me, and openly declared to the world that the accusation of that scoundrel is true." CHAPTER ELEVEN. THINKING BETTER OF IT. Don stood looking at Jem Wimble for some few minutes in silence, as if the sight of some one else in trouble did him good. Then he sat down on the stock of an old anchor, to begin picking at the red rust scales as he too stared at the ships moored here and there. The tall masts and rigging had a certain fascination for Don, and each vessel seemed to offer a way out of his difficulties. For once on board a ship with the sails spread, and the open sea before him, he might cross right away to one of those beautiful lands of which Mike had spoken, and then-- The thought of Mike altered the case directly, and he sat staring straight before him at the ships. Jem was the next to break the silence. "Thinking you'd like to go right away, Master Don?" "Yes, Jem." "So was I, sir. Only think how nice it would be somewhere
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more hard. "I am afraid it must be true," he said. "Foolish boy! Woman, your husband has behaved like an idiot." "But you will send and fetch them back, Josiah." "Don't talk nonsense, Laura," said the old man angrily. "How can I fetch them back? Foolish boy! At a time like this. Is he afraid to face the truth?" "No, no, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington; "it is only that he was hurt." "Hurt? He has hurt himself. That man will be before the magistrates to-day, and I passed my word to the constable that Lindon should be present to answer the charge made against him." "Yes, dear, and he has been thoughtless. But you will forgive him, and have him brought back." "Have him brought back!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "What can I do? The law will have him brought back now." "What? Oh, brother, don't say that!" "I must tell you the truth," said Uncle Josiah sternly. "It is the same as breaking faith, and he has given strength to that scoundrel's charge." "But what shall I do?" sobbed little Sally Wimble. "My Jem hadn't done anything. Oh, please, sir, fetch him back." "Your husband has taken his own road, my good woman," said Uncle Josiah coldly, "and he must suffer for it." "But what's to become of me, sir? What shall I do without a husband?" "Go back home and wait." "But I have no home, sir, now," sobbed Sally. "You'll want the cottage for some other man." "Go back home and wait." "But you'll try and fetch him back, sir?" "I don't know what I shall do yet," said the old man sternly. "I'm afraid I do not know the worst. There, go away now. Who's that?" There was a general excitement, for a loud knock was heard at the door. Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring. "Well, what is it?" said Uncle Josiah. "If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you're to be at the magistrate's office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you." "Yes," said Uncle Josiah bitterly; "at the magistrate's office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say to that?" Mrs Lavington gave him an imploring look. "Try and find him," she whispered, "for my sake." "Try and find him!" he replied angrily,<|quote|>"I was willing to look over everything--to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false."</|quote|>"Yes, yes, and you will do so now--Josiah--brother." "I cannot," said the old man sternly. "He has disgraced me, and openly declared to the world that the accusation of that scoundrel is true." CHAPTER ELEVEN. THINKING BETTER OF IT. Don stood looking at Jem Wimble for some few minutes in silence, as if the sight of some one else in trouble did him good. Then he sat down on the stock of an old anchor, to begin picking at the red rust scales as he too stared at the ships moored here and there. The tall masts and rigging had a certain fascination for Don, and each vessel seemed to offer a way out of his difficulties. For once on board a ship with the sails spread, and the open sea before him, he might cross right away to one of those beautiful lands of which Mike had spoken, and then-- The thought of Mike altered the case directly, and he sat staring straight before him at the ships. Jem was the next to break the silence. "Thinking you'd like to go right away, Master Don?" "Yes, Jem." "So was I, sir. Only think how nice it would be somewhere abroad, where there was no Sally." "And no Uncle Josiah, Jem." "Ay, and no Mike to get you into trouble. Be fine, wouldn't it?" "Glorious, Jem." "Mean to go, Master Don?" "What, and be a miserable coward? No." "But you was a-thinking something of the kind, sir." "Yes, I was, Jem. Everybody is stupid sometimes, and I was stupid then. No. I've thought better of it." "And you won't go, sir?" "Go? No. Why, it would be like saying what Mike accused me of was true." "So it would, sir. Now that's just how I felt. I says to myself, `Jem,' I says, `don't you stand it. What you've got to do is to go right away and let Sally shift for herself; then she'd find out your vally,' I says, `and be sorry for what she's said and done,' but I knew if I did she'd begin to crow and think she'd beat me, and besides, it would be such a miserable cowardly trick. No, Mas' Don, I'm going to grin and bear it, and some day she'll come round and be as nice as she's nasty now." "Yes, that's the way to look at it, Jem; but it's
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a very, very wicked girl--I mean woman. I was always finding fault, and scolding him." "Why?" asked Uncle Josiah sternly. "I don't know, sir." "But he is a quiet industrious man, and I'm sure he is a good husband." "Yes, he's the best of husbands," sobbed Sally. "Then why did you scold him?" "Because I was so wicked, I suppose. I couldn't help it, sir." "But you think he has run away?" "Yes, sir; I'm sure of it. He said he would some day if I was so cruel, and that seemed to make me more cruel, and--and--he has gone." "It is impossible!" said Uncle Josiah. "He must have met with some accident." "No, sir, he has run away and left me. He said he would. I saw him go--out of the window, and he took a bundle with him, and--and--what shall I do? What shall I do?" "Took a bundle?" said Uncle Josiah, starting. "Yes, sir, and--and I wish I was dead." "Silence, you foolish little woman! How dare you wish such a thing? Stop; listen to what I say. Did my nephew Lindon come to the yard last night?" "No, sir; but him and my Jem were talking together for ever so long in the office, and I couldn't get Jem away." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a low whistle. "Please ask Master Don what my Jem said." "Do you not understand, my good woman, that my son has not been home all night?" said Mrs Lavington, piteously. "What? Not been home?" cried Sally, sharply. "Then they're gone off together." Uncle Josiah drew a long breath. "That Master Don was always talking to my poor Jem, and he has persuaded him, and they're gone." "It is not true!" cried Kitty in a sharp voice as she stood by the table, quivering with anger. "If Cousin Don has gone away, it is your wicked husband who has persuaded him. Father, dear, don't let them go; pray, pray fetch them back." Uncle Josiah's brow grew more rugged, and there were hard lines about his lips, till his sister laid her hand upon his arm, when he started, and took her hand, looking sadly down in her face. "You hear what Kitty says," whispered Mrs Lavington; "pray--pray fetch them back." Little Mrs Wimble heard her words, and gave the old merchant an imploring look. But the old man's face only grew more hard. "I am afraid it must be true," he said. "Foolish boy! Woman, your husband has behaved like an idiot." "But you will send and fetch them back, Josiah." "Don't talk nonsense, Laura," said the old man angrily. "How can I fetch them back? Foolish boy! At a time like this. Is he afraid to face the truth?" "No, no, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington; "it is only that he was hurt." "Hurt? He has hurt himself. That man will be before the magistrates to-day, and I passed my word to the constable that Lindon should be present to answer the charge made against him." "Yes, dear, and he has been thoughtless. But you will forgive him, and have him brought back." "Have him brought back!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "What can I do? The law will have him brought back now." "What? Oh, brother, don't say that!" "I must tell you the truth," said Uncle Josiah sternly. "It is the same as breaking faith, and he has given strength to that scoundrel's charge." "But what shall I do?" sobbed little Sally Wimble. "My Jem hadn't done anything. Oh, please, sir, fetch him back." "Your husband has taken his own road, my good woman," said Uncle Josiah coldly, "and he must suffer for it." "But what's to become of me, sir? What shall I do without a husband?" "Go back home and wait." "But I have no home, sir, now," sobbed Sally. "You'll want the cottage for some other man." "Go back home and wait." "But you'll try and fetch him back, sir?" "I don't know what I shall do yet," said the old man sternly. "I'm afraid I do not know the worst. There, go away now. Who's that?" There was a general excitement, for a loud knock was heard at the door. Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring. "Well, what is it?" said Uncle Josiah. "If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you're to be at the magistrate's office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you." "Yes," said Uncle Josiah bitterly; "at the magistrate's office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say to that?" Mrs Lavington gave him an imploring look. "Try and find him," she whispered, "for my sake." "Try and find him!" he replied angrily,<|quote|>"I was willing to look over everything--to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false."</|quote|>"Yes, yes, and you will do so now--Josiah--brother." "I cannot," said the old man sternly. "He has disgraced me, and openly declared to the world that the accusation of that scoundrel is true." CHAPTER ELEVEN. THINKING BETTER OF IT. Don stood looking at Jem Wimble for some few minutes in silence, as if the sight of some one else in trouble did him good. Then he sat down on the stock of an old anchor, to begin picking at the red rust scales as he too stared at the ships moored here and there. The tall masts and rigging had a certain fascination for Don, and each vessel seemed to offer a way out of his difficulties. For once on board a ship with the sails spread, and the open sea before him, he might cross right away to one of those beautiful lands of which Mike had spoken, and then-- The thought of Mike altered the case directly, and he sat staring straight before him at the ships. Jem was the next to break the silence. "Thinking you'd like to go right away, Master Don?" "Yes, Jem." "So was I, sir. Only think how nice it would be somewhere abroad, where there was no Sally." "And no Uncle Josiah, Jem." "Ay, and no Mike to get you into trouble. Be fine, wouldn't it?" "Glorious, Jem." "Mean to go, Master Don?" "What, and be a miserable coward? No." "But you was a-thinking something of the kind, sir." "Yes, I was, Jem. Everybody is stupid sometimes, and I was stupid then. No. I've thought better of it." "And you won't go, sir?" "Go? No. Why, it would be like saying what Mike accused me of was true." "So it would, sir. Now that's just how I felt. I says to myself, `Jem,' I says, `don't you stand it. What you've got to do is to go right away and let Sally shift for herself; then she'd find out your vally,' I says, `and be sorry for what she's said and done,' but I knew if I did she'd begin to crow and think she'd beat me, and besides, it would be such a miserable cowardly trick. No, Mas' Don, I'm going to grin and bear it, and some day she'll come round and be as nice as she's nasty now." "Yes, that's the way to look at it, Jem; but it's a miserable world, isn't it?" "Well, I arn't seen much on it, Mas' Don. I once went for a holiday as far as Bath, and that part on it was miserable enough. My word, how it did rain! 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
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sharp voice as she stood by the table, quivering with anger. "If Cousin Don has gone away, it is your wicked husband who has persuaded him. Father, dear, don't let them go; pray, pray fetch them back." Uncle Josiah's brow grew more rugged, and there were hard lines about his lips, till his sister laid her hand upon his arm, when he started, and took her hand, looking sadly down in her face. "You hear what Kitty says," whispered Mrs Lavington; "pray--pray fetch them back." Little Mrs Wimble heard her words, and gave the old merchant an imploring look. But the old man's face only grew more hard. "I am afraid it must be true," he said. "Foolish boy! Woman, your husband has behaved like an idiot." "But you will send and fetch them back, Josiah." "Don't talk nonsense, Laura," said the old man angrily. "How can I fetch them back? Foolish boy! At a time like this. Is he afraid to face the truth?" "No, no, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington; "it is only that he was hurt." "Hurt? He has hurt himself. That man will be before the magistrates to-day, and I passed my word to the constable that Lindon should be present to answer the charge made against him." "Yes, dear, and he has been thoughtless. But you will forgive him, and have him brought back." "Have him brought back!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "What can I do? The law will have him brought back now." "What? Oh, brother, don't say that!" "I must tell you the truth," said Uncle Josiah sternly. "It is the same as breaking faith, and he has given strength to that scoundrel's charge." "But what shall I do?" sobbed little Sally Wimble. "My Jem hadn't done anything. Oh, please, sir, fetch him back." "Your husband has taken his own road, my good woman," said Uncle Josiah coldly, "and he must suffer for it." "But what's to become of me, sir? What shall I do without a husband?" "Go back home and wait." "But I have no home, sir, now," sobbed Sally. "You'll want the cottage for some other man." "Go back home and wait." "But you'll try and fetch him back, sir?" "I don't know what I shall do yet," said the old man sternly. "I'm afraid I do not know the worst. There, go away now. Who's that?" There was a general excitement, for a loud knock was heard at the door. Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring. "Well, what is it?" said Uncle Josiah. "If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you're to be at the magistrate's office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you." "Yes," said Uncle Josiah bitterly; "at the magistrate's office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say to that?" Mrs Lavington gave him an imploring look. "Try and find him," she whispered, "for my sake." "Try and find him!" he replied angrily,<|quote|>"I was willing to look over everything--to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false."</|quote|>"Yes, yes, and you will do so now--Josiah--brother." "I cannot," said the old man sternly. "He has disgraced me, and openly declared to the world that the accusation of that scoundrel is true." CHAPTER ELEVEN. THINKING BETTER OF IT. Don stood looking at Jem Wimble for some few minutes in silence, as if the sight of some one else in trouble did him good. Then he sat down on the stock of an old anchor, to begin picking at the red rust scales as he too stared at the ships moored here and there. The tall masts and rigging had a certain fascination for Don, and each vessel seemed to offer a way out of his difficulties. For once on board a ship with the sails spread, and the open sea before him, he might cross right away to one of those beautiful lands of which Mike had spoken, and then-- The thought of Mike altered the case directly, and he sat staring straight before him at the ships. Jem was the next to break the silence. "Thinking you'd like to go right away, Master Don?" "Yes, Jem." "So was I, sir. Only think how nice it would be somewhere abroad, where there was no Sally." "And no Uncle Josiah, Jem." "Ay, and no Mike to get you into trouble. Be fine, wouldn't it?" "Glorious, Jem." "Mean to go, Master Don?" "What, and be a miserable coward? No." "But you was a-thinking something of the kind, sir." "Yes, I was, Jem. Everybody is stupid sometimes, and I was stupid then. No. I've thought better of it." "And you won't go, sir?" "Go? No. Why, it would be like saying what Mike accused me of was true." "So it would, sir. Now that's just how I felt. I says to myself, `Jem,' I says, `don't you stand it. What you've got to do is to go right away and let Sally shift for herself; then she'd find out your vally,' I says, `and be sorry for what she's said and done,' but I knew if I did she'd begin to crow and think she'd beat me, and besides, it would be such a miserable cowardly trick. No, Mas' Don, I'm going to grin and bear it, and some day she'll come round and be as nice as she's nasty now." "Yes, that's the way to look at it, Jem; but it's a miserable world, isn't it?" "Well, I arn't seen much on it, Mas' Don. I once went for a holiday as far as Bath, and that part on it was miserable enough. My word, how it did rain! 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
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Don Lavington
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"I'm glad to see you. I was almost afraid you'd given it up: in which case I should have made a personal wentur. Hallo!"
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Toby Crackit
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his head towards the door,<|quote|>"I'm glad to see you. I was almost afraid you'd given it up: in which case I should have made a personal wentur. Hallo!"</|quote|>Uttering this exclamation in a
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boy!" said this figure, turning his head towards the door,<|quote|>"I'm glad to see you. I was almost afraid you'd given it up: in which case I should have made a personal wentur. Hallo!"</|quote|>Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as
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was a trifle above the middle size, and apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by no means detracted from his own admiration of his top-boots, which he contemplated, in their elevated situation, with lively satisfaction. "Bill, my boy!" said this figure, turning his head towards the door,<|quote|>"I'm glad to see you. I was almost afraid you'd given it up: in which case I should have made a personal wentur. Hallo!"</|quote|>Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes rested on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting posture, and demanded who that was. "The boy. Only the boy!" replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the fire. "Wud of Bister Fagid's lads," exclaimed Barney, with
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breeches. Mr. Crackit (for he it was) had no very great quantity of hair, either upon his head or face; but what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured into long corkscrew curls, through which he occasionally thrust some very dirty fingers, ornamented with large common rings. He was a trifle above the middle size, and apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by no means detracted from his own admiration of his top-boots, which he contemplated, in their elevated situation, with lively satisfaction. "Bill, my boy!" said this figure, turning his head towards the door,<|quote|>"I'm glad to see you. I was almost afraid you'd given it up: in which case I should have made a personal wentur. Hallo!"</|quote|>Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes rested on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting posture, and demanded who that was. "The boy. Only the boy!" replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the fire. "Wud of Bister Fagid's lads," exclaimed Barney, with a grin. "Fagin's, eh!" exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. "Wot an inwalable boy that'll make, for the old ladies' pockets in chapels! His mug is a fortin' to him." "There there's enough of that," interposed Sikes, impatiently; and stooping over his recumbant friend, he whispered a few words in his
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id." "Here! you get on first," said Sikes, putting Oliver in front of him. "Quicker! or I shall tread upon your heels." Muttering a curse upon his tardiness, Sikes pushed Oliver before him; and they entered a low dark room with a smoky fire, two or three broken chairs, a table, and a very old couch: on which, with his legs much higher than his head, a man was reposing at full length, smoking a long clay pipe. He was dressed in a smartly-cut snuff-coloured coat, with large brass buttons; an orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring, shawl-pattern waistcoat; and drab breeches. Mr. Crackit (for he it was) had no very great quantity of hair, either upon his head or face; but what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured into long corkscrew curls, through which he occasionally thrust some very dirty fingers, ornamented with large common rings. He was a trifle above the middle size, and apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by no means detracted from his own admiration of his top-boots, which he contemplated, in their elevated situation, with lively satisfaction. "Bill, my boy!" said this figure, turning his head towards the door,<|quote|>"I'm glad to see you. I was almost afraid you'd given it up: in which case I should have made a personal wentur. Hallo!"</|quote|>Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes rested on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting posture, and demanded who that was. "The boy. Only the boy!" replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the fire. "Wud of Bister Fagid's lads," exclaimed Barney, with a grin. "Fagin's, eh!" exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. "Wot an inwalable boy that'll make, for the old ladies' pockets in chapels! His mug is a fortin' to him." "There there's enough of that," interposed Sikes, impatiently; and stooping over his recumbant friend, he whispered a few words in his ear: at which Mr. Crackit laughed immensely, and honoured Oliver with a long stare of astonishment. "Now," said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, "if you'll give us something to eat and drink while we're waiting, you'll put some heart in us; or in me, at all events. Sit down by the fire, younker, and rest yourself; for you'll have to go out with us again to-night, though not very far off." Oliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and drawing a stool to the fire, sat with his aching head upon his hands, scarecely knowing where he
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Toby." "Aha! my pal!" cried the same voice. "A glim, Barney, a glim! Show the gentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if convenient." The speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, or some such article, at the person he addressed, to rouse him from his slumbers: for the noise of a wooden body, falling violently, was heard; and then an indistinct muttering, as of a man between sleep and awake. "Do you hear?" cried the same voice. "There's Bill Sikes in the passage with nobody to do the civil to him; and you sleeping there, as if you took laudanum with your meals, and nothing stronger. Are you any fresher now, or do you want the iron candlestick to wake you thoroughly?" A pair of slipshod feet shuffled, hastily, across the bare floor of the room, as this interrogatory was put; and there issued, from a door on the right hand; first, a feeble candle: and next, the form of the same individual who has been heretofore described as labouring under the infirmity of speaking through his nose, and officiating as waiter at the public-house on Saffron Hill. "Bister Sikes!" exclaimed Barney, with real or counterfeit joy; "cub id, sir; cub id." "Here! you get on first," said Sikes, putting Oliver in front of him. "Quicker! or I shall tread upon your heels." Muttering a curse upon his tardiness, Sikes pushed Oliver before him; and they entered a low dark room with a smoky fire, two or three broken chairs, a table, and a very old couch: on which, with his legs much higher than his head, a man was reposing at full length, smoking a long clay pipe. He was dressed in a smartly-cut snuff-coloured coat, with large brass buttons; an orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring, shawl-pattern waistcoat; and drab breeches. Mr. Crackit (for he it was) had no very great quantity of hair, either upon his head or face; but what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured into long corkscrew curls, through which he occasionally thrust some very dirty fingers, ornamented with large common rings. He was a trifle above the middle size, and apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by no means detracted from his own admiration of his top-boots, which he contemplated, in their elevated situation, with lively satisfaction. "Bill, my boy!" said this figure, turning his head towards the door,<|quote|>"I'm glad to see you. I was almost afraid you'd given it up: in which case I should have made a personal wentur. Hallo!"</|quote|>Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes rested on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting posture, and demanded who that was. "The boy. Only the boy!" replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the fire. "Wud of Bister Fagid's lads," exclaimed Barney, with a grin. "Fagin's, eh!" exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. "Wot an inwalable boy that'll make, for the old ladies' pockets in chapels! His mug is a fortin' to him." "There there's enough of that," interposed Sikes, impatiently; and stooping over his recumbant friend, he whispered a few words in his ear: at which Mr. Crackit laughed immensely, and honoured Oliver with a long stare of astonishment. "Now," said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, "if you'll give us something to eat and drink while we're waiting, you'll put some heart in us; or in me, at all events. Sit down by the fire, younker, and rest yourself; for you'll have to go out with us again to-night, though not very far off." Oliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and drawing a stool to the fire, sat with his aching head upon his hands, scarecely knowing where he was, or what was passing around him. "Here," said Toby, as the young Jew placed some fragments of food, and a bottle upon the table, "Success to the crack!" He rose to honour the toast; and, carefully depositing his empty pipe in a corner, advanced to the table, filled a glass with spirits, and drank off its contents. Mr. Sikes did the same. "A drain for the boy," said Toby, half-filling a wine-glass. "Down with it, innocence." "Indeed," said Oliver, looking piteously up into the man's face; "indeed, I" "Down with it!" echoed Toby. "Do you think I don't know what's good for you? Tell him to drink it, Bill." "He had better!" said Sikes clapping his hand upon his pocket. "Burn my body, if he isn't more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers. Drink it, you perwerse imp; drink it!" Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily swallowed the contents of the glass, and immediately fell into a violent fit of coughing: which delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and even drew a smile from the surly Mr. Sikes. This done, and Sikes having satisfied his appetite (Oliver could eat nothing but a small crust
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gloomy and black. Not a word was spoken; for the driver had grown sleepy; and Sikes was in no mood to lead him into conversation. Oliver sat huddled together, in a corner of the cart; bewildered with alarm and apprehension; and figuring strange objects in the gaunt trees, whose branches waved grimly to and fro, as if in some fantastic joy at the desolation of the scene. As they passed Sunbury Church, the clock struck seven. There was a light in the ferry-house window opposite: which streamed across the road, and threw into more sombre shadow a dark yew-tree with graves beneath it. There was a dull sound of falling water not far off; and the leaves of the old tree stirred gently in the night wind. It seemed like quiet music for the repose of the dead. Sunbury was passed through, and they came again into the lonely road. Two or three miles more, and the cart stopped. Sikes alighted, took Oliver by the hand, and they once again walked on. They turned into no house at Shepperton, as the weary boy had expected; but still kept walking on, in mud and darkness, through gloomy lanes and over cold open wastes, until they came within sight of the lights of a town at no great distance. On looking intently forward, Oliver saw that the water was just below them, and that they were coming to the foot of a bridge. Sikes kept straight on, until they were close upon the bridge; then turned suddenly down a bank upon the left. "The water!" thought Oliver, turning sick with fear. "He has brought me to this lonely place to murder me!" He was about to throw himself on the ground, and make one struggle for his young life, when he saw that they stood before a solitary house: all ruinous and decayed. There was a window on each side of the dilapidated entrance; and one story above; but no light was visible. The house was dark, dismantled: and, to all appearance, uninhabited. Sikes, with Oliver's hand still in his, softly approached the low porch, and raised the latch. The door yielded to the pressure, and they passed in together. CHAPTER XXII. THE BURGLARY "Hallo!" cried a loud, hoarse voice, as soon as they set foot in the passage. "Don't make such a row," said Sikes, bolting the door. "Show a glim, Toby." "Aha! my pal!" cried the same voice. "A glim, Barney, a glim! Show the gentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if convenient." The speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, or some such article, at the person he addressed, to rouse him from his slumbers: for the noise of a wooden body, falling violently, was heard; and then an indistinct muttering, as of a man between sleep and awake. "Do you hear?" cried the same voice. "There's Bill Sikes in the passage with nobody to do the civil to him; and you sleeping there, as if you took laudanum with your meals, and nothing stronger. Are you any fresher now, or do you want the iron candlestick to wake you thoroughly?" A pair of slipshod feet shuffled, hastily, across the bare floor of the room, as this interrogatory was put; and there issued, from a door on the right hand; first, a feeble candle: and next, the form of the same individual who has been heretofore described as labouring under the infirmity of speaking through his nose, and officiating as waiter at the public-house on Saffron Hill. "Bister Sikes!" exclaimed Barney, with real or counterfeit joy; "cub id, sir; cub id." "Here! you get on first," said Sikes, putting Oliver in front of him. "Quicker! or I shall tread upon your heels." Muttering a curse upon his tardiness, Sikes pushed Oliver before him; and they entered a low dark room with a smoky fire, two or three broken chairs, a table, and a very old couch: on which, with his legs much higher than his head, a man was reposing at full length, smoking a long clay pipe. He was dressed in a smartly-cut snuff-coloured coat, with large brass buttons; an orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring, shawl-pattern waistcoat; and drab breeches. Mr. Crackit (for he it was) had no very great quantity of hair, either upon his head or face; but what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured into long corkscrew curls, through which he occasionally thrust some very dirty fingers, ornamented with large common rings. He was a trifle above the middle size, and apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by no means detracted from his own admiration of his top-boots, which he contemplated, in their elevated situation, with lively satisfaction. "Bill, my boy!" said this figure, turning his head towards the door,<|quote|>"I'm glad to see you. I was almost afraid you'd given it up: in which case I should have made a personal wentur. Hallo!"</|quote|>Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes rested on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting posture, and demanded who that was. "The boy. Only the boy!" replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the fire. "Wud of Bister Fagid's lads," exclaimed Barney, with a grin. "Fagin's, eh!" exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. "Wot an inwalable boy that'll make, for the old ladies' pockets in chapels! His mug is a fortin' to him." "There there's enough of that," interposed Sikes, impatiently; and stooping over his recumbant friend, he whispered a few words in his ear: at which Mr. Crackit laughed immensely, and honoured Oliver with a long stare of astonishment. "Now," said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, "if you'll give us something to eat and drink while we're waiting, you'll put some heart in us; or in me, at all events. Sit down by the fire, younker, and rest yourself; for you'll have to go out with us again to-night, though not very far off." Oliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and drawing a stool to the fire, sat with his aching head upon his hands, scarecely knowing where he was, or what was passing around him. "Here," said Toby, as the young Jew placed some fragments of food, and a bottle upon the table, "Success to the crack!" He rose to honour the toast; and, carefully depositing his empty pipe in a corner, advanced to the table, filled a glass with spirits, and drank off its contents. Mr. Sikes did the same. "A drain for the boy," said Toby, half-filling a wine-glass. "Down with it, innocence." "Indeed," said Oliver, looking piteously up into the man's face; "indeed, I" "Down with it!" echoed Toby. "Do you think I don't know what's good for you? Tell him to drink it, Bill." "He had better!" said Sikes clapping his hand upon his pocket. "Burn my body, if he isn't more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers. Drink it, you perwerse imp; drink it!" Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily swallowed the contents of the glass, and immediately fell into a violent fit of coughing: which delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and even drew a smile from the surly Mr. Sikes. This done, and Sikes having satisfied his appetite (Oliver could eat nothing but a small crust of bread which they made him swallow), the two men laid themselves down on chairs for a short nap. Oliver retained his stool by the fire; Barney wrapped in a blanket, stretched himself on the floor: close outside the fender. They slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time; nobody stirring but Barney, who rose once or twice to throw coals on the fire. Oliver fell into a heavy doze: imagining himself straying along the gloomy lanes, or wandering about the dark churchyard, or retracing some one or other of the scenes of the past day: when he was roused by Toby Crackit jumping up and declaring it was half-past one. In an instant, the other two were on their legs, and all were actively engaged in busy preparation. Sikes and his companion enveloped their necks and chins in large dark shawls, and drew on their great-coats; Barney, opening a cupboard, brought forth several articles, which he hastily crammed into the pockets. "Barkers for me, Barney," said Toby Crackit. "Here they are," replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols. "You loaded them yourself." "All right!" replied Toby, stowing them away. "The persuaders?" "I've got 'em," replied Sikes. "Crape, keys, centre-bits, darkies nothing forgotten?" inquired Toby: fastening a small crowbar to a loop inside the skirt of his coat. "All right," rejoined his companion. "Bring them bits of timber, Barney. That's the time of day." With these words, he took a thick stick from Barney's hands, who, having delivered another to Toby, busied himself in fastening on Oliver's cape. "Now then!" said Sikes, holding out his hand. Oliver: who was completely stupified by the unwonted exercise, and the air, and the drink which had been forced upon him: put his hand mechanically into that which Sikes extended for the purpose. "Take his other hand, Toby," said Sikes. "Look out, Barney." The man went to the door, and returned to announce that all was quiet. The two robbers issued forth with Oliver between them. Barney, having made all fast, rolled himself up as before, and was soon asleep again. It was now intensely dark. The fog was much heavier than it had been in the early part of the night; and the atmosphere was so damp, that, although no rain fell, Oliver's hair and eyebrows, within a few minutes after leaving the house, had become stiff with the half-frozen moisture that was
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dark, dismantled: and, to all appearance, uninhabited. Sikes, with Oliver's hand still in his, softly approached the low porch, and raised the latch. The door yielded to the pressure, and they passed in together. CHAPTER XXII. THE BURGLARY "Hallo!" cried a loud, hoarse voice, as soon as they set foot in the passage. "Don't make such a row," said Sikes, bolting the door. "Show a glim, Toby." "Aha! my pal!" cried the same voice. "A glim, Barney, a glim! Show the gentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if convenient." The speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, or some such article, at the person he addressed, to rouse him from his slumbers: for the noise of a wooden body, falling violently, was heard; and then an indistinct muttering, as of a man between sleep and awake. "Do you hear?" cried the same voice. "There's Bill Sikes in the passage with nobody to do the civil to him; and you sleeping there, as if you took laudanum with your meals, and nothing stronger. Are you any fresher now, or do you want the iron candlestick to wake you thoroughly?" A pair of slipshod feet shuffled, hastily, across the bare floor of the room, as this interrogatory was put; and there issued, from a door on the right hand; first, a feeble candle: and next, the form of the same individual who has been heretofore described as labouring under the infirmity of speaking through his nose, and officiating as waiter at the public-house on Saffron Hill. "Bister Sikes!" exclaimed Barney, with real or counterfeit joy; "cub id, sir; cub id." "Here! you get on first," said Sikes, putting Oliver in front of him. "Quicker! or I shall tread upon your heels." Muttering a curse upon his tardiness, Sikes pushed Oliver before him; and they entered a low dark room with a smoky fire, two or three broken chairs, a table, and a very old couch: on which, with his legs much higher than his head, a man was reposing at full length, smoking a long clay pipe. He was dressed in a smartly-cut snuff-coloured coat, with large brass buttons; an orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring, shawl-pattern waistcoat; and drab breeches. Mr. Crackit (for he it was) had no very great quantity of hair, either upon his head or face; but what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured into long corkscrew curls, through which he occasionally thrust some very dirty fingers, ornamented with large common rings. He was a trifle above the middle size, and apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by no means detracted from his own admiration of his top-boots, which he contemplated, in their elevated situation, with lively satisfaction. "Bill, my boy!" said this figure, turning his head towards the door,<|quote|>"I'm glad to see you. I was almost afraid you'd given it up: in which case I should have made a personal wentur. Hallo!"</|quote|>Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes rested on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting posture, and demanded who that was. "The boy. Only the boy!" replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the fire. "Wud of Bister Fagid's lads," exclaimed Barney, with a grin. "Fagin's, eh!" exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. "Wot an inwalable boy that'll make, for the old ladies' pockets in chapels! His mug is a fortin' to him." "There there's enough of that," interposed Sikes, impatiently; and stooping over his recumbant friend, he whispered a few words in his ear: at which Mr. Crackit laughed immensely, and honoured Oliver with a long stare of astonishment. "Now," said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, "if you'll give us something to eat and drink while we're waiting, you'll put some heart in us; or in me, at all events. Sit down by the fire, younker, and rest yourself; for you'll have to go out with us again to-night, though not very far off." Oliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and drawing a stool to the fire, sat with his aching head upon his hands, scarecely knowing where he was, or what was passing around him. "Here," said Toby, as the young Jew placed some fragments of food, and a bottle upon the table, "Success to the crack!" He rose to honour the toast; and, carefully depositing his empty pipe in a corner, advanced to the table, filled a glass with spirits, and drank off its contents. Mr. Sikes did the same. "A drain for the boy," said Toby, half-filling a wine-glass. "Down with it, innocence." "Indeed," said Oliver, looking piteously up into the man's face; "indeed, I" "Down with it!" echoed Toby. "Do you think I don't know what's good for you? Tell him to drink it, Bill." "He had better!" said Sikes clapping his hand upon his pocket. "Burn my body, if he isn't more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers. Drink it, you perwerse imp; drink it!" Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily swallowed the contents of the glass, and immediately fell into a violent fit of coughing: which delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and even drew a smile from the surly Mr. Sikes. This done, and Sikes having satisfied his appetite (Oliver could eat nothing but a small crust of bread which they made him swallow), the two men laid themselves down on chairs for a short nap. Oliver retained his stool by the fire; Barney wrapped in a blanket, stretched himself on the floor: close outside the fender. They slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time; nobody stirring but Barney, who rose once or twice to throw coals on the
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Oliver Twist
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"You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all."
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Brett Ashley
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a place in my values."<|quote|>"You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all."</|quote|>"No, my dear. You're not
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values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values."<|quote|>"You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all."</|quote|>"No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at
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secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values."<|quote|>"You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all."</|quote|>"No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count's values. So
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make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values."<|quote|>"You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all."</|quote|>"No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the 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
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were two raised white welts. "See on the back where they come out." Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through." The count was tucking in his shirt. "Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values."<|quote|>"You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all."</|quote|>"No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the 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?"
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you are charming when you are drunk." "Listen to the man." "Mr. Barnes," the count poured my glass full. "She is the only lady I have ever known who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." "My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. "See on the back where they come out." Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through." The count was tucking in his shirt. "Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values."<|quote|>"You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all."</|quote|>"No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the 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
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to her." "I'd tell her, too," said the count. "I'm not joking you. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always say." "You're right," Brett said. "You're terribly right. I always joke people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here." "You don't joke him." "That's it." "Do you, now?" asked the count. "Do you joke him?" Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes. "No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him." "See," said the count. "You don't joke him." "This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of that champagne?" The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?" "I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake." "I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all." "Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like." "It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time." "Isn't he a fool?" Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it." It was amazing champagne. "I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste." Brett's glass was empty. "You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said. "Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines is to enjoy them." "Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass forward. The count poured very carefully. "There, my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk." "Drunk? Drunk?" "My dear, you are charming when you are drunk." "Listen to the man." "Mr. Barnes," the count poured my glass full. "She is the only lady I have ever known who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." "My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. "See on the back where they come out." Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through." The count was tucking in his shirt. "Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values."<|quote|>"You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all."</|quote|>"No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the 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.
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it. I put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it." It was amazing champagne. "I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste." Brett's glass was empty. "You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said. "Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines is to enjoy them." "Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass forward. The count poured very carefully. "There, my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk." "Drunk? Drunk?" "My dear, you are charming when you are drunk." "Listen to the man." "Mr. Barnes," the count poured my glass full. "She is the only lady I have ever known who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." "My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. "See on the back where they come out." Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through." The count was tucking in his shirt. "Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values."<|quote|>"You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all."</|quote|>"No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the 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
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The Sun Also Rises
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She had tapped a spring in him, clearly, and the consequent flood might almost at any moment become copious.
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No speaker
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appears no means of stopping.”<|quote|>She had tapped a spring in him, clearly, and the consequent flood might almost at any moment become copious.</|quote|>“Precious things are going out
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mercy of a leak there appears no means of stopping.”<|quote|>She had tapped a spring in him, clearly, and the consequent flood might almost at any moment become copious.</|quote|>“Precious things are going out of our distracted country at
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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.”<|quote|>She had tapped a spring in him, clearly, and the consequent flood might almost at any moment become copious.</|quote|>“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
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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.”<|quote|>She had tapped a spring in him, clearly, and the consequent flood might almost at any moment become copious.</|quote|>“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
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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.”<|quote|>She had tapped a spring in him, clearly, and the consequent flood might almost at any moment become copious.</|quote|>“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
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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.”<|quote|>She had tapped a spring in him, clearly, and the consequent flood might almost at any moment become copious.</|quote|>“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” --the young man saw it all-- “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
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evoke her, we may even make out some wonder in her as to why the so perceptibly protrusive lower lip of this acquaintance of an hour or two should positively have contributed to his being handsome instead of much more logically interfering with it. We might in fact in such a case even have followed her into another and no less refined a speculation--the question of whether the surest seat of his good looks mightn’t after all be his high, fair, if somewhat narrow, forehead, crowned with short crisp brown hair and which, after a fashion of its own, predominated without overhanging. He spoke after they had stood just face to face almost long enough for awkwardness. “I haven’t forgotten one item of your kindness to me on that rather bleak occasion.” “Bleak do you call it?” she laughed. “Why I found it, rather, tropical--‘lush.’ My neighbour on the other side wanted to talk to me of the White City.” “Then you made it doubtless bleak for _him_, let us say. _I_ couldn’t let you alone, I remember, about _this_--it was like a shipwrecked signal to a sail on the horizon.” “This” obviously meant for the young man exactly what surrounded him; he had begun, like Mr. Bender, to be conscious of a thick solicitation of the eye--and much more than he, doubtless, of a tug at the imagination; and he broke--characteristically, you would have been sure--into a great free gaiety of recognition. “Oh, we’ve nothing particular in the hall,” Lady Grace amiably objected. “Nothing, I see, but Claudes and Cuyps! I’m an ogre,” he said-- “before a new and rare feast!” She happily took up his figure. “Then won’t you begin--as a first course--with tea after your ride? If the other, that is--for there has been an ogre before you--has 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.”<|quote|>She had tapped a spring in him, clearly, and the consequent flood might almost at any moment become copious.</|quote|>“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” --the young man saw it all-- “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
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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.”<|quote|>She had tapped a spring in him, clearly, and the consequent flood might almost at any moment become copious.</|quote|>“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,
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The Outcry
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"Are you, or are you not, a police detective?"
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Professor De Worms
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in a high, crazy voice.<|quote|>"Are you, or are you not, a police detective?"</|quote|>"No!" answered Syme, like a
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you pattering spy?" he shrieked in a high, crazy voice.<|quote|>"Are you, or are you not, a police detective?"</|quote|>"No!" answered Syme, like a man standing on the hangman's
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turned to stone, but his face never changed. "Your suggestion is ridiculous," he began. "Why on earth" The old man struck his palsied hand passionately on the rickety table, nearly breaking it. "Did you hear me ask a plain question, you pattering spy?" he shrieked in a high, crazy voice.<|quote|>"Are you, or are you not, a police detective?"</|quote|>"No!" answered Syme, like a man standing on the hangman's drop. "You swear it," said the old man, leaning across to him, his dead face becoming as it were loathsomely alive. "You swear it! You swear it! If you swear falsely, will you be damned? Will you be sure that
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Common is only the policeman that might have been. I don't mind being the policeman that might have been. I don't mind being anything in German thought." "Are you in the police service?" said the old man, ignoring all Syme's improvised and desperate raillery. "Are you a detective?" Syme's heart turned to stone, but his face never changed. "Your suggestion is ridiculous," he began. "Why on earth" The old man struck his palsied hand passionately on the rickety table, nearly breaking it. "Did you hear me ask a plain question, you pattering spy?" he shrieked in a high, crazy voice.<|quote|>"Are you, or are you not, a police detective?"</|quote|>"No!" answered Syme, like a man standing on the hangman's drop. "You swear it," said the old man, leaning across to him, his dead face becoming as it were loathsomely alive. "You swear it! You swear it! If you swear falsely, will you be damned? Will you be sure that the devil dances at your funeral? Will you see that the nightmare sits on your grave? Will there really be no mistake? You are an anarchist, you are a dynamiter! Above all, you are not in any sense a detective? You are not in the British police?" He leant his
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a number stuck on to me somewhere? Have my boots got that watchful look? Why must I be a policeman? Do, do let me be a postman." The old Professor shook his head with a gravity that gave no hope, but Syme ran on with a feverish irony. "But perhaps I misunderstood the delicacies of your German philosophy. Perhaps policeman is a relative term. In an evolutionary sense, sir, the ape fades so gradually into the policeman, that I myself can never detect the shade. The monkey is only the policeman that may be. Perhaps a maiden lady on Clapham Common is only the policeman that might have been. I don't mind being the policeman that might have been. I don't mind being anything in German thought." "Are you in the police service?" said the old man, ignoring all Syme's improvised and desperate raillery. "Are you a detective?" Syme's heart turned to stone, but his face never changed. "Your suggestion is ridiculous," he began. "Why on earth" The old man struck his palsied hand passionately on the rickety table, nearly breaking it. "Did you hear me ask a plain question, you pattering spy?" he shrieked in a high, crazy voice.<|quote|>"Are you, or are you not, a police detective?"</|quote|>"No!" answered Syme, like a man standing on the hangman's drop. "You swear it," said the old man, leaning across to him, his dead face becoming as it were loathsomely alive. "You swear it! You swear it! If you swear falsely, will you be damned? Will you be sure that the devil dances at your funeral? Will you see that the nightmare sits on your grave? Will there really be no mistake? You are an anarchist, you are a dynamiter! Above all, you are not in any sense a detective? You are not in the British police?" He leant his angular elbow far across the table, and put up his large loose hand like a flap to his ear. "I am not in the British police," said Syme with insane calm. Professor de Worms fell back in his chair with a curious air of kindly collapse. "That's a pity," he said, "because I am." Syme sprang up straight, sending back the bench behind him with a crash. "Because you are what?" he said thickly. "You are what?" "I am a policeman," said the Professor with his first broad smile, and beaming through his spectacles. "But as you think policeman only
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helpless. It was just possible that this escapade signified something other than even a slight suspicion of him. Perhaps it was some regular form or sign. Perhaps the foolish scamper was some sort of friendly signal that he ought to have understood. Perhaps it was a ritual. Perhaps the new Thursday was always chased along Cheapside, as the new Lord Mayor is always escorted along it. He was just selecting a tentative inquiry, when the old Professor opposite suddenly and simply cut him short. Before Syme could ask the first diplomatic question, the old anarchist had asked suddenly, without any sort of preparation "Are you a policeman?" Whatever else Syme had expected, he had never expected anything so brutal and actual as this. Even his great presence of mind could only manage a reply with an air of rather blundering jocularity. "A policeman?" he said, laughing vaguely. "Whatever made you think of a policeman in connection with me?" "The process was simple enough," answered the Professor patiently. "I thought you looked like a policeman. I think so now." "Did I take a policeman's hat by mistake out of the restaurant?" asked Syme, smiling wildly. "Have I by any chance got a number stuck on to me somewhere? Have my boots got that watchful look? Why must I be a policeman? Do, do let me be a postman." The old Professor shook his head with a gravity that gave no hope, but Syme ran on with a feverish irony. "But perhaps I misunderstood the delicacies of your German philosophy. Perhaps policeman is a relative term. In an evolutionary sense, sir, the ape fades so gradually into the policeman, that I myself can never detect the shade. The monkey is only the policeman that may be. Perhaps a maiden lady on Clapham Common is only the policeman that might have been. I don't mind being the policeman that might have been. I don't mind being anything in German thought." "Are you in the police service?" said the old man, ignoring all Syme's improvised and desperate raillery. "Are you a detective?" Syme's heart turned to stone, but his face never changed. "Your suggestion is ridiculous," he began. "Why on earth" The old man struck his palsied hand passionately on the rickety table, nearly breaking it. "Did you hear me ask a plain question, you pattering spy?" he shrieked in a high, crazy voice.<|quote|>"Are you, or are you not, a police detective?"</|quote|>"No!" answered Syme, like a man standing on the hangman's drop. "You swear it," said the old man, leaning across to him, his dead face becoming as it were loathsomely alive. "You swear it! You swear it! If you swear falsely, will you be damned? Will you be sure that the devil dances at your funeral? Will you see that the nightmare sits on your grave? Will there really be no mistake? You are an anarchist, you are a dynamiter! Above all, you are not in any sense a detective? You are not in the British police?" He leant his angular elbow far across the table, and put up his large loose hand like a flap to his ear. "I am not in the British police," said Syme with insane calm. Professor de Worms fell back in his chair with a curious air of kindly collapse. "That's a pity," he said, "because I am." Syme sprang up straight, sending back the bench behind him with a crash. "Because you are what?" he said thickly. "You are what?" "I am a policeman," said the Professor with his first broad smile, and beaming through his spectacles. "But as you think policeman only a relative term, of course I have nothing to do with you. I am in the British police force; but as you tell me you are not in the British police force, I can only say that I met you in a dynamiters' club. I suppose I ought to arrest you." And with these words he laid on the table before Syme an exact facsimile of the blue card which Syme had in his own waistcoat pocket, the symbol of his power from the police. Syme had for a flash the sensation that the cosmos had turned exactly upside down, that all trees were growing downwards and that all stars were under his feet. Then came slowly the opposite conviction. For the last twenty-four hours the cosmos had really been upside down, but now the capsized universe had come right side up again. This devil from whom he had been fleeing all day was only an elder brother of his own house, who on the other side of the table lay back and laughed at him. He did not for the moment ask any questions of detail; he only knew the happy and silly fact that this shadow, which had
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St. George waited for the dragon, as a man waits for a final explanation or for death. And the old Professor came right up to him and passed him like a total stranger, without even a blink of his mournful eyelids. There was something in this silent and unexpected innocence that left Syme in a final fury. The man's colourless face and manner seemed to assert that the whole following had been an accident. Syme was galvanised with an energy that was something between bitterness and a burst of boyish derision. He made a wild gesture as if to knock the old man's hat off, called out something like "Catch me if you can," and went racing away across the white, open Circus. Concealment was impossible now; and looking back over his shoulder, he could see the black figure of the old gentleman coming after him with long, swinging strides like a man winning a mile race. But the head upon that bounding body was still pale, grave and professional, like the head of a lecturer upon the body of a harlequin. This outrageous chase sped across Ludgate Circus, up Ludgate Hill, round St. Paul's Cathedral, along Cheapside, Syme remembering all the nightmares he had ever known. Then Syme broke away towards the river, and ended almost down by the docks. He saw the yellow panes of a low, lighted public-house, flung himself into it and ordered beer. It was a foul tavern, sprinkled with foreign sailors, a place where opium might be smoked or knives drawn. A moment later Professor de Worms entered the place, sat down carefully, and asked for a glass of milk. CHAPTER VIII. THE PROFESSOR EXPLAINS When Gabriel Syme found himself finally established in a chair, and opposite to him, fixed and final also, the lifted eyebrows and leaden eyelids of the Professor, his fears fully returned. This incomprehensible man from the fierce council, after all, had certainly pursued him. If the man had one character as a paralytic and another character as a pursuer, the antithesis might make him more interesting, but scarcely more soothing. It would be a very small comfort that he could not find the Professor out, if by some serious accident the Professor should find him out. He emptied a whole pewter pot of ale before the professor had touched his milk. One possibility, however, kept him hopeful and yet helpless. It was just possible that this escapade signified something other than even a slight suspicion of him. Perhaps it was some regular form or sign. Perhaps the foolish scamper was some sort of friendly signal that he ought to have understood. Perhaps it was a ritual. Perhaps the new Thursday was always chased along Cheapside, as the new Lord Mayor is always escorted along it. He was just selecting a tentative inquiry, when the old Professor opposite suddenly and simply cut him short. Before Syme could ask the first diplomatic question, the old anarchist had asked suddenly, without any sort of preparation "Are you a policeman?" Whatever else Syme had expected, he had never expected anything so brutal and actual as this. Even his great presence of mind could only manage a reply with an air of rather blundering jocularity. "A policeman?" he said, laughing vaguely. "Whatever made you think of a policeman in connection with me?" "The process was simple enough," answered the Professor patiently. "I thought you looked like a policeman. I think so now." "Did I take a policeman's hat by mistake out of the restaurant?" asked Syme, smiling wildly. "Have I by any chance got a number stuck on to me somewhere? Have my boots got that watchful look? Why must I be a policeman? Do, do let me be a postman." The old Professor shook his head with a gravity that gave no hope, but Syme ran on with a feverish irony. "But perhaps I misunderstood the delicacies of your German philosophy. Perhaps policeman is a relative term. In an evolutionary sense, sir, the ape fades so gradually into the policeman, that I myself can never detect the shade. The monkey is only the policeman that may be. Perhaps a maiden lady on Clapham Common is only the policeman that might have been. I don't mind being the policeman that might have been. I don't mind being anything in German thought." "Are you in the police service?" said the old man, ignoring all Syme's improvised and desperate raillery. "Are you a detective?" Syme's heart turned to stone, but his face never changed. "Your suggestion is ridiculous," he began. "Why on earth" The old man struck his palsied hand passionately on the rickety table, nearly breaking it. "Did you hear me ask a plain question, you pattering spy?" he shrieked in a high, crazy voice.<|quote|>"Are you, or are you not, a police detective?"</|quote|>"No!" answered Syme, like a man standing on the hangman's drop. "You swear it," said the old man, leaning across to him, his dead face becoming as it were loathsomely alive. "You swear it! You swear it! If you swear falsely, will you be damned? Will you be sure that the devil dances at your funeral? Will you see that the nightmare sits on your grave? Will there really be no mistake? You are an anarchist, you are a dynamiter! Above all, you are not in any sense a detective? You are not in the British police?" He leant his angular elbow far across the table, and put up his large loose hand like a flap to his ear. "I am not in the British police," said Syme with insane calm. Professor de Worms fell back in his chair with a curious air of kindly collapse. "That's a pity," he said, "because I am." Syme sprang up straight, sending back the bench behind him with a crash. "Because you are what?" he said thickly. "You are what?" "I am a policeman," said the Professor with his first broad smile, and beaming through his spectacles. "But as you think policeman only a relative term, of course I have nothing to do with you. I am in the British police force; but as you tell me you are not in the British police force, I can only say that I met you in a dynamiters' club. I suppose I ought to arrest you." And with these words he laid on the table before Syme an exact facsimile of the blue card which Syme had in his own waistcoat pocket, the symbol of his power from the police. Syme had for a flash the sensation that the cosmos had turned exactly upside down, that all trees were growing downwards and that all stars were under his feet. Then came slowly the opposite conviction. For the last twenty-four hours the cosmos had really been upside down, but now the capsized universe had come right side up again. This devil from whom he had been fleeing all day was only an elder brother of his own house, who on the other side of the table lay back and laughed at him. He did not for the moment ask any questions of detail; he only knew the happy and silly fact that this shadow, which had pursued him with an intolerable oppression of peril, was only the shadow of a friend trying to catch him up. He knew simultaneously that he was a fool and a free man. For with any recovery from morbidity there must go a certain healthy humiliation. There comes a certain point in such conditions when only three things are possible: first a perpetuation of Satanic pride, secondly tears, and third laughter. Syme's egotism held hard to the first course for a few seconds, and then suddenly adopted the third. Taking his own blue police ticket from his own waist coat pocket, he tossed it on to the table; then he flung his head back until his spike of yellow beard almost pointed at the ceiling, and shouted with a barbaric laughter. Even in that close den, perpetually filled with the din of knives, plates, cans, clamorous voices, sudden struggles and stampedes, there was something Homeric in Syme's mirth which made many half-drunken men look round. "What yer laughing at, guv'nor?" asked one wondering labourer from the docks. "At myself," answered Syme, and went off again into the agony of his ecstatic reaction. "Pull yourself together," said the Professor, "or you'll get hysterical. Have some more beer. I'll join you." "You haven't drunk your milk," said Syme. "My milk!" said the other, in tones of withering and unfathomable contempt, "my milk! Do you think I'd look at the beastly stuff when I'm out of sight of the bloody anarchists? We're all Christians in this room, though perhaps," he added, glancing around at the reeling crowd, "not strict ones. Finish my milk? Great blazes! yes, I'll finish it right enough!" and he knocked the tumbler off the table, making a crash of glass and a splash of silver fluid. Syme was staring at him with a happy curiosity. "I understand now," he cried; "of course, you're not an old man at all." "I can't take my face off here," replied Professor de Worms. "It's rather an elaborate make-up. As to whether I'm an old man, that's not for me to say. I was thirty-eight last birthday." "Yes, but I mean," said Syme impatiently, "there's nothing the matter with you." "Yes," answered the other dispassionately. "I am subject to colds." Syme's laughter at all this had about it a wild weakness of relief. He laughed at the idea of the paralytic Professor being really
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down by the docks. He saw the yellow panes of a low, lighted public-house, flung himself into it and ordered beer. It was a foul tavern, sprinkled with foreign sailors, a place where opium might be smoked or knives drawn. A moment later Professor de Worms entered the place, sat down carefully, and asked for a glass of milk. CHAPTER VIII. THE PROFESSOR EXPLAINS When Gabriel Syme found himself finally established in a chair, and opposite to him, fixed and final also, the lifted eyebrows and leaden eyelids of the Professor, his fears fully returned. This incomprehensible man from the fierce council, after all, had certainly pursued him. If the man had one character as a paralytic and another character as a pursuer, the antithesis might make him more interesting, but scarcely more soothing. It would be a very small comfort that he could not find the Professor out, if by some serious accident the Professor should find him out. He emptied a whole pewter pot of ale before the professor had touched his milk. One possibility, however, kept him hopeful and yet helpless. It was just possible that this escapade signified something other than even a slight suspicion of him. Perhaps it was some regular form or sign. Perhaps the foolish scamper was some sort of friendly signal that he ought to have understood. Perhaps it was a ritual. Perhaps the new Thursday was always chased along Cheapside, as the new Lord Mayor is always escorted along it. He was just selecting a tentative inquiry, when the old Professor opposite suddenly and simply cut him short. Before Syme could ask the first diplomatic question, the old anarchist had asked suddenly, without any sort of preparation "Are you a policeman?" Whatever else Syme had expected, he had never expected anything so brutal and actual as this. Even his great presence of mind could only manage a reply with an air of rather blundering jocularity. "A policeman?" he said, laughing vaguely. "Whatever made you think of a policeman in connection with me?" "The process was simple enough," answered the Professor patiently. "I thought you looked like a policeman. I think so now." "Did I take a policeman's hat by mistake out of the restaurant?" asked Syme, smiling wildly. "Have I by any chance got a number stuck on to me somewhere? Have my boots got that watchful look? Why must I be a policeman? Do, do let me be a postman." The old Professor shook his head with a gravity that gave no hope, but Syme ran on with a feverish irony. "But perhaps I misunderstood the delicacies of your German philosophy. Perhaps policeman is a relative term. In an evolutionary sense, sir, the ape fades so gradually into the policeman, that I myself can never detect the shade. The monkey is only the policeman that may be. Perhaps a maiden lady on Clapham Common is only the policeman that might have been. I don't mind being the policeman that might have been. I don't mind being anything in German thought." "Are you in the police service?" said the old man, ignoring all Syme's improvised and desperate raillery. "Are you a detective?" Syme's heart turned to stone, but his face never changed. "Your suggestion is ridiculous," he began. "Why on earth" The old man struck his palsied hand passionately on the rickety table, nearly breaking it. "Did you hear me ask a plain question, you pattering spy?" he shrieked in a high, crazy voice.<|quote|>"Are you, or are you not, a police detective?"</|quote|>"No!" answered Syme, like a man standing on the hangman's drop. "You swear it," said the old man, leaning across to him, his dead face becoming as it were loathsomely alive. "You swear it! You swear it! If you swear falsely, will you be damned? Will you be sure that the devil dances at your funeral? Will you see that the nightmare sits on your grave? Will there really be no mistake? You are an anarchist, you are a dynamiter! Above all, you are not in any sense a detective? You are not in the British police?" He leant his angular elbow far across the table, and put up his large loose hand like a flap to his ear. "I am not in the British police," said Syme with insane calm. Professor de Worms fell back in his chair with a curious air of kindly collapse. "That's a pity," he said, "because I am." Syme sprang up straight, sending back the bench behind him with a crash. "Because you are what?" he said thickly. "You are what?" "I am a policeman," said the Professor with his first broad smile, and beaming through his spectacles. "But as you think policeman only a relative term, of course I have nothing to do with you. I am in the British police force; but as you tell me you are not in the British police force, I can only say that I met you in
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The Man Who Was Thursday
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said Mrs. Costello,
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No speaker
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"She is a young lady,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello,</|quote|>"who has an intimacy with
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after all, a Comanche savage." "She is a young lady,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello,</|quote|>"who has an intimacy with her mamma s courier." "An
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aunt resumed. "I can t think where they pick it up; and she dresses in perfection--no, you don t know how well she dresses. I can t think where they get their taste." "But, my dear aunt, she is not, after all, a Comanche savage." "She is a young lady,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello,</|quote|>"who has an intimacy with her mamma s courier." "An intimacy with the courier?" the young man demanded. "Oh, the mother is just as bad! They treat the courier like a familiar friend--like a gentleman. I shouldn t wonder if he dines with them. Very likely they have never seen
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if I could, but I can t." "The young girl is very pretty," said Winterbourne in a moment. "Of course she s pretty. But she is very common." "I see what you mean, of course," said Winterbourne after another pause. "She has that charming look that they all have," his aunt resumed. "I can t think where they pick it up; and she dresses in perfection--no, you don t know how well she dresses. I can t think where they get their taste." "But, my dear aunt, she is not, after all, a Comanche savage." "She is a young lady,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello,</|quote|>"who has an intimacy with her mamma s courier." "An intimacy with the courier?" the young man demanded. "Oh, the mother is just as bad! They treat the courier like a familiar friend--like a gentleman. I shouldn t wonder if he dines with them. Very likely they have never seen a man with such good manners, such fine clothes, so like a gentleman. He probably corresponds to the young lady s idea of a count. He sits with them in the garden in the evening. I think he smokes." Winterbourne listened with interest to these disclosures; they helped him to
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And her picture of the minutely hierarchical constitution of the society of that city, which she presented to him in many different lights, was, to Winterbourne s imagination, almost oppressively striking. He immediately perceived, from her tone, that Miss Daisy Miller s place in the social scale was low. "I am afraid you don t approve of them," he said. "They are very common," Mrs. Costello declared. "They are the sort of Americans that one does one s duty by not--not accepting." "Ah, you don t accept them?" said the young man. "I can t, my dear Frederick. I would if I could, but I can t." "The young girl is very pretty," said Winterbourne in a moment. "Of course she s pretty. But she is very common." "I see what you mean, of course," said Winterbourne after another pause. "She has that charming look that they all have," his aunt resumed. "I can t think where they pick it up; and she dresses in perfection--no, you don t know how well she dresses. I can t think where they get their taste." "But, my dear aunt, she is not, after all, a Comanche savage." "She is a young lady,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello,</|quote|>"who has an intimacy with her mamma s courier." "An intimacy with the courier?" the young man demanded. "Oh, the mother is just as bad! They treat the courier like a familiar friend--like a gentleman. I shouldn t wonder if he dines with them. Very likely they have never seen a man with such good manners, such fine clothes, so like a gentleman. He probably corresponds to the young lady s idea of a count. He sits with them in the garden in the evening. I think he smokes." Winterbourne listened with interest to these disclosures; they helped him to make up his mind about Miss Daisy. Evidently she was rather wild. "Well," he said, "I am not a courier, and yet she was very charming to me." "You had better have said at first," said Mrs. Costello with dignity, "that you had made her acquaintance." "We simply met in the garden, and we talked a bit." "Tout bonnement! And pray what did you say?" "I said I should take the liberty of introducing her to my admirable aunt." "I am much obliged to you." "It was to guarantee my respectability," said Winterbourne. "And pray who is to guarantee hers?"
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have left a deeper impress upon her time. She had a long, pale face, a high nose, and a great deal of very striking white hair, which she wore in large puffs and rouleaux over the top of her head. She had two sons married in New York and another who was now in Europe. This young man was amusing himself at Hamburg, and, though he was on his travels, was rarely perceived to visit any particular city at the moment selected by his mother for her own appearance there. Her nephew, who had come up to Vevey expressly to see her, was therefore more attentive than those who, as she said, were nearer to her. He had imbibed at Geneva the idea that one must always be attentive to one s aunt. Mrs. Costello had not seen him for many years, and she was greatly pleased with him, manifesting her approbation by initiating him into many of the secrets of that social sway which, as she gave him to understand, she exerted in the American capital. She admitted that she was very exclusive; but, if he were acquainted with New York, he would see that one had to be. And her picture of the minutely hierarchical constitution of the society of that city, which she presented to him in many different lights, was, to Winterbourne s imagination, almost oppressively striking. He immediately perceived, from her tone, that Miss Daisy Miller s place in the social scale was low. "I am afraid you don t approve of them," he said. "They are very common," Mrs. Costello declared. "They are the sort of Americans that one does one s duty by not--not accepting." "Ah, you don t accept them?" said the young man. "I can t, my dear Frederick. I would if I could, but I can t." "The young girl is very pretty," said Winterbourne in a moment. "Of course she s pretty. But she is very common." "I see what you mean, of course," said Winterbourne after another pause. "She has that charming look that they all have," his aunt resumed. "I can t think where they pick it up; and she dresses in perfection--no, you don t know how well she dresses. I can t think where they get their taste." "But, my dear aunt, she is not, after all, a Comanche savage." "She is a young lady,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello,</|quote|>"who has an intimacy with her mamma s courier." "An intimacy with the courier?" the young man demanded. "Oh, the mother is just as bad! They treat the courier like a familiar friend--like a gentleman. I shouldn t wonder if he dines with them. Very likely they have never seen a man with such good manners, such fine clothes, so like a gentleman. He probably corresponds to the young lady s idea of a count. He sits with them in the garden in the evening. I think he smokes." Winterbourne listened with interest to these disclosures; they helped him to make up his mind about Miss Daisy. Evidently she was rather wild. "Well," he said, "I am not a courier, and yet she was very charming to me." "You had better have said at first," said Mrs. Costello with dignity, "that you had made her acquaintance." "We simply met in the garden, and we talked a bit." "Tout bonnement! And pray what did you say?" "I said I should take the liberty of introducing her to my admirable aunt." "I am much obliged to you." "It was to guarantee my respectability," said Winterbourne. "And pray who is to guarantee hers?" "Ah, you are cruel!" said the young man. "She s a very nice young girl." "You don t say that as if you believed it," Mrs. Costello observed. "She is completely uncultivated," Winterbourne went on. "But she is wonderfully pretty, and, in short, she is very nice. To prove that I believe it, I am going to take her to the Chateau de Chillon." "You two are going off there together? I should say it proved just the contrary. How long had you known her, may I ask, when this interesting project was formed? You haven t been twenty-four hours in the house." "I have known her half an hour!" said Winterbourne, smiling. "Dear me!" cried Mrs. Costello. "What a dreadful girl!" Her nephew was silent for some moments. "You really think, then," he began earnestly, and with a desire for trustworthy information--" "you really think that--" But he paused again. "Think what, sir?" said his aunt. "That she is the sort of young lady who expects a man, sooner or later, to carry her off?" "I haven t the least idea what such young ladies expect a man to do. But I really think that you had better not
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wearing a velvet morning coat and a brilliant watch chain, approached Miss Miller, looking sharply at her companion. "Oh, Eugenio!" said Miss Miller with the friendliest accent. Eugenio had looked at Winterbourne from head to foot; he now bowed gravely to the young lady. "I have the honor to inform mademoiselle that luncheon is upon the table." Miss Miller slowly rose. "See here, Eugenio!" she said; "I m going to that old castle, anyway." "To the Chateau de Chillon, mademoiselle?" the courier inquired. "Mademoiselle has made arrangements?" he added in a tone which struck Winterbourne as very impertinent. Eugenio s tone apparently threw, even to Miss Miller s own apprehension, a slightly ironical light upon the young girl s situation. She turned to Winterbourne, blushing a little--a very little. "You won t back out?" she said. "I shall not be happy till we go!" he protested. "And you are staying in this hotel?" she went on. "And you are really an American?" The courier stood looking at Winterbourne offensively. The young man, at least, thought his manner of looking an offense to Miss Miller; it conveyed an imputation that she "picked up" acquaintances. "I shall have the honor of presenting to you a person who will tell you all about me," he said, smiling and referring to his aunt. "Oh, well, we ll go some day," said Miss Miller. And she gave him a smile and turned away. She put up her parasol and walked back to the inn beside Eugenio. Winterbourne stood looking after her; and as she moved away, drawing her muslin furbelows over the gravel, said to himself that she had the tournure of a princess. He had, however, engaged to do more than proved feasible, in promising to present his aunt, Mrs. Costello, to Miss Daisy Miller. As soon as the former lady had got better of her headache, he waited upon her in her apartment; and, after the proper inquiries in regard to her health, he asked her if she had observed in the hotel an American family--a mamma, a daughter, and a little boy. "And a courier?" said Mrs. Costello. "Oh yes, I have observed them. Seen them--heard them--and kept out of their way." Mrs. Costello was a widow with a fortune; a person of much distinction, who frequently intimated that, if she were not so dreadfully liable to sick headaches, she would probably have left a deeper impress upon her time. She had a long, pale face, a high nose, and a great deal of very striking white hair, which she wore in large puffs and rouleaux over the top of her head. She had two sons married in New York and another who was now in Europe. This young man was amusing himself at Hamburg, and, though he was on his travels, was rarely perceived to visit any particular city at the moment selected by his mother for her own appearance there. Her nephew, who had come up to Vevey expressly to see her, was therefore more attentive than those who, as she said, were nearer to her. He had imbibed at Geneva the idea that one must always be attentive to one s aunt. Mrs. Costello had not seen him for many years, and she was greatly pleased with him, manifesting her approbation by initiating him into many of the secrets of that social sway which, as she gave him to understand, she exerted in the American capital. She admitted that she was very exclusive; but, if he were acquainted with New York, he would see that one had to be. And her picture of the minutely hierarchical constitution of the society of that city, which she presented to him in many different lights, was, to Winterbourne s imagination, almost oppressively striking. He immediately perceived, from her tone, that Miss Daisy Miller s place in the social scale was low. "I am afraid you don t approve of them," he said. "They are very common," Mrs. Costello declared. "They are the sort of Americans that one does one s duty by not--not accepting." "Ah, you don t accept them?" said the young man. "I can t, my dear Frederick. I would if I could, but I can t." "The young girl is very pretty," said Winterbourne in a moment. "Of course she s pretty. But she is very common." "I see what you mean, of course," said Winterbourne after another pause. "She has that charming look that they all have," his aunt resumed. "I can t think where they pick it up; and she dresses in perfection--no, you don t know how well she dresses. I can t think where they get their taste." "But, my dear aunt, she is not, after all, a Comanche savage." "She is a young lady,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello,</|quote|>"who has an intimacy with her mamma s courier." "An intimacy with the courier?" the young man demanded. "Oh, the mother is just as bad! They treat the courier like a familiar friend--like a gentleman. I shouldn t wonder if he dines with them. Very likely they have never seen a man with such good manners, such fine clothes, so like a gentleman. He probably corresponds to the young lady s idea of a count. He sits with them in the garden in the evening. I think he smokes." Winterbourne listened with interest to these disclosures; they helped him to make up his mind about Miss Daisy. Evidently she was rather wild. "Well," he said, "I am not a courier, and yet she was very charming to me." "You had better have said at first," said Mrs. Costello with dignity, "that you had made her acquaintance." "We simply met in the garden, and we talked a bit." "Tout bonnement! And pray what did you say?" "I said I should take the liberty of introducing her to my admirable aunt." "I am much obliged to you." "It was to guarantee my respectability," said Winterbourne. "And pray who is to guarantee hers?" "Ah, you are cruel!" said the young man. "She s a very nice young girl." "You don t say that as if you believed it," Mrs. Costello observed. "She is completely uncultivated," Winterbourne went on. "But she is wonderfully pretty, and, in short, she is very nice. To prove that I believe it, I am going to take her to the Chateau de Chillon." "You two are going off there together? I should say it proved just the contrary. How long had you known her, may I ask, when this interesting project was formed? You haven t been twenty-four hours in the house." "I have known her half an hour!" said Winterbourne, smiling. "Dear me!" cried Mrs. Costello. "What a dreadful girl!" Her nephew was silent for some moments. "You really think, then," he began earnestly, and with a desire for trustworthy information--" "you really think that--" But he paused again. "Think what, sir?" said his aunt. "That she is the sort of young lady who expects a man, sooner or later, to carry her off?" "I haven t the least idea what such young ladies expect a man to do. But I really think that you had better not meddle with little American girls that are uncultivated, as you call them. You have lived too long out of the country. You will be sure to make some great mistake. You are too innocent." "My dear aunt, I am not so innocent," said Winterbourne, smiling and curling his mustache. "You are guilty too, then!" Winterbourne continued to curl his mustache meditatively. "You won t let the poor girl know you then?" he asked at last. "Is it literally true that she is going to the Chateau de Chillon with you?" "I think that she fully intends it." "Then, my dear Frederick," said Mrs. Costello, "I must decline the honor of her acquaintance. I am an old woman, but I am not too old, thank Heaven, to be shocked!" "But don t they all do these things--the young girls in America?" Winterbourne inquired. Mrs. Costello stared a moment. "I should like to see my granddaughters do them!" she declared grimly. This seemed to throw some light upon the matter, for Winterbourne remembered to have heard that his pretty cousins in New York were "tremendous flirts." If, therefore, Miss Daisy Miller exceeded the liberal margin allowed to these young ladies, it was probable that anything might be expected of her. Winterbourne was impatient to see her again, and he was vexed with himself that, by instinct, he should not appreciate her justly. Though he was impatient to see her, he hardly knew what he should say to her about his aunt s refusal to become acquainted with her; but he discovered, promptly enough, that with Miss Daisy Miller there was no great need of walking on tiptoe. He found her that evening in the garden, wandering about in the warm starlight like an indolent sylph, and swinging to and fro the largest fan he had ever beheld. It was ten o clock. He had dined with his aunt, had been sitting with her since dinner, and had just taken leave of her till the morrow. Miss Daisy Miller seemed very glad to see him; she declared it was the longest evening she had ever passed. "Have you been all alone?" he asked. "I have been walking round with mother. But mother gets tired walking round," she answered. "Has she gone to bed?" "No; she doesn t like to go to bed," said the young girl. "She doesn t sleep--not three hours. She
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American family--a mamma, a daughter, and a little boy. "And a courier?" said Mrs. Costello. "Oh yes, I have observed them. Seen them--heard them--and kept out of their way." Mrs. Costello was a widow with a fortune; a person of much distinction, who frequently intimated that, if she were not so dreadfully liable to sick headaches, she would probably have left a deeper impress upon her time. She had a long, pale face, a high nose, and a great deal of very striking white hair, which she wore in large puffs and rouleaux over the top of her head. She had two sons married in New York and another who was now in Europe. This young man was amusing himself at Hamburg, and, though he was on his travels, was rarely perceived to visit any particular city at the moment selected by his mother for her own appearance there. Her nephew, who had come up to Vevey expressly to see her, was therefore more attentive than those who, as she said, were nearer to her. He had imbibed at Geneva the idea that one must always be attentive to one s aunt. Mrs. Costello had not seen him for many years, and she was greatly pleased with him, manifesting her approbation by initiating him into many of the secrets of that social sway which, as she gave him to understand, she exerted in the American capital. She admitted that she was very exclusive; but, if he were acquainted with New York, he would see that one had to be. And her picture of the minutely hierarchical constitution of the society of that city, which she presented to him in many different lights, was, to Winterbourne s imagination, almost oppressively striking. He immediately perceived, from her tone, that Miss Daisy Miller s place in the social scale was low. "I am afraid you don t approve of them," he said. "They are very common," Mrs. Costello declared. "They are the sort of Americans that one does one s duty by not--not accepting." "Ah, you don t accept them?" said the young man. "I can t, my dear Frederick. I would if I could, but I can t." "The young girl is very pretty," said Winterbourne in a moment. "Of course she s pretty. But she is very common." "I see what you mean, of course," said Winterbourne after another pause. "She has that charming look that they all have," his aunt resumed. "I can t think where they pick it up; and she dresses in perfection--no, you don t know how well she dresses. I can t think where they get their taste." "But, my dear aunt, she is not, after all, a Comanche savage." "She is a young lady,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello,</|quote|>"who has an intimacy with her mamma s courier." "An intimacy with the courier?" the young man demanded. "Oh, the mother is just as bad! They treat the courier like a familiar friend--like a gentleman. I shouldn t wonder if he dines with them. Very likely they have never seen a man with such good manners, such fine clothes, so like a gentleman. He probably corresponds to the young lady s idea of a count. He sits with them in the garden in the evening. I think he smokes." Winterbourne listened with interest to these disclosures; they helped him to make up his mind about Miss Daisy. Evidently she was rather wild. "Well," he said, "I am not a courier, and yet she was very charming to me." "You had better have said at first," said Mrs. Costello with dignity, "that you had made her acquaintance." "We simply met in the garden, and we talked a bit." "Tout bonnement! And pray what did you say?" "I said I should take the liberty of introducing her to my admirable aunt." "I am much obliged to you." "It was to guarantee my respectability," said Winterbourne. "And pray who is to guarantee hers?" "Ah, you are cruel!" said the young man. "She s a very nice young girl." "You don t say that as if you believed it," Mrs. Costello observed. "She is completely uncultivated," Winterbourne went on. "But she is wonderfully pretty, and, in short, she is very nice. To prove that I believe it, I am going to take her to the Chateau de Chillon." "You two are going off there together? I should say it proved just the contrary. How long had you known her, may I ask, when this interesting project was formed? You haven t been twenty-four hours in the house." "I have known her half an hour!" said Winterbourne, smiling. "Dear me!" cried Mrs. Costello. "What a dreadful girl!" Her nephew was silent for some moments. "You really think, then," he began earnestly, and with a desire for trustworthy information--" "you really think that--" But he paused again. "Think what, sir?" said his aunt. "That she is the sort of young lady who expects a man, sooner or later, to carry her off?" "I haven t the least idea what such young ladies expect a man to do. But I really think that you had better not meddle with little American girls that are uncultivated, as you call them. You have lived too long out of the country. You will be sure to make
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Daisy Miller
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"You might as well stay, really. In the evenings I could come and have a talk with you. Eh? Stay! If you go, there won't be a human face left in the house. It's awful!"
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Mashenka
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and going towards the door.<|quote|>"You might as well stay, really. In the evenings I could come and have a talk with you. Eh? Stay! If you go, there won't be a human face left in the house. It's awful!"</|quote|>Nikolay Sergeitch's pale, exhausted face
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Nikolay Sergeitch, getting up quickly and going towards the door.<|quote|>"You might as well stay, really. In the evenings I could come and have a talk with you. Eh? Stay! If you go, there won't be a human face left in the house. It's awful!"</|quote|>Nikolay Sergeitch's pale, exhausted face besought her, but Mashenka shook
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stewards, experts, damn them all! They mortgage and remortgage.... You mustn't catch fish, must keep off the grass, mustn't break the trees." "Nikolay Sergeitch!" his wife's voice called from the drawing-room. "Agnia, call your master!" "Then you won't stay?" asked Nikolay Sergeitch, getting up quickly and going towards the door.<|quote|>"You might as well stay, really. In the evenings I could come and have a talk with you. Eh? Stay! If you go, there won't be a human face left in the house. It's awful!"</|quote|>Nikolay Sergeitch's pale, exhausted face besought her, but Mashenka shook her head, and with a wave of his hand he went out. Half an hour later she was on her way.
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I understand.... It's bound to be so ... Yes, of course.... It's all right for you, but for me--wo-o-o-o!... I can't stir a step out of this cellar. I'd go off to one of our estates, but in every one of them there are some of my wife's rascals ... stewards, experts, damn them all! They mortgage and remortgage.... You mustn't catch fish, must keep off the grass, mustn't break the trees." "Nikolay Sergeitch!" his wife's voice called from the drawing-room. "Agnia, call your master!" "Then you won't stay?" asked Nikolay Sergeitch, getting up quickly and going towards the door.<|quote|>"You might as well stay, really. In the evenings I could come and have a talk with you. Eh? Stay! If you go, there won't be a human face left in the house. It's awful!"</|quote|>Nikolay Sergeitch's pale, exhausted face besought her, but Mashenka shook her head, and with a wave of his hand he went out. Half an hour later she was on her way.
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my mother, and ... it's all mine! And she took it, took possession of everything.... I can't go to law with her, you'll admit.... I beg you most earnestly, overlook it ... stay on. _Tout comprendre, tout pardonner._ Will you stay?" "No!" said Mashenka resolutely, beginning to tremble. "Let me alone, I entreat you!" "Well, God bless you!" sighed Nikolay Sergeitch, sitting down on the stool near the box. "I must own I like people who still can feel resentment, contempt, and so on. I could sit here forever and look at your indignant face.... So you won't stay, then? I understand.... It's bound to be so ... Yes, of course.... It's all right for you, but for me--wo-o-o-o!... I can't stir a step out of this cellar. I'd go off to one of our estates, but in every one of them there are some of my wife's rascals ... stewards, experts, damn them all! They mortgage and remortgage.... You mustn't catch fish, must keep off the grass, mustn't break the trees." "Nikolay Sergeitch!" his wife's voice called from the drawing-room. "Agnia, call your master!" "Then you won't stay?" asked Nikolay Sergeitch, getting up quickly and going towards the door.<|quote|>"You might as well stay, really. In the evenings I could come and have a talk with you. Eh? Stay! If you go, there won't be a human face left in the house. It's awful!"</|quote|>Nikolay Sergeitch's pale, exhausted face besought her, but Mashenka shook her head, and with a wave of his hand he went out. Half an hour later she was on her way.
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and packing up to go; but I have pride, too, and you do not spare it! Or do you want me to tell you what I would not tell as Confession? Do you? Listen; you want me to tell you what I won't tell the priest on my deathbed?" Mashenka made no answer. "I took my wife's brooch," Nikolay Sergeitch said quickly. "Is that enough now? Are you satisfied? Yes, I ... took it.... But, of course, I count on your discretion.... For God's sake, not a word, not half a hint to any one!" Mashenka, amazed and frightened, went on packing; she snatched her things, crumpled them up, and thrust them anyhow into the box and the basket. Now, after this candid avowal on the part of Nikolay Sergeitch, she could not remain another minute, and could not understand how she could have gone on living in the house before. "And it's nothing to wonder at," Nikolay Sergeitch went on after a pause. "It's an everyday story! I need money, and she ... won't give it to me. It was my father's money that bought this house and everything, you know! It's all mine, and the brooch belonged to my mother, and ... it's all mine! And she took it, took possession of everything.... I can't go to law with her, you'll admit.... I beg you most earnestly, overlook it ... stay on. _Tout comprendre, tout pardonner._ Will you stay?" "No!" said Mashenka resolutely, beginning to tremble. "Let me alone, I entreat you!" "Well, God bless you!" sighed Nikolay Sergeitch, sitting down on the stool near the box. "I must own I like people who still can feel resentment, contempt, and so on. I could sit here forever and look at your indignant face.... So you won't stay, then? I understand.... It's bound to be so ... Yes, of course.... It's all right for you, but for me--wo-o-o-o!... I can't stir a step out of this cellar. I'd go off to one of our estates, but in every one of them there are some of my wife's rascals ... stewards, experts, damn them all! They mortgage and remortgage.... You mustn't catch fish, must keep off the grass, mustn't break the trees." "Nikolay Sergeitch!" his wife's voice called from the drawing-room. "Agnia, call your master!" "Then you won't stay?" asked Nikolay Sergeitch, getting up quickly and going towards the door.<|quote|>"You might as well stay, really. In the evenings I could come and have a talk with you. Eh? Stay! If you go, there won't be a human face left in the house. It's awful!"</|quote|>Nikolay Sergeitch's pale, exhausted face besought her, but Mashenka shook her head, and with a wave of his hand he went out. Half an hour later she was on her way.
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"May I come in?" asked Nikolay Sergeitch at the door; he had come up noiselessly to the door, and spoke in a soft, subdued voice. "May I?" "Come in." He came in and stood still near the door. His eyes looked dim and his red little nose was shiny. After dinner he used to drink beer, and the fact was perceptible in his walk, in his feeble, flabby hands. "What's this?" he asked, pointing to the basket. "I am packing. Forgive me, Nikolay Sergeitch, but I cannot remain in your house. I feel deeply insulted by this search!" "I understand.... Only you are wrong to go. Why should you? They've searched your things, but you ... what does it matter to you? You will be none the worse for it." Mashenka was silent and went on packing. Nikolay Sergeitch pinched his moustache, as though wondering what he should say next, and went on in an ingratiating voice: "I understand, of course, but you must make allowances. You know my wife is nervous, headstrong; you mustn't judge her too harshly." Mashenka did not speak. "If you are so offended," Nikolay Sergeitch went on, "well, if you like, I'm ready to apologise. I ask your pardon." Mashenka made no answer, but only bent lower over her box. This exhausted, irresolute man was of absolutely no significance in the household. He stood in the pitiful position of a dependent and hanger-on, even with the servants, and his apology meant nothing either. "H'm!... You say nothing! That's not enough for you. In that case, I will apologise for my wife. In my wife's name.... She behaved tactlessly, I admit it as a gentleman...." Nikolay Sergeitch walked about the room, heaved a sigh, and went on: "Then you want me to have it rankling here, under my heart.... You want my conscience to torment me...." "I know it's not your fault, Nikolay Sergeitch," said Mashenka, looking him full in the face with her big tear-stained eyes. "Why should you worry yourself?" "Of course, no.... But still, don't you ... go away. I entreat you." Mashenka shook her head. Nikolay Sergeitch stopped at the window and drummed on the pane with his finger-tips. "Such misunderstandings are simply torture to me," he said. "Why, do you want me to go down on my knees to you, or what? Your pride is wounded, and here you've been crying and packing up to go; but I have pride, too, and you do not spare it! Or do you want me to tell you what I would not tell as Confession? Do you? Listen; you want me to tell you what I won't tell the priest on my deathbed?" Mashenka made no answer. "I took my wife's brooch," Nikolay Sergeitch said quickly. "Is that enough now? Are you satisfied? Yes, I ... took it.... But, of course, I count on your discretion.... For God's sake, not a word, not half a hint to any one!" Mashenka, amazed and frightened, went on packing; she snatched her things, crumpled them up, and thrust them anyhow into the box and the basket. Now, after this candid avowal on the part of Nikolay Sergeitch, she could not remain another minute, and could not understand how she could have gone on living in the house before. "And it's nothing to wonder at," Nikolay Sergeitch went on after a pause. "It's an everyday story! I need money, and she ... won't give it to me. It was my father's money that bought this house and everything, you know! It's all mine, and the brooch belonged to my mother, and ... it's all mine! And she took it, took possession of everything.... I can't go to law with her, you'll admit.... I beg you most earnestly, overlook it ... stay on. _Tout comprendre, tout pardonner._ Will you stay?" "No!" said Mashenka resolutely, beginning to tremble. "Let me alone, I entreat you!" "Well, God bless you!" sighed Nikolay Sergeitch, sitting down on the stool near the box. "I must own I like people who still can feel resentment, contempt, and so on. I could sit here forever and look at your indignant face.... So you won't stay, then? I understand.... It's bound to be so ... Yes, of course.... It's all right for you, but for me--wo-o-o-o!... I can't stir a step out of this cellar. I'd go off to one of our estates, but in every one of them there are some of my wife's rascals ... stewards, experts, damn them all! They mortgage and remortgage.... You mustn't catch fish, must keep off the grass, mustn't break the trees." "Nikolay Sergeitch!" his wife's voice called from the drawing-room. "Agnia, call your master!" "Then you won't stay?" asked Nikolay Sergeitch, getting up quickly and going towards the door.<|quote|>"You might as well stay, really. In the evenings I could come and have a talk with you. Eh? Stay! If you go, there won't be a human face left in the house. It's awful!"</|quote|>Nikolay Sergeitch's pale, exhausted face besought her, but Mashenka shook her head, and with a wave of his hand he went out. Half an hour later she was on her way.
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entreat you." Mashenka shook her head. Nikolay Sergeitch stopped at the window and drummed on the pane with his finger-tips. "Such misunderstandings are simply torture to me," he said. "Why, do you want me to go down on my knees to you, or what? Your pride is wounded, and here you've been crying and packing up to go; but I have pride, too, and you do not spare it! Or do you want me to tell you what I would not tell as Confession? Do you? Listen; you want me to tell you what I won't tell the priest on my deathbed?" Mashenka made no answer. "I took my wife's brooch," Nikolay Sergeitch said quickly. "Is that enough now? Are you satisfied? Yes, I ... took it.... But, of course, I count on your discretion.... For God's sake, not a word, not half a hint to any one!" Mashenka, amazed and frightened, went on packing; she snatched her things, crumpled them up, and thrust them anyhow into the box and the basket. Now, after this candid avowal on the part of Nikolay Sergeitch, she could not remain another minute, and could not understand how she could have gone on living in the house before. "And it's nothing to wonder at," Nikolay Sergeitch went on after a pause. "It's an everyday story! I need money, and she ... won't give it to me. It was my father's money that bought this house and everything, you know! It's all mine, and the brooch belonged to my mother, and ... it's all mine! And she took it, took possession of everything.... I can't go to law with her, you'll admit.... I beg you most earnestly, overlook it ... stay on. _Tout comprendre, tout pardonner._ Will you stay?" "No!" said Mashenka resolutely, beginning to tremble. "Let me alone, I entreat you!" "Well, God bless you!" sighed Nikolay Sergeitch, sitting down on the stool near the box. "I must own I like people who still can feel resentment, contempt, and so on. I could sit here forever and look at your indignant face.... So you won't stay, then? I understand.... It's bound to be so ... Yes, of course.... It's all right for you, but for me--wo-o-o-o!... I can't stir a step out of this cellar. I'd go off to one of our estates, but in every one of them there are some of my wife's rascals ... stewards, experts, damn them all! They mortgage and remortgage.... You mustn't catch fish, must keep off the grass, mustn't break the trees." "Nikolay Sergeitch!" his wife's voice called from the drawing-room. "Agnia, call your master!" "Then you won't stay?" asked Nikolay Sergeitch, getting up quickly and going towards the door.<|quote|>"You might as well stay, really. In the evenings I could come and have a talk with you. Eh? Stay! If you go, there won't be a human face left in the house. It's awful!"</|quote|>Nikolay Sergeitch's pale, exhausted face besought her, but Mashenka shook her head, and with a wave of his hand he went out. Half an hour later she was on her way.
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The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (3)
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This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered,
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No speaker
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the rest of the party."<|quote|>This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered,</|quote|>"I am much obliged to
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conduct must be law to the rest of the party."<|quote|>This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered,</|quote|>"I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very
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in this matter it is _you_ who are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the party."<|quote|>This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered,</|quote|>"I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the greatest indecorum, I think." "Do you imagine
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you; and with a very few omissions, and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who thinks it very fit for private representation." "I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter it is _you_ who are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the party."<|quote|>This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered,</|quote|>"I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the greatest indecorum, I think." "Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness,
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to this play, without reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria, tell _you_, that I think it exceedingly unfit for private representation, and that I hope you will give it up. I cannot but suppose you _will_ when you have read it carefully over. Read only the first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary to send you to your _father's_ judgment, I am convinced." "We see things very differently," cried Maria. "I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions, and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who thinks it very fit for private representation." "I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter it is _you_ who are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the party."<|quote|>This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered,</|quote|>"I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the greatest indecorum, I think." "Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought." "Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it. Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner. To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time." "I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it." "There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?" "If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly
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useful to have anything of a model! We have cast almost every part." "But what do you do for women?" said Edmund gravely, and looking at Maria. Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, "I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and" (with a bolder eye) "Miss Crawford is to be Amelia." "I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled up, with _us_," replied Edmund, turning away to the fire, where sat his mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great vexation. Mr. Rushworth followed him to say, "I come in three times, and have two-and-forty speeches. That's something, is not it? But I do not much like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a blue dress and a pink satin cloak." Edmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called out of the room to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and being accompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, "I cannot, before Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria, tell _you_, that I think it exceedingly unfit for private representation, and that I hope you will give it up. I cannot but suppose you _will_ when you have read it carefully over. Read only the first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary to send you to your _father's_ judgment, I am convinced." "We see things very differently," cried Maria. "I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions, and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who thinks it very fit for private representation." "I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter it is _you_ who are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the party."<|quote|>This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered,</|quote|>"I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the greatest indecorum, I think." "Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought." "Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it. Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner. To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time." "I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it." "There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?" "If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it." "What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!" "Oh! she might think the difference between us the difference in our situations that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything." "I was just going to say the very same thing," said Mrs. Norris. "If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss of half a day's work
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to understand the different style of the characters, and which was which, and recollecting that he had once seen the play in London, and had thought Anhalt a very stupid fellow, he soon decided for the Count. Miss Bertram approved the decision, for the less he had to learn the better; and though she could not sympathise in his wish that the Count and Agatha might be to act together, nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning over the leaves with the hope of still discovering such a scene, she very kindly took his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted being shortened; besides pointing out the necessity of his being very much dressed, and chusing his colours. Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his finery very well, though affecting to despise it; and was too much engaged with what his own appearance would be to think of the others, or draw any of those conclusions, or feel any of that displeasure which Maria had been half prepared for. Thus much was settled before Edmund, who had been out all the morning, knew anything of the matter; but when he entered the drawing-room before dinner, the buzz of discussion was high between Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates; and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity to tell him the agreeable news. "We have got a play," said he. "It is to be Lovers' Vows; and I am to be Count Cassel, and am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink satin cloak, and afterwards am to have another fine fancy suit, by way of a shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it." Fanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she heard this speech, and saw his look, and felt what his sensations must be. "Lovers' Vows!" in a tone of the greatest amazement, was his only reply to Mr. Rushworth, and he turned towards his brother and sisters as if hardly doubting a contradiction. "Yes," cried Mr. Yates. "After all our debatings and difficulties, we find there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well, nothing so unexceptionable, as Lovers' Vows. The wonder is that it should not have been thought of before. My stupidity was abominable, for here we have all the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford; and it is so useful to have anything of a model! We have cast almost every part." "But what do you do for women?" said Edmund gravely, and looking at Maria. Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, "I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and" (with a bolder eye) "Miss Crawford is to be Amelia." "I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled up, with _us_," replied Edmund, turning away to the fire, where sat his mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great vexation. Mr. Rushworth followed him to say, "I come in three times, and have two-and-forty speeches. That's something, is not it? But I do not much like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a blue dress and a pink satin cloak." Edmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called out of the room to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and being accompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, "I cannot, before Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria, tell _you_, that I think it exceedingly unfit for private representation, and that I hope you will give it up. I cannot but suppose you _will_ when you have read it carefully over. Read only the first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary to send you to your _father's_ judgment, I am convinced." "We see things very differently," cried Maria. "I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions, and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who thinks it very fit for private representation." "I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter it is _you_ who are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the party."<|quote|>This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered,</|quote|>"I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the greatest indecorum, I think." "Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought." "Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it. Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner. To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time." "I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it." "There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?" "If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it." "What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!" "Oh! she might think the difference between us the difference in our situations that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything." "I was just going to say the very same thing," said Mrs. Norris. "If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss of half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good job, however. The maids do their work very well, and I think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put them so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things. There should always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about me in the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who should I see but Dick Jackson making up to the servants' hall-door with two bits of deal board in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother had chanced to send him of a message to father, and then father had bid him bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no how do without them. I knew what all this meant, for the servants' dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I hate such encroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always said so: just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to the boy directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know, who ought to be ashamed of himself), _I'll_ take the boards to your father, Dick, so get you home again as fast as you can.' The boy looked very silly, and turned away without offering a word, for I believe I might speak pretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding about the house for one while. I hate such greediness so good as your father is to the family, employing the man all the year round!" Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon returned; and Edmund found that to have endeavoured to set them right must be his only satisfaction. Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick Jackson, but neither play nor preparation were otherwise much talked of, for Edmund's disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though he would not have owned it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford's animating support, thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying to make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom
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Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, "I cannot, before Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria, tell _you_, that I think it exceedingly unfit for private representation, and that I hope you will give it up. I cannot but suppose you _will_ when you have read it carefully over. Read only the first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary to send you to your _father's_ judgment, I am convinced." "We see things very differently," cried Maria. "I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions, and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who thinks it very fit for private representation." "I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter it is _you_ who are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the party."<|quote|>This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered,</|quote|>"I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the greatest indecorum, I think." "Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought." "Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it. Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner. To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time." "I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it." "There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?" "If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it." "What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!" "Oh! she might think the difference between us the difference in our situations that _she_ need not be
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Mansfield Park
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said James, who was new to this kind of work.
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No speaker
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do." "Fond of kids myself,"<|quote|>said James, who was new to this kind of work.</|quote|>"How about one with us?"
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strongly about it than I do." "Fond of kids myself,"<|quote|>said James, who was new to this kind of work.</|quote|>"How about one with us?" "Tell me," said Tony, when
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the servants. You might very likely happen to strike one who was new to the courts, who'd blurt it out, and then where would we be. I don't like it, Mr Last, and that's the truth." "You can't feel more strongly about it than I do." "Fond of kids myself,"<|quote|>said James, who was new to this kind of work.</|quote|>"How about one with us?" "Tell me," said Tony, when they had been at their table some little time. "You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?" "It's easier in the summer," said Blenkinsop, "the young
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it as most irregular and injudicious. It looks wrong, and cases of this kind depend very much on making the right impression. Of course as far as James and me are concerned, the matter is O.K. There won't be a word about it in our evidence. But you can't trust the servants. You might very likely happen to strike one who was new to the courts, who'd blurt it out, and then where would we be. I don't like it, Mr Last, and that's the truth." "You can't feel more strongly about it than I do." "Fond of kids myself,"<|quote|>said James, who was new to this kind of work.</|quote|>"How about one with us?" "Tell me," said Tony, when they had been at their table some little time. "You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?" "It's easier in the summer," said Blenkinsop, "the young ladies usually bathe and the gentlemen read the papers on the esplanade; some goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes." * * * * * Milly and her child were in the sitting-room when Tony came up. "I've ordered an
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to recognize us at all. I don't know what they'd say at the office." "Best respects," said the junior detective. "This is Mr James, my colleague," said the senior detective. "My name is Blenkinsop. James is new to this kind of work." "So am I," said Tony. "A pity we've such a nasty week-end for the job," said Blenkinsop, "very damp and blowy. Gets me in the joints." "Tell me," said Tony. "Is it usual to bring children on an expedition of this kind?" "It is _not_." "I thought it couldn't be." "Since you ask me, Mr Last, I regard it as most irregular and injudicious. It looks wrong, and cases of this kind depend very much on making the right impression. Of course as far as James and me are concerned, the matter is O.K. There won't be a word about it in our evidence. But you can't trust the servants. You might very likely happen to strike one who was new to the courts, who'd blurt it out, and then where would we be. I don't like it, Mr Last, and that's the truth." "You can't feel more strongly about it than I do." "Fond of kids myself,"<|quote|>said James, who was new to this kind of work.</|quote|>"How about one with us?" "Tell me," said Tony, when they had been at their table some little time. "You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?" "It's easier in the summer," said Blenkinsop, "the young ladies usually bathe and the gentlemen read the papers on the esplanade; some goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes." * * * * * Milly and her child were in the sitting-room when Tony came up. "I've ordered an ice," said Milly. "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner." "No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here." Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed
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up with the King's Proctor." "How about a quick one?" said his colleague indifferently. Upstairs, Winnie said, "Where's the sea?" "Just there across the street." "I want to go and see it." "But it's dark now, pet. You shall see it to-morrow." "I want to see it to-night." "You take her to see it now," said Tony. "Sure you won't be lonely?" "Quite sure." "We won't be long." "That's all right. You let her see it properly." Tony went down to the bar where he was pleased to find the two detectives. He felt the need of male company. "Good evening," he said. They looked at him askance. Everything in this case seemed to be happening as though with deliberate design to shock their professional feelings. "Good evening," said the senior detective. "Nasty, raw evening." "Have a drink." Since Tony was paying their expenses in any case, the offer seemed superfluous, but the junior detective brightened instinctively and said, "Don't mind if I do." "Come and sit down. I feel rather lonely." They took their drinks to a table out of hearing of the barman. "Mr Last, sir, this is all _wrong_," said the senior detective. "You haven't no business to recognize us at all. I don't know what they'd say at the office." "Best respects," said the junior detective. "This is Mr James, my colleague," said the senior detective. "My name is Blenkinsop. James is new to this kind of work." "So am I," said Tony. "A pity we've such a nasty week-end for the job," said Blenkinsop, "very damp and blowy. Gets me in the joints." "Tell me," said Tony. "Is it usual to bring children on an expedition of this kind?" "It is _not_." "I thought it couldn't be." "Since you ask me, Mr Last, I regard it as most irregular and injudicious. It looks wrong, and cases of this kind depend very much on making the right impression. Of course as far as James and me are concerned, the matter is O.K. There won't be a word about it in our evidence. But you can't trust the servants. You might very likely happen to strike one who was new to the courts, who'd blurt it out, and then where would we be. I don't like it, Mr Last, and that's the truth." "You can't feel more strongly about it than I do." "Fond of kids myself,"<|quote|>said James, who was new to this kind of work.</|quote|>"How about one with us?" "Tell me," said Tony, when they had been at their table some little time. "You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?" "It's easier in the summer," said Blenkinsop, "the young ladies usually bathe and the gentlemen read the papers on the esplanade; some goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes." * * * * * Milly and her child were in the sitting-room when Tony came up. "I've ordered an ice," said Milly. "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner." "No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here." Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like." "Just as _you_ like." "Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of
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go with this kind gentleman here. He'll take you to a shop and let you choose the biggest doll you can find and then he'll drive you back in his motor to your home. You'll like that, won't you?" "No," said Winnie. "I want to go to the seaside. I won't go with that man. I don't want a doll. I want to go to the seaside with my mummy." Several people besides the detectives were beginning to take notice of the oddly assorted group. "Oh God!" said Tony. "I suppose she's got to come." The detectives followed at a distance down the platform. Tony settled his companions in a Pullman car. "Look," said Milly, "we're travelling first-class. Isn't that fun? We can have tea." "Can I have an ice?" "I don't expect they've got an ice. But you can have some nice tea." "But I want an ice." "You shall have an ice when you get to Brighton. Now be a good girl and play with your puzzle or mother won't take you to the seaside again." "The Awful Child of popular fiction," said Jock as he left Tony. Winnie sustained the part throughout the journey to Brighton. She was not inventive but she knew the classic routine thoroughly, even to such commonplace but alarming devices as breathing heavily, grunting and complaining of nausea. * * * * * Rooms at the hotel had been engaged for Tony by the solicitors. It was therefore a surprise to the reception clerk when Winnie arrived. "We have reserved in your name double and single communicating rooms, bathroom and sitting-room," he said. "We did not understand you were bringing your daughter. Will you require a further room?" "Oh, Winnie can come in with me," said Milly. The two detectives who were standing nearby at the counter exchanged glances of disapproval. Tony wrote _Mr and Mrs Last_ in the Visitors' Book. "And daughter," said the clerk with his finger on the place. Tony hesitated. "She is my niece," he said, and inscribed her name on another line, as _Miss Smith_. The detective, registering below, remarked to his colleague, "He got out of that all right. Quite smart. But I don't like the look of this case. Most irregular. Sets a nasty, respectable note bringing a kid into it. We've got the firm to consider. It doesn't do them any good to get mixed up with the King's Proctor." "How about a quick one?" said his colleague indifferently. Upstairs, Winnie said, "Where's the sea?" "Just there across the street." "I want to go and see it." "But it's dark now, pet. You shall see it to-morrow." "I want to see it to-night." "You take her to see it now," said Tony. "Sure you won't be lonely?" "Quite sure." "We won't be long." "That's all right. You let her see it properly." Tony went down to the bar where he was pleased to find the two detectives. He felt the need of male company. "Good evening," he said. They looked at him askance. Everything in this case seemed to be happening as though with deliberate design to shock their professional feelings. "Good evening," said the senior detective. "Nasty, raw evening." "Have a drink." Since Tony was paying their expenses in any case, the offer seemed superfluous, but the junior detective brightened instinctively and said, "Don't mind if I do." "Come and sit down. I feel rather lonely." They took their drinks to a table out of hearing of the barman. "Mr Last, sir, this is all _wrong_," said the senior detective. "You haven't no business to recognize us at all. I don't know what they'd say at the office." "Best respects," said the junior detective. "This is Mr James, my colleague," said the senior detective. "My name is Blenkinsop. James is new to this kind of work." "So am I," said Tony. "A pity we've such a nasty week-end for the job," said Blenkinsop, "very damp and blowy. Gets me in the joints." "Tell me," said Tony. "Is it usual to bring children on an expedition of this kind?" "It is _not_." "I thought it couldn't be." "Since you ask me, Mr Last, I regard it as most irregular and injudicious. It looks wrong, and cases of this kind depend very much on making the right impression. Of course as far as James and me are concerned, the matter is O.K. There won't be a word about it in our evidence. But you can't trust the servants. You might very likely happen to strike one who was new to the courts, who'd blurt it out, and then where would we be. I don't like it, Mr Last, and that's the truth." "You can't feel more strongly about it than I do." "Fond of kids myself,"<|quote|>said James, who was new to this kind of work.</|quote|>"How about one with us?" "Tell me," said Tony, when they had been at their table some little time. "You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?" "It's easier in the summer," said Blenkinsop, "the young ladies usually bathe and the gentlemen read the papers on the esplanade; some goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes." * * * * * Milly and her child were in the sitting-room when Tony came up. "I've ordered an ice," said Milly. "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner." "No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here." Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like." "Just as _you_ like." "Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below. "Cheer up," said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well,
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hotel had been engaged for Tony by the solicitors. It was therefore a surprise to the reception clerk when Winnie arrived. "We have reserved in your name double and single communicating rooms, bathroom and sitting-room," he said. "We did not understand you were bringing your daughter. Will you require a further room?" "Oh, Winnie can come in with me," said Milly. The two detectives who were standing nearby at the counter exchanged glances of disapproval. Tony wrote _Mr and Mrs Last_ in the Visitors' Book. "And daughter," said the clerk with his finger on the place. Tony hesitated. "She is my niece," he said, and inscribed her name on another line, as _Miss Smith_. The detective, registering below, remarked to his colleague, "He got out of that all right. Quite smart. But I don't like the look of this case. Most irregular. Sets a nasty, respectable note bringing a kid into it. We've got the firm to consider. It doesn't do them any good to get mixed up with the King's Proctor." "How about a quick one?" said his colleague indifferently. Upstairs, Winnie said, "Where's the sea?" "Just there across the street." "I want to go and see it." "But it's dark now, pet. You shall see it to-morrow." "I want to see it to-night." "You take her to see it now," said Tony. "Sure you won't be lonely?" "Quite sure." "We won't be long." "That's all right. You let her see it properly." Tony went down to the bar where he was pleased to find the two detectives. He felt the need of male company. "Good evening," he said. They looked at him askance. Everything in this case seemed to be happening as though with deliberate design to shock their professional feelings. "Good evening," said the senior detective. "Nasty, raw evening." "Have a drink." Since Tony was paying their expenses in any case, the offer seemed superfluous, but the junior detective brightened instinctively and said, "Don't mind if I do." "Come and sit down. I feel rather lonely." They took their drinks to a table out of hearing of the barman. "Mr Last, sir, this is all _wrong_," said the senior detective. "You haven't no business to recognize us at all. I don't know what they'd say at the office." "Best respects," said the junior detective. "This is Mr James, my colleague," said the senior detective. "My name is Blenkinsop. James is new to this kind of work." "So am I," said Tony. "A pity we've such a nasty week-end for the job," said Blenkinsop, "very damp and blowy. Gets me in the joints." "Tell me," said Tony. "Is it usual to bring children on an expedition of this kind?" "It is _not_." "I thought it couldn't be." "Since you ask me, Mr Last, I regard it as most irregular and injudicious. It looks wrong, and cases of this kind depend very much on making the right impression. Of course as far as James and me are concerned, the matter is O.K. There won't be a word about it in our evidence. But you can't trust the servants. You might very likely happen to strike one who was new to the courts, who'd blurt it out, and then where would we be. I don't like it, Mr Last, and that's the truth." "You can't feel more strongly about it than I do." "Fond of kids myself,"<|quote|>said James, who was new to this kind of work.</|quote|>"How about one with us?" "Tell me," said Tony, when they had been at their table some little time. "You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?" "It's easier in the summer," said Blenkinsop, "the young ladies usually bathe and the gentlemen read the papers on the esplanade; some goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes." * * * * * Milly and her child were in the sitting-room when Tony came up. "I've ordered an ice," said Milly. "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner." "No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here." Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like." "Just as _you_ like." "Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed
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A Handful Of Dust
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"There is a great deal of truth in what you say,"
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Sir Thomas
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to either than a sister."<|quote|>"There is a great deal of truth in what you say,"</|quote|>replied Sir Thomas, "and far
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she will never be more to either than a sister."<|quote|>"There is a great deal of truth in what you say,"</|quote|>replied Sir Thomas, "and far be it from me to
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in poverty and neglect, would be enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered boys in love with her. But breed her up with them from this time, and suppose her even to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to either than a sister."<|quote|>"There is a great deal of truth in what you say,"</|quote|>replied Sir Thomas, "and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a plan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each. I only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, and that to make it
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sure way of providing against the connexion. Suppose her a pretty girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years hence, and I dare say there would be mischief. The very idea of her having been suffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and neglect, would be enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered boys in love with her. But breed her up with them from this time, and suppose her even to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to either than a sister."<|quote|>"There is a great deal of truth in what you say,"</|quote|>replied Sir Thomas, "and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a plan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each. I only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, and that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to ourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged to secure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision of a gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so sanguine in expecting." "I thoroughly understand you,"
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without many advantages. I don't say she would be so handsome as her cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be introduced into the society of this country under such very favourable circumstances as, in all human probability, would get her a creditable establishment. You are thinking of your sons but do not you know that, of all things upon earth, _that_ is the least likely to happen, brought up as they would be, always together like brothers and sisters? It is morally impossible. I never knew an instance of it. It is, in fact, the only sure way of providing against the connexion. Suppose her a pretty girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years hence, and I dare say there would be mischief. The very idea of her having been suffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and neglect, would be enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered boys in love with her. But breed her up with them from this time, and suppose her even to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to either than a sister."<|quote|>"There is a great deal of truth in what you say,"</|quote|>replied Sir Thomas, "and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a plan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each. I only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, and that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to ourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged to secure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision of a gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so sanguine in expecting." "I thoroughly understand you," cried Mrs. Norris, "you are everything that is generous and considerate, and I am sure we shall never disagree on this point. Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready enough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I could never feel for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your own dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own, I should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her. Is not she a sister's child? and could I bear to see her
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stated or not. "My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and do justice to the generosity and delicacy of your notions, which indeed are quite of a piece with your general conduct; and I entirely agree with you in the main as to the propriety of doing everything one could by way of providing for a child one had in a manner taken into one's own hands; and I am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my mite upon such an occasion. Having no children of my own, who should I look to in any little matter I may ever have to bestow, but the children of my sisters? and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just but you know I am a woman of few words and professions. Do not let us be frightened from a good deed by a trifle. Give a girl an education, and introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the means of settling well, without farther expense to anybody. A niece of ours, Sir Thomas, I may say, or at least of _yours_, would not grow up in this neighbourhood without many advantages. I don't say she would be so handsome as her cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be introduced into the society of this country under such very favourable circumstances as, in all human probability, would get her a creditable establishment. You are thinking of your sons but do not you know that, of all things upon earth, _that_ is the least likely to happen, brought up as they would be, always together like brothers and sisters? It is morally impossible. I never knew an instance of it. It is, in fact, the only sure way of providing against the connexion. Suppose her a pretty girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years hence, and I dare say there would be mischief. The very idea of her having been suffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and neglect, would be enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered boys in love with her. But breed her up with them from this time, and suppose her even to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to either than a sister."<|quote|>"There is a great deal of truth in what you say,"</|quote|>replied Sir Thomas, "and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a plan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each. I only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, and that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to ourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged to secure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision of a gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so sanguine in expecting." "I thoroughly understand you," cried Mrs. Norris, "you are everything that is generous and considerate, and I am sure we shall never disagree on this point. Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready enough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I could never feel for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your own dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own, I should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her. Is not she a sister's child? and could I bear to see her want while I had a bit of bread to give her? My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a warm heart; and, poor as I am, would rather deny myself the necessaries of life than do an ungenerous thing. So, if you are not against it, I will write to my poor sister tomorrow, and make the proposal; and, as soon as matters are settled, _I_ will engage to get the child to Mansfield; _you_ shall have no trouble about it. My own trouble, you know, I never regard. I will send Nanny to London on purpose, and she may have a bed at her cousin the saddler's, and the child be appointed to meet her there. They may easily get her from Portsmouth to town by the coach, under the care of any creditable person that may chance to be going. I dare say there is always some reputable tradesman's wife or other going up." Except to the attack on Nanny's cousin, Sir Thomas no longer made any objection, and a more respectable, though less economical rendezvous being accordingly substituted, everything was considered as settled, and the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed.
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not but dispose them all to a reconciliation. She was preparing for her ninth lying-in; and after bewailing the circumstance, and imploring their countenance as sponsors to the expected child, she could not conceal how important she felt they might be to the future maintenance of the eight already in being. Her eldest was a boy of ten years old, a fine spirited fellow, who longed to be out in the world; but what could she do? Was there any chance of his being hereafter useful to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property? No situation would be beneath him; or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent out to the East? The letter was not unproductive. It re-established peace and kindness. Sir Thomas sent friendly advice and professions, Lady Bertram dispatched money and baby-linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters. Such were its immediate effects, and within a twelvemonth a more important advantage to Mrs. Price resulted from it. Mrs. Norris was often observing to the others that she could not get her poor sister and her family out of her head, and that, much as they had all done for her, she seemed to be wanting to do more; and at length she could not but own it to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from the charge and expense of one child entirely out of her great number. "What if they were among them to undertake the care of her eldest daughter, a girl now nine years old, of an age to require more attention than her poor mother could possibly give? The trouble and expense of it to them would be nothing, compared with the benevolence of the action." Lady Bertram agreed with her instantly. "I think we cannot do better," said she; "let us send for the child." Sir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and unqualified a consent. He debated and hesitated; it was a serious charge; a girl so brought up must be adequately provided for, or there would be cruelty instead of kindness in taking her from her family. He thought of his own four children, of his two sons, of cousins in love, etc.; but no sooner had he deliberately begun to state his objections, than Mrs. Norris interrupted him with a reply to them all, whether stated or not. "My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and do justice to the generosity and delicacy of your notions, which indeed are quite of a piece with your general conduct; and I entirely agree with you in the main as to the propriety of doing everything one could by way of providing for a child one had in a manner taken into one's own hands; and I am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my mite upon such an occasion. Having no children of my own, who should I look to in any little matter I may ever have to bestow, but the children of my sisters? and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just but you know I am a woman of few words and professions. Do not let us be frightened from a good deed by a trifle. Give a girl an education, and introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the means of settling well, without farther expense to anybody. A niece of ours, Sir Thomas, I may say, or at least of _yours_, would not grow up in this neighbourhood without many advantages. I don't say she would be so handsome as her cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be introduced into the society of this country under such very favourable circumstances as, in all human probability, would get her a creditable establishment. You are thinking of your sons but do not you know that, of all things upon earth, _that_ is the least likely to happen, brought up as they would be, always together like brothers and sisters? It is morally impossible. I never knew an instance of it. It is, in fact, the only sure way of providing against the connexion. Suppose her a pretty girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years hence, and I dare say there would be mischief. The very idea of her having been suffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and neglect, would be enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered boys in love with her. But breed her up with them from this time, and suppose her even to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to either than a sister."<|quote|>"There is a great deal of truth in what you say,"</|quote|>replied Sir Thomas, "and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a plan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each. I only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, and that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to ourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged to secure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision of a gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so sanguine in expecting." "I thoroughly understand you," cried Mrs. Norris, "you are everything that is generous and considerate, and I am sure we shall never disagree on this point. Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready enough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I could never feel for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your own dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own, I should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her. Is not she a sister's child? and could I bear to see her want while I had a bit of bread to give her? My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a warm heart; and, poor as I am, would rather deny myself the necessaries of life than do an ungenerous thing. So, if you are not against it, I will write to my poor sister tomorrow, and make the proposal; and, as soon as matters are settled, _I_ will engage to get the child to Mansfield; _you_ shall have no trouble about it. My own trouble, you know, I never regard. I will send Nanny to London on purpose, and she may have a bed at her cousin the saddler's, and the child be appointed to meet her there. They may easily get her from Portsmouth to town by the coach, under the care of any creditable person that may chance to be going. I dare say there is always some reputable tradesman's wife or other going up." Except to the attack on Nanny's cousin, Sir Thomas no longer made any objection, and a more respectable, though less economical rendezvous being accordingly substituted, everything was considered as settled, and the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed. The division of gratifying sensations ought not, in strict justice, to have been equal; for Sir Thomas was fully resolved to be the real and consistent patron of the selected child, and Mrs. Norris had not the least intention of being at any expense whatever in her maintenance. As far as walking, talking, and contriving reached, she was thoroughly benevolent, and nobody knew better how to dictate liberality to others; but her love of money was equal to her love of directing, and she knew quite as well how to save her own as to spend that of her friends. Having married on a narrower income than she had been used to look forward to, she had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of economy necessary; and what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon grew into a matter of choice, as an object of that needful solicitude which there were no children to supply. Had there been a family to provide for, Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but having no care of that kind, there was nothing to impede her frugality, or lessen the comfort of making a yearly addition to an income which they had never lived up to. Under this infatuating principle, counteracted by no real affection for her sister, it was impossible for her to aim at more than the credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a charity; though perhaps she might so little know herself as to walk home to the Parsonage, after this conversation, in the happy belief of being the most liberal-minded sister and aunt in the world. When the subject was brought forward again, her views were more fully explained; and, in reply to Lady Bertram's calm inquiry of "Where shall the child come to first, sister, to you or to us?" Sir Thomas heard with some surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris's power to take any share in the personal charge of her. He had been considering her as a particularly welcome addition at the Parsonage, as a desirable companion to an aunt who had no children of her own; but he found himself wholly mistaken. Mrs. Norris was sorry to say that the little girl's staying with them, at least as things then were, was quite out of the question. Poor Mr. Norris's indifferent state of health made it
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could by way of providing for a child one had in a manner taken into one's own hands; and I am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my mite upon such an occasion. Having no children of my own, who should I look to in any little matter I may ever have to bestow, but the children of my sisters? and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just but you know I am a woman of few words and professions. Do not let us be frightened from a good deed by a trifle. Give a girl an education, and introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the means of settling well, without farther expense to anybody. A niece of ours, Sir Thomas, I may say, or at least of _yours_, would not grow up in this neighbourhood without many advantages. I don't say she would be so handsome as her cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be introduced into the society of this country under such very favourable circumstances as, in all human probability, would get her a creditable establishment. You are thinking of your sons but do not you know that, of all things upon earth, _that_ is the least likely to happen, brought up as they would be, always together like brothers and sisters? It is morally impossible. I never knew an instance of it. It is, in fact, the only sure way of providing against the connexion. Suppose her a pretty girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years hence, and I dare say there would be mischief. The very idea of her having been suffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and neglect, would be enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered boys in love with her. But breed her up with them from this time, and suppose her even to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to either than a sister."<|quote|>"There is a great deal of truth in what you say,"</|quote|>replied Sir Thomas, "and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a plan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each. I only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, and that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to ourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged to secure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision of a gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so sanguine in expecting." "I thoroughly understand you," cried Mrs. Norris, "you are everything that is generous and considerate, and I am sure we shall never disagree on this point. Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready enough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I could never feel for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your own dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own, I should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her. Is not she a sister's child? and could I bear to see her want while I had a bit of
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Mansfield Park
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“I’ll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level.”
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Tom
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the next train.” “All right.”<|quote|>“I’ll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level.”</|quote|>She nodded and moved away
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said Tom intently. “Get on the next train.” “All right.”<|quote|>“I’ll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level.”</|quote|>She nodded and moved away from him just as George
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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.”<|quote|>“I’ll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level.”</|quote|>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
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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.”<|quote|>“I’ll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level.”</|quote|>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.”
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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.”<|quote|>“I’ll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level.”</|quote|>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
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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.”<|quote|>“I’ll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level.”</|quote|>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 absurd resemblance to John D. Rockefeller. In a basket swung from his neck cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed. “What kind are they?” asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly, as he came to the taxi-window. “All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?” “I’d like to get one of those police dogs; I don’t suppose you got that kind?” The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and drew one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck. “That’s no police dog,” said Tom. “No, it’s not exactly a police dog,” said the man with disappointment in his voice. “It’s more of an Airedale.” He passed his hand
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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. “I want you to meet my girl.” 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.”<|quote|>“I’ll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level.”</|quote|>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 absurd resemblance to John D. Rockefeller. In a basket swung from his neck cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed. “What kind are they?” asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly, as he came to the taxi-window. “All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?” “I’d like to get one of those police dogs; I don’t suppose you got that kind?” The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and drew one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck. “That’s no police dog,” said Tom. “No, it’s not exactly a police dog,” said the man with disappointment in his voice. “It’s more of an Airedale.” He passed his hand over the brown washrag of a back. “Look at that coat. Some coat. That’s a dog that’ll never bother you with catching cold.” “I think it’s cute,” said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. “How much is it?” “That dog?” He looked at it admiringly. “That dog will cost you ten dollars.” The Airedale—undoubtedly there was an Airedale concerned in it somewhere, though its feet were startlingly white—changed hands and settled down into Mrs. Wilson’s lap, where she fondled the weatherproof coat with rapture. “Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked delicately. “That dog? That dog’s a boy.” “It’s a bitch,” said Tom decisively. “Here’s your money. Go and buy ten more dogs with it.” We drove over to Fifth Avenue, warm and soft, almost pastoral, on the summer Sunday afternoon. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a great flock of white sheep turn the corner. “Hold on,” I said, “I have to leave you here.” “No you don’t,” interposed Tom quickly. “Myrtle’ll be hurt if you don’t come up to the apartment. Won’t you, Myrtle?” “Come on,” she urged. “I’ll telephone my sister Catherine. She’s said to be very beautiful by people who ought to know.” “Well, I’d like to, but—” We went on, cutting back again over the Park toward the West Hundreds. At 158th Street the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of apartment-houses. Throwing a regal homecoming glance around the neighbourhood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and her other purchases, and went haughtily in. “I’m going to have the McKees come up,” she announced as we rose in the elevator. “And, of course, I got to call up my sister, too.” The apartment was on the top floor—a small living-room, a small dining-room, a small bedroom, and a bath. The living-room was crowded to the doors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely too large for it, so that to move about was to stumble continually over scenes of ladies swinging in the gardens of Versailles. The only picture was an over-enlarged photograph, apparently a hen sitting on a blurred rock. Looked at from a distance, however, the hen resolved itself into a bonnet, and the countenance of a stout old lady beamed down into the room. Several old copies of Town Tattle lay on the table together with a copy of Simon Called Peter, and some of the small scandal
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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.”<|quote|>“I’ll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level.”</|quote|>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
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The Great Gatsby
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"Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?"
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Josiah Christmas
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he said. "Come home, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?"</|quote|>"Please, sir, he didn't come
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did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?"</|quote|>"Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared
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walk, I suppose. Back soon." The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously. At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded. "What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?"</|quote|>"Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come
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to have gone out." Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers. Then Jessie entered, looking startled. "If you please, sir--" "Well, if you please what?" "Miss Kitty, sir." "Yes?" "She's not in her room." "Eh?" ejaculated the old merchant. "Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon." The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously. At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded. "What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?"</|quote|>"Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go." Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs. "Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night."
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and when it was over the old merchant looked more severe than ever. Mrs Lavington looked more troubled as her brother grew more severe, but she did not speak, feeling that she might make matters worse. Just then Jessie brought in the ham and eggs, and as she took off the cover, and Mrs Lavington began to pour out tea, the old man said roughly,-- "Go and tell Miss Kitty to come down to breakfast directly." The maid left the room. "You did not send a message to Don, Josiah." "No. I suppose his lordship was very late. No business to have gone out." Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers. Then Jessie entered, looking startled. "If you please, sir--" "Well, if you please what?" "Miss Kitty, sir." "Yes?" "She's not in her room." "Eh?" ejaculated the old merchant. "Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon." The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously. At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded. "What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?"</|quote|>"Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go." Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs. "Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night." "Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?" "Josiah!" cried the trembling woman, "what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night." "What?" "Neither has Kitty been to hers." Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast. "Look here," he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; "what nonsense is this?" "No nonsense, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington. "I felt a presentiment." "Felt a stuff and nonsense!" he said
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right, my dear, make the tea; I want my breakfast, for I have plenty of work to-day." Mrs Lavington hastily made the tea, for the urn was hissing on the table when she came down, Uncle Josiah's orders being that it was always to be ready at eight o'clock, and woe betide Jessie if it was not there. "Have--have you seen Don this morning?" "No. And when he comes down I shall not say a word. There, try and put a better face on the matter, my dear. He will have to appear at the magistrate's office, and there will be a few admonitions. That's all. Isn't Kitty late?" "Yes. Shall I send up for her?" "No; she will be down in a few minutes, I daresay, and Lindon too." The few minutes passed, and Uncle Josiah looked stern. Then he rang for the servants, and his brow grew more heavy. Neither Kitty nor Lindon down to prayers. "Shall I send up, Josiah?" "No; they know what time we have prayers," said the old man sternly; and upon the servants entering he read his customary chapter and the prayers, but no one stole in while the service was in progress, and when it was over the old merchant looked more severe than ever. Mrs Lavington looked more troubled as her brother grew more severe, but she did not speak, feeling that she might make matters worse. Just then Jessie brought in the ham and eggs, and as she took off the cover, and Mrs Lavington began to pour out tea, the old man said roughly,-- "Go and tell Miss Kitty to come down to breakfast directly." The maid left the room. "You did not send a message to Don, Josiah." "No. I suppose his lordship was very late. No business to have gone out." Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers. Then Jessie entered, looking startled. "If you please, sir--" "Well, if you please what?" "Miss Kitty, sir." "Yes?" "She's not in her room." "Eh?" ejaculated the old merchant. "Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon." The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously. At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded. "What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?"</|quote|>"Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go." Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs. "Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night." "Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?" "Josiah!" cried the trembling woman, "what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night." "What?" "Neither has Kitty been to hers." Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast. "Look here," he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; "what nonsense is this?" "No nonsense, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington. "I felt a presentiment." "Felt a stuff and nonsense!" he said angrily. "Kitty not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!" "Yes, sir." "You did go to sleep, didn't you?" "Ye-e-e-s, sir!" "I thought as much, and," --here tut-tut-tut-- "that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?" This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone
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gave an impatient stamp of her little foot. "How can any one sleep at a time like this?" she half sobbed. "It's too bad, that it is." Jessie bowed to her politely, and her head went up and down as if it were fixed at the end of a very easy moving spring, but when Kitty reproached her the words had not the slightest effect, and a dull stupid stare was given, of so irritating a nature that some people would have felt disposed to awaken the sleeper by administering a sound slap upon the hard round cheek. One hour, two hours, three hours passed away, and still no Don; and at last, unable to bear the company of the snoring woman longer, Kitty left her and went into the drawing-room, where, kneeling down at the end of the couch under the window, she remained watching the dark street, waiting for him who did not come. Kitty watched till the street began to look less dark and gloomy, and by degrees the other side became so plain that she could make out the bricks on the opposite walls. Then they grew plainer and plainer, and there was a bright light in the sky, for the sun was near to its rising. Then they grew less plain, then quite indistinct, for Kitty was crying bitterly, and she found herself wondering whether Don could have come in and gone to bed. A little thought told her that this was impossible, and the tears fell faster still. Where could he be? What could he be doing? Ought she to awaken her aunt? Kitty could not answer these self-imposed questions, and as her misery and despair grew greater it seemed as if the morning was growing very cold and the bricks of the houses opposite more and more obscure, and then soon after they were quite invisible, for she saw them not. CHAPTER NINE. A SOCIAL THUNDERBOLT. "Morning!" said Uncle Josiah, as, after a turn up and down the dining-room, he saw the door open and his sister enter, looking very pale and red-eyed. "Why, Laura, you have not been to bed." "Yes," she said sadly. "I kept my word, and now I feel sorry that I did, for I fell into a heavy sleep from which I did not wake till half an hour ago." "Glad of it," said her brother bluffly. "That's right, my dear, make the tea; I want my breakfast, for I have plenty of work to-day." Mrs Lavington hastily made the tea, for the urn was hissing on the table when she came down, Uncle Josiah's orders being that it was always to be ready at eight o'clock, and woe betide Jessie if it was not there. "Have--have you seen Don this morning?" "No. And when he comes down I shall not say a word. There, try and put a better face on the matter, my dear. He will have to appear at the magistrate's office, and there will be a few admonitions. That's all. Isn't Kitty late?" "Yes. Shall I send up for her?" "No; she will be down in a few minutes, I daresay, and Lindon too." The few minutes passed, and Uncle Josiah looked stern. Then he rang for the servants, and his brow grew more heavy. Neither Kitty nor Lindon down to prayers. "Shall I send up, Josiah?" "No; they know what time we have prayers," said the old man sternly; and upon the servants entering he read his customary chapter and the prayers, but no one stole in while the service was in progress, and when it was over the old merchant looked more severe than ever. Mrs Lavington looked more troubled as her brother grew more severe, but she did not speak, feeling that she might make matters worse. Just then Jessie brought in the ham and eggs, and as she took off the cover, and Mrs Lavington began to pour out tea, the old man said roughly,-- "Go and tell Miss Kitty to come down to breakfast directly." The maid left the room. "You did not send a message to Don, Josiah." "No. I suppose his lordship was very late. No business to have gone out." Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers. Then Jessie entered, looking startled. "If you please, sir--" "Well, if you please what?" "Miss Kitty, sir." "Yes?" "She's not in her room." "Eh?" ejaculated the old merchant. "Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon." The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously. At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded. "What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?"</|quote|>"Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go." Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs. "Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night." "Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?" "Josiah!" cried the trembling woman, "what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night." "What?" "Neither has Kitty been to hers." Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast. "Look here," he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; "what nonsense is this?" "No nonsense, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington. "I felt a presentiment." "Felt a stuff and nonsense!" he said angrily. "Kitty not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!" "Yes, sir." "You did go to sleep, didn't you?" "Ye-e-e-s, sir!" "I thought as much, and," --here tut-tut-tut-- "that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?" This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly. "Laura. Here!" Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone," sobbed his sister. "Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door. "There!" cried the old man; "what did I say? Here he is." Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange. "Don," she said; "I have been asleep. Has he come back?" "Yes I think this is
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few minutes, I daresay, and Lindon too." The few minutes passed, and Uncle Josiah looked stern. Then he rang for the servants, and his brow grew more heavy. Neither Kitty nor Lindon down to prayers. "Shall I send up, Josiah?" "No; they know what time we have prayers," said the old man sternly; and upon the servants entering he read his customary chapter and the prayers, but no one stole in while the service was in progress, and when it was over the old merchant looked more severe than ever. Mrs Lavington looked more troubled as her brother grew more severe, but she did not speak, feeling that she might make matters worse. Just then Jessie brought in the ham and eggs, and as she took off the cover, and Mrs Lavington began to pour out tea, the old man said roughly,-- "Go and tell Miss Kitty to come down to breakfast directly." The maid left the room. "You did not send a message to Don, Josiah." "No. I suppose his lordship was very late. No business to have gone out." Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers. Then Jessie entered, looking startled. "If you please, sir--" "Well, if you please what?" "Miss Kitty, sir." "Yes?" "She's not in her room." "Eh?" ejaculated the old merchant. "Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon." The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously. At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded. "What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?"</|quote|>"Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go." Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs. "Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night." "Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?" "Josiah!" cried the trembling woman, "what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night." "What?" "Neither has Kitty been to hers." Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast. "Look here," he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; "what nonsense is this?" "No nonsense, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington. "I felt a presentiment." "Felt a stuff and nonsense!" he said angrily. "Kitty not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!" "Yes, sir." "You did go to sleep, didn't you?" "Ye-e-e-s, sir!" "I thought as much, and," --here tut-tut-tut-- "that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?" This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming
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Don Lavington
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Brett said.
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No speaker
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hope the wind goes down,"<|quote|>Brett said.</|quote|>"It's very bad for him."
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clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down,"<|quote|>Brett said.</|quote|>"It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says
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They were making the turn at the upper end of the park. "Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now." We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down,"<|quote|>Brett said.</|quote|>"It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little
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past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park. "Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now." We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down,"<|quote|>Brett said.</|quote|>"It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett
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he says." Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake." "Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to the fight with me." "We'll see you at lunch?" "No. I'm eating with him." We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade. "Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping." We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park. "Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now." We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down,"<|quote|>Brett said.</|quote|>"It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead. "Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous." Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success. "Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good." We walked along. "I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about
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"Does he look badly?" "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said. "She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly." Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says." Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake." "Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to the fight with me." "We'll see you at lunch?" "No. I'm eating with him." We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade. "Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping." We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park. "Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now." We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down,"<|quote|>Brett said.</|quote|>"It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead. "Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous." Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success. "Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good." We walked along. "I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good," said Brett. "Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think
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killed in the ring?" "I don't think so. Just badly hurt." "A man was killed outside in the runway." "Was there?" said Bill. CHAPTER 18 At noon we were all at the caf . It was crowded. We were eating shrimps and drinking beer. The town was crowded. Every street was full. Big motor-cars from Biarritz and San Sebastian kept driving up and parking around the square. They brought people for the bull-fight. Sight-seeing cars came up, too. There was one with twenty-five Englishwomen in it. They sat in the big, white car and looked through their glasses at the fiesta. The dancers were all quite drunk. It was the last day of the fiesta. The fiesta was solid and unbroken, but the motor-cars and tourist-cars made little islands of onlookers. When the cars emptied, the onlookers were absorbed into the crowd. You did not see them again except as sport clothes, odd-looking at a table among the closely packed peasants in black smocks. The fiesta absorbed even the Biarritz English so that you did not see them unless you passed close to a table. All the time there was music in the street. The drums kept on pounding and the pipes were going. Inside the caf s men with their hands gripping the table, or on each other's shoulders, were singing the hard-voiced singing. "Here comes Brett," Bill said. I looked and saw her coming through the crowd in the square, walking, her head up, as though the fiesta were being staged in her honor, and she found it pleasant and amusing. "Hello, you chaps!" she said. "I say, I _have_ a thirst." "Get another big beer," Bill said to the waiter. "Shrimps?" "Is Cohn gone?" Brett asked. "Yes," Bill said. "He hired a car." The beer came. Brett started to lift the glass mug and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and took a long sip. "Good beer." "Very good," I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time, but he seemed to be under control. "I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake," Brett said. "No. Knocked me out. That was all." "I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him most badly." "How is he?" "He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room." "Does he look badly?" "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said. "She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly." Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says." Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake." "Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to the fight with me." "We'll see you at lunch?" "No. I'm eating with him." We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade. "Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping." We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park. "Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now." We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down,"<|quote|>Brett said.</|quote|>"It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead. "Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous." Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success. "Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good." We walked along. "I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good," said Brett. "Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time." "Let me cover you over." "No. I'm quite warm." "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet." "You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone away." He turned his head and looked at me. "Damned good thing, what?" "Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep." "I'm just start ing. I'm go ing to get a lit tle sleep." He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper. "See Mike?" "Yes." "Let's go and eat." "I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs." "He was snotty to us, too." "Let's go out and eat in the town." We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray. "There goes Brett's lunch," Bill said. "And the kid's," I said. Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite. "I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen," he said. "Go sit at it," Bill said. We went on out across the street. We ate at a restaurant in a side street off
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said. "No. Knocked me out. That was all." "I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him most badly." "How is he?" "He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room." "Does he look badly?" "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said. "She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly." Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says." Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake." "Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to the fight with me." "We'll see you at lunch?" "No. I'm eating with him." We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade. "Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping." We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park. "Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now." We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down,"<|quote|>Brett said.</|quote|>"It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead. "Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous." Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success. "Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good." We walked along. "I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good," said Brett. "Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see
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The Sun Also Rises
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said Aziz; he was inured to practical jokes, even of this type. Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone would learn of Mrs. Moore's death in the morning. But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunderstanding about them, they possess a sort of immortality. An experience of his own confirmed this. Many years ago he had lost a great friend, a woman, who believed in the Christian heaven, and assured him that after the changes and chances of this mortal life they would meet in it again. Fielding was a blank, frank atheist, but he respected every opinion his friend held: to do this is essential in friendship. And it seemed to him for a time that the dead awaited him, and when the illusion faded it left behind it an emptiness that was almost guilt:
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No speaker
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"I do not believe him,"<|quote|>said Aziz; he was inured to practical jokes, even of this type. Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone would learn of Mrs. Moore's death in the morning. But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunderstanding about them, they possess a sort of immortality. An experience of his own confirmed this. Many years ago he had lost a great friend, a woman, who believed in the Christian heaven, and assured him that after the changes and chances of this mortal life they would meet in it again. Fielding was a blank, frank atheist, but he respected every opinion his friend held: to do this is essential in friendship. And it seemed to him for a time that the dead awaited him, and when the illusion faded it left behind it an emptiness that was almost guilt:</|quote|>"This really is the end,"
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don't believe him, the villain." "I do not believe him,"<|quote|>said Aziz; he was inured to practical jokes, even of this type. Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone would learn of Mrs. Moore's death in the morning. But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunderstanding about them, they possess a sort of immortality. An experience of his own confirmed this. Many years ago he had lost a great friend, a woman, who believed in the Christian heaven, and assured him that after the changes and chances of this mortal life they would meet in it again. Fielding was a blank, frank atheist, but he respected every opinion his friend held: to do this is essential in friendship. And it seemed to him for a time that the dead awaited him, and when the illusion faded it left behind it an emptiness that was almost guilt:</|quote|>"This really is the end," he thought, "and I gave
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blurted out: "I'm sorry to say Mrs. Moore's dead." But Hamidullah, who had been listening to all their talk, and did not want the festive evening spoilt, cried from the adjoining bed: "Aziz, he is trying to pull your leg; don't believe him, the villain." "I do not believe him,"<|quote|>said Aziz; he was inured to practical jokes, even of this type. Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone would learn of Mrs. Moore's death in the morning. But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunderstanding about them, they possess a sort of immortality. An experience of his own confirmed this. Many years ago he had lost a great friend, a woman, who believed in the Christian heaven, and assured him that after the changes and chances of this mortal life they would meet in it again. Fielding was a blank, frank atheist, but he respected every opinion his friend held: to do this is essential in friendship. And it seemed to him for a time that the dead awaited him, and when the illusion faded it left behind it an emptiness that was almost guilt:</|quote|>"This really is the end," he thought, "and I gave her the final blow." He had tried to kill Mrs. Moore this evening, on the roof of the Nawab Bahadur's house; but she still eluded him, and the atmosphere remained tranquil. Presently the moon rose the exhausted crescent that precedes
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we are to be friends for ever. You do not like Mrs. Moore, and are annoyed because I do; however, you will like her in time." When a person, really dead, is supposed to be alive, an unhealthiness infects the conversation. Fielding could not stand the tension any longer and blurted out: "I'm sorry to say Mrs. Moore's dead." But Hamidullah, who had been listening to all their talk, and did not want the festive evening spoilt, cried from the adjoining bed: "Aziz, he is trying to pull your leg; don't believe him, the villain." "I do not believe him,"<|quote|>said Aziz; he was inured to practical jokes, even of this type. Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone would learn of Mrs. Moore's death in the morning. But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunderstanding about them, they possess a sort of immortality. An experience of his own confirmed this. Many years ago he had lost a great friend, a woman, who believed in the Christian heaven, and assured him that after the changes and chances of this mortal life they would meet in it again. Fielding was a blank, frank atheist, but he respected every opinion his friend held: to do this is essential in friendship. And it seemed to him for a time that the dead awaited him, and when the illusion faded it left behind it an emptiness that was almost guilt:</|quote|>"This really is the end," he thought, "and I gave her the final blow." He had tried to kill Mrs. Moore this evening, on the roof of the Nawab Bahadur's house; but she still eluded him, and the atmosphere remained tranquil. Presently the moon rose the exhausted crescent that precedes the sun and shortly after men and oxen began their interminable labour, and the gracious interlude, which he had tried to curtail, came to its natural conclusion. CHAPTER XXVIII Dead she was committed to the deep while still on the southward track, for the boats from Bombay cannot point towards
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there is no point in any friendship; it all comes down to give and take, or give and return, which is disgusting, and we had better all leap over this parapet and kill ourselves. Is anything wrong with you this evening that you grow so materialistic?" "Your unfairness is worse than my materialism." "I see. Anything further to complain of?" He was good-tempered and affectionate but a little formidable. Imprisonment had made channels for his character, which would never fluctuate as widely now as in the past. "Because it is far better you put all your difficulties before me, if we are to be friends for ever. You do not like Mrs. Moore, and are annoyed because I do; however, you will like her in time." When a person, really dead, is supposed to be alive, an unhealthiness infects the conversation. Fielding could not stand the tension any longer and blurted out: "I'm sorry to say Mrs. Moore's dead." But Hamidullah, who had been listening to all their talk, and did not want the festive evening spoilt, cried from the adjoining bed: "Aziz, he is trying to pull your leg; don't believe him, the villain." "I do not believe him,"<|quote|>said Aziz; he was inured to practical jokes, even of this type. Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone would learn of Mrs. Moore's death in the morning. But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunderstanding about them, they possess a sort of immortality. An experience of his own confirmed this. Many years ago he had lost a great friend, a woman, who believed in the Christian heaven, and assured him that after the changes and chances of this mortal life they would meet in it again. Fielding was a blank, frank atheist, but he respected every opinion his friend held: to do this is essential in friendship. And it seemed to him for a time that the dead awaited him, and when the illusion faded it left behind it an emptiness that was almost guilt:</|quote|>"This really is the end," he thought, "and I gave her the final blow." He had tried to kill Mrs. Moore this evening, on the roof of the Nawab Bahadur's house; but she still eluded him, and the atmosphere remained tranquil. Presently the moon rose the exhausted crescent that precedes the sun and shortly after men and oxen began their interminable labour, and the gracious interlude, which he had tried to curtail, came to its natural conclusion. CHAPTER XXVIII Dead she was committed to the deep while still on the southward track, for the boats from Bombay cannot point towards Europe until Arabia has been rounded; she was further in the tropics than ever achieved while on shore, when the sun touched her for the last time and her body was lowered into yet another India the Indian Ocean. She left behind her sore discomfort, for a death gives a ship a bad name. Who was this Mrs. Moore? When Aden was reached, Lady Mellanby cabled, wrote, did all that was kind, but the wife of a Lieutenant-Governor does not bargain for such an experience; and she repeated: "I had only seen the poor creature for a few hours when
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shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children." "Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque." "I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did anything for you at all, and it's pure conjecture that she would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on servants' gossip. Your emotions never seem in proportion to their objects, Aziz." "Is emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to be measured out? Am I a machine? I shall be told I can use up my emotions by using them, next." "I should have thought you could. It sounds common sense. You can't eat your cake and have it, even in the world of the spirit." "If you are right, there is no point in any friendship; it all comes down to give and take, or give and return, which is disgusting, and we had better all leap over this parapet and kill ourselves. Is anything wrong with you this evening that you grow so materialistic?" "Your unfairness is worse than my materialism." "I see. Anything further to complain of?" He was good-tempered and affectionate but a little formidable. Imprisonment had made channels for his character, which would never fluctuate as widely now as in the past. "Because it is far better you put all your difficulties before me, if we are to be friends for ever. You do not like Mrs. Moore, and are annoyed because I do; however, you will like her in time." When a person, really dead, is supposed to be alive, an unhealthiness infects the conversation. Fielding could not stand the tension any longer and blurted out: "I'm sorry to say Mrs. Moore's dead." But Hamidullah, who had been listening to all their talk, and did not want the festive evening spoilt, cried from the adjoining bed: "Aziz, he is trying to pull your leg; don't believe him, the villain." "I do not believe him,"<|quote|>said Aziz; he was inured to practical jokes, even of this type. Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone would learn of Mrs. Moore's death in the morning. But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunderstanding about them, they possess a sort of immortality. An experience of his own confirmed this. Many years ago he had lost a great friend, a woman, who believed in the Christian heaven, and assured him that after the changes and chances of this mortal life they would meet in it again. Fielding was a blank, frank atheist, but he respected every opinion his friend held: to do this is essential in friendship. And it seemed to him for a time that the dead awaited him, and when the illusion faded it left behind it an emptiness that was almost guilt:</|quote|>"This really is the end," he thought, "and I gave her the final blow." He had tried to kill Mrs. Moore this evening, on the roof of the Nawab Bahadur's house; but she still eluded him, and the atmosphere remained tranquil. Presently the moon rose the exhausted crescent that precedes the sun and shortly after men and oxen began their interminable labour, and the gracious interlude, which he had tried to curtail, came to its natural conclusion. CHAPTER XXVIII Dead she was committed to the deep while still on the southward track, for the boats from Bombay cannot point towards Europe until Arabia has been rounded; she was further in the tropics than ever achieved while on shore, when the sun touched her for the last time and her body was lowered into yet another India the Indian Ocean. She left behind her sore discomfort, for a death gives a ship a bad name. Who was this Mrs. Moore? When Aden was reached, Lady Mellanby cabled, wrote, did all that was kind, but the wife of a Lieutenant-Governor does not bargain for such an experience; and she repeated: "I had only seen the poor creature for a few hours when she was taken ill; really this has been needlessly distressing, it spoils one's home-coming." A ghost followed the ship up the Red Sea, but failed to enter the Mediterranean. Somewhere about Suez there is always a social change: the arrangements of Asia weaken and those of Europe begin to be felt, and during the transition Mrs. Moore was shaken off. At Port Said the grey blustery north began. The weather was so cold and bracing that the passengers felt it must have broken in the land they had left, but it became hotter steadily there in accordance with its usual law. The death took subtler and more lasting shapes in Chandrapore. A legend sprang up that an Englishman had killed his mother for trying to save an Indian's life and there was just enough truth in this to cause annoyance to the authorities. Sometimes it was a cow that had been killed or a crocodile with the tusks of a boar had crawled out of the Ganges. Nonsense of this type is more difficult to combat than a solid lie. It hides in rubbish heaps and moves when no one is looking. At one period two distinct tombs containing Esmiss
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what that means. All her friends around her, the entire British Raj pushing her forward. She stops, sends the whole thing to smithereens. In her place I should have funked it. But she stopped, and almost did she become a national heroine, but my students ran us down a side street before the crowd caught flame. Do treat her considerately. She really mustn't get the worst of both worlds. I know what all these" he indicated the shrouded forms on the roof "will want, but you mustn't listen to them. Be merciful. Act like one of your six Mogul Emperors, or all the six rolled into one." "Not even Mogul Emperors showed mercy until they received an apology." "She'll apologize if that's the trouble," he cried, sitting up. "Look, I'll make you an offer. Dictate to me whatever form of words you like, and this time to-morrow I'll bring it back signed. This is not instead of any public apology she may make you in law. It's an addition." " Dear Dr. Aziz, I wish you had come into the cave; I am an awful old hag, and it is my last chance.' "Will she sign that?" "Well good night, good night, it's time to go to sleep, after that." "Good night, I suppose it is." "Oh, I wish you wouldn't make that kind of remark," he continued after a pause. "It is the one thing in you I can't put up with." "I put up with all things in you, so what is to be done?" "Well, you hurt me by saying it; good night." There was silence, then dreamily but with deep feeling the voice said: "Cyril, I have had an idea which will satisfy your tender mind: I shall consult Mrs. Moore." Opening his eyes, and beholding thousands of stars, he could not reply, they silenced him. "Her opinion will solve everything; I can trust her so absolutely. If she advises me to pardon this girl, I shall do so. She will counsel me nothing against my real and true honour, as you might." "Let us discuss that to-morrow morning." "Is it not strange? I keep on forgetting she has left India. During the shouting of her name in court I fancied she was present. I had shut my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children." "Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque." "I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did anything for you at all, and it's pure conjecture that she would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on servants' gossip. Your emotions never seem in proportion to their objects, Aziz." "Is emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to be measured out? Am I a machine? I shall be told I can use up my emotions by using them, next." "I should have thought you could. It sounds common sense. You can't eat your cake and have it, even in the world of the spirit." "If you are right, there is no point in any friendship; it all comes down to give and take, or give and return, which is disgusting, and we had better all leap over this parapet and kill ourselves. Is anything wrong with you this evening that you grow so materialistic?" "Your unfairness is worse than my materialism." "I see. Anything further to complain of?" He was good-tempered and affectionate but a little formidable. Imprisonment had made channels for his character, which would never fluctuate as widely now as in the past. "Because it is far better you put all your difficulties before me, if we are to be friends for ever. You do not like Mrs. Moore, and are annoyed because I do; however, you will like her in time." When a person, really dead, is supposed to be alive, an unhealthiness infects the conversation. Fielding could not stand the tension any longer and blurted out: "I'm sorry to say Mrs. Moore's dead." But Hamidullah, who had been listening to all their talk, and did not want the festive evening spoilt, cried from the adjoining bed: "Aziz, he is trying to pull your leg; don't believe him, the villain." "I do not believe him,"<|quote|>said Aziz; he was inured to practical jokes, even of this type. Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone would learn of Mrs. Moore's death in the morning. But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunderstanding about them, they possess a sort of immortality. An experience of his own confirmed this. Many years ago he had lost a great friend, a woman, who believed in the Christian heaven, and assured him that after the changes and chances of this mortal life they would meet in it again. Fielding was a blank, frank atheist, but he respected every opinion his friend held: to do this is essential in friendship. And it seemed to him for a time that the dead awaited him, and when the illusion faded it left behind it an emptiness that was almost guilt:</|quote|>"This really is the end," he thought, "and I gave her the final blow." He had tried to kill Mrs. Moore this evening, on the roof of the Nawab Bahadur's house; but she still eluded him, and the atmosphere remained tranquil. Presently the moon rose the exhausted crescent that precedes the sun and shortly after men and oxen began their interminable labour, and the gracious interlude, which he had tried to curtail, came to its natural conclusion. CHAPTER XXVIII Dead she was committed to the deep while still on the southward track, for the boats from Bombay cannot point towards Europe until Arabia has been rounded; she was further in the tropics than ever achieved while on shore, when the sun touched her for the last time and her body was lowered into yet another India the Indian Ocean. She left behind her sore discomfort, for a death gives a ship a bad name. Who was this Mrs. Moore? When Aden was reached, Lady Mellanby cabled, wrote, did all that was kind, but the wife of a Lieutenant-Governor does not bargain for such an experience; and she repeated: "I had only seen the poor creature for a few hours when she was taken ill; really this has been needlessly distressing, it spoils one's home-coming." A ghost followed the ship up the Red Sea, but failed to enter the Mediterranean. Somewhere about Suez there is always a social change: the arrangements of Asia weaken and those of Europe begin to be felt, and during the transition Mrs. Moore was shaken off. At Port Said the grey blustery north began. The weather was so cold and bracing that the passengers felt it must have broken in the land they had left, but it became hotter steadily there in accordance with its usual law. The death took subtler and more lasting shapes in Chandrapore. A legend sprang up that an Englishman had killed his mother for trying to save an Indian's life and there was just enough truth in this to cause annoyance to the authorities. Sometimes it was a cow that had been killed or a crocodile with the tusks of a boar had crawled out of the Ganges. Nonsense of this type is more difficult to combat than a solid lie. It hides in rubbish heaps and moves when no one is looking. At one period two distinct tombs containing Esmiss Esmoor's remains were reported: one by the tannery, the other up near the goods station. Mr. McBryde visited them both and saw signs of the beginning of a cult earthenware saucers and so on. Being an experienced official, he did nothing to irritate it, and after a week or so, the rash died down. "There's propaganda behind all this," he said, forgetting that a hundred years ago, when Europeans still made their home in the country-side and appealed to its imagination, they occasionally became local demons after death not a whole god, perhaps, but part of one, adding an epithet or gesture to what already existed, just as the gods contribute to the great gods, and they to the philosophic Brahm. Ronny reminded himself that his mother had left India at her own wish, but his conscience was not clear. He had behaved badly to her, and he had either to repent (which involved a mental overturn), or to persist in unkindness towards her. He chose the latter course. How tiresome she had been with her patronage of Aziz! What a bad influence upon Adela! And now she still gave trouble with ridiculous "tombs," mixing herself up with natives. She could not help it, of course, but she had attempted similar exasperating expeditions in her lifetime, and he reckoned it against her. The young man had much to worry him the heat, the local tension, the approaching visit of the Lieutenant-Governor, the problems of Adela and threading them all together into a grotesque garland were these Indianizations of Mrs. Moore. What does happen to one's mother when she dies? Presumably she goes to heaven, anyhow she clears out. Ronny's religion was of the sterilized Public School brand, which never goes bad, even in the tropics. Wherever he entered, mosque, cave, or temple, he retained the spiritual outlook of the Fifth Form, and condemned as "weakening" any attempt to understand them. Pulling himself together, he dismissed the mater from his mind. In due time he and his half-brother and -sister would put up a tablet to her in the Northamptonshire church where she had worshipped, recording the dates of her birth and death and the fact that she had been buried at sea. This would be sufficient. And Adela she would have to depart too; he hoped she would have made the suggestion herself ere now. He really could not marry
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the mosque." "I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did anything for you at all, and it's pure conjecture that she would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on servants' gossip. Your emotions never seem in proportion to their objects, Aziz." "Is emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to be measured out? Am I a machine? I shall be told I can use up my emotions by using them, next." "I should have thought you could. It sounds common sense. You can't eat your cake and have it, even in the world of the spirit." "If you are right, there is no point in any friendship; it all comes down to give and take, or give and return, which is disgusting, and we had better all leap over this parapet and kill ourselves. Is anything wrong with you this evening that you grow so materialistic?" "Your unfairness is worse than my materialism." "I see. Anything further to complain of?" He was good-tempered and affectionate but a little formidable. Imprisonment had made channels for his character, which would never fluctuate as widely now as in the past. "Because it is far better you put all your difficulties before me, if we are to be friends for ever. You do not like Mrs. Moore, and are annoyed because I do; however, you will like her in time." When a person, really dead, is supposed to be alive, an unhealthiness infects the conversation. Fielding could not stand the tension any longer and blurted out: "I'm sorry to say Mrs. Moore's dead." But Hamidullah, who had been listening to all their talk, and did not want the festive evening spoilt, cried from the adjoining bed: "Aziz, he is trying to pull your leg; don't believe him, the villain." "I do not believe him,"<|quote|>said Aziz; he was inured to practical jokes, even of this type. Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone would learn of Mrs. Moore's death in the morning. But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunderstanding about them, they possess a sort of immortality. An experience of his own confirmed this. Many years ago he had lost a great friend, a woman, who believed in the Christian heaven, and assured him that after the changes and chances of this mortal life they would meet in it again. Fielding was a blank, frank atheist, but he respected every opinion his friend held: to do this is essential in friendship. And it seemed to him for a time that the dead awaited him, and when the illusion faded it left behind it an emptiness that was almost guilt:</|quote|>"This really is the end," he thought, "and I gave her the final blow." He had tried to kill Mrs. Moore this evening, on the roof of the Nawab Bahadur's house; but she still eluded him, and the atmosphere remained tranquil. Presently the moon rose the exhausted crescent that precedes the sun and shortly after men and oxen began their interminable labour, and the gracious interlude, which he had tried to curtail, came to its natural conclusion. CHAPTER XXVIII Dead she was committed to the deep while still on the southward track, for the boats from Bombay cannot point towards Europe until Arabia has been rounded; she was further in the tropics than ever achieved while on shore, when the sun touched her for the last time and her body was lowered into yet another India the Indian Ocean. She left behind her sore discomfort, for a death gives a ship a bad name. Who was this Mrs. Moore? When Aden was reached, Lady Mellanby cabled, wrote, did all that was kind, but the wife of a Lieutenant-Governor does not bargain for such an experience; and she repeated: "I had only seen the poor creature for a few hours when she was taken ill; really this has been needlessly distressing, it spoils one's home-coming." A ghost followed the ship up the Red Sea, but failed to enter the Mediterranean. Somewhere about Suez there is always a social change: the arrangements of Asia weaken and those of Europe begin to be felt, and during the transition Mrs. Moore was shaken off. At Port Said the grey blustery north began. The weather was so cold and bracing that the passengers felt it must have broken in the land they had left, but it became hotter steadily there in accordance with its usual law. The death took subtler and more lasting shapes in Chandrapore. A legend sprang up that an Englishman had killed his mother for trying to save an Indian's life and there was just enough truth in this to cause annoyance to the authorities. Sometimes it was a cow that had been killed or a crocodile with the tusks of a boar had crawled out of the Ganges. Nonsense of this type is more difficult to combat than a solid lie. It hides in rubbish heaps and moves when no one is looking. At one period two distinct tombs containing Esmiss Esmoor's remains were reported: one by the tannery, the other up near the goods station. Mr. McBryde visited them both and saw signs of the beginning of a cult earthenware saucers and so on. Being an experienced official, he did nothing to irritate it, and after a week or so, the rash died down. "There's propaganda behind all this," he said, forgetting that a hundred years ago, when Europeans still made their home in the country-side and appealed to its imagination, they occasionally became local demons after death not a whole god, perhaps, but part of one, adding an epithet or gesture to what already existed, just as the gods contribute to the great gods, and they to the philosophic Brahm.
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A Passage To India
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The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for some while in silence. Alice was just beginning to think to herself,
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No speaker
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do with you. Mind now!"<|quote|>The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for some while in silence. Alice was just beginning to think to herself,</|quote|>"Now, what am I to
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"I'll have nothing more to do with you. Mind now!"<|quote|>The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for some while in silence. Alice was just beginning to think to herself,</|quote|>"Now, what am I to do with this creature when
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all. "But perhaps it was only sobbing," she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if there were any tears. No, there were no tears. "If you're going to turn into a pig, my dear," said Alice, seriously, "I'll have nothing more to do with you. Mind now!"<|quote|>The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for some while in silence. Alice was just beginning to think to herself,</|quote|>"Now, what am I to do with this creature when I get it home?" when it grunted again, so violently, that she looked down into its face in some alarm. This time there could be _no_ mistake about it: it was neither more nor less than a pig, and she
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to see what was the matter with it. There could be no doubt that it had a _very_ turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose; also its eyes were getting extremely small for a baby: altogether Alice did not like the look of the thing at all. "But perhaps it was only sobbing," she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if there were any tears. No, there were no tears. "If you're going to turn into a pig, my dear," said Alice, seriously, "I'll have nothing more to do with you. Mind now!"<|quote|>The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for some while in silence. Alice was just beginning to think to herself,</|quote|>"Now, what am I to do with this creature when I get it home?" when it grunted again, so violently, that she looked down into its face in some alarm. This time there could be _no_ mistake about it: it was neither more nor less than a pig, and she felt that it would be quite absurd for her to carry it further. So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see it trot away quietly into the wood. "If it had grown up," she said to herself, "it would have made a dreadfully ugly child:
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hold of its right ear and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself,) she carried it out into the open air. "If I don't take this child away with me," thought Alice, "they're sure to kill it in a day or two: wouldn't it be murder to leave it behind?" She said the last words out loud, and the little thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time). "Don't grunt," said Alice; "that's not at all a proper way of expressing yourself." The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into its face to see what was the matter with it. There could be no doubt that it had a _very_ turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose; also its eyes were getting extremely small for a baby: altogether Alice did not like the look of the thing at all. "But perhaps it was only sobbing," she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if there were any tears. No, there were no tears. "If you're going to turn into a pig, my dear," said Alice, seriously, "I'll have nothing more to do with you. Mind now!"<|quote|>The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for some while in silence. Alice was just beginning to think to herself,</|quote|>"Now, what am I to do with this creature when I get it home?" when it grunted again, so violently, that she looked down into its face in some alarm. This time there could be _no_ mistake about it: it was neither more nor less than a pig, and she felt that it would be quite absurd for her to carry it further. So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see it trot away quietly into the wood. "If it had grown up," she said to herself, "it would have made a dreadfully ugly child: but it makes rather a handsome pig, I think." And she began thinking over other children she knew, who might do very well as pigs, and was just saying to herself, "if one only knew the right way to change them--" when she was a little startled by seeing the Cheshire Cat sitting on a bough of a tree a few yards off. The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-natured, she thought: still it had _very_ long claws and a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect. "Cheshire Puss,"
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down, and the poor little thing howled so, that Alice could hardly hear the words:-- ""I speak severely to my boy, I beat him when he sneezes; For he can thoroughly enjoy The pepper when he pleases!"" CHORUS. "Wow! wow! wow!" "Here! you may nurse it a bit, if you like!" the Duchess said to Alice, flinging the baby at her as she spoke. "I must go and get ready to play croquet with the Queen," and she hurried out of the room. The cook threw a frying-pan after her as she went out, but it just missed her. Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer-shaped little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all directions, "just like a star-fish," thought Alice. The poor little thing was snorting like a steam-engine when she caught it, and kept doubling itself up and straightening itself out again, so that altogether, for the first minute or two, it was as much as she could do to hold it. As soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it, (which was to twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep tight hold of its right ear and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself,) she carried it out into the open air. "If I don't take this child away with me," thought Alice, "they're sure to kill it in a day or two: wouldn't it be murder to leave it behind?" She said the last words out loud, and the little thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time). "Don't grunt," said Alice; "that's not at all a proper way of expressing yourself." The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into its face to see what was the matter with it. There could be no doubt that it had a _very_ turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose; also its eyes were getting extremely small for a baby: altogether Alice did not like the look of the thing at all. "But perhaps it was only sobbing," she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if there were any tears. No, there were no tears. "If you're going to turn into a pig, my dear," said Alice, seriously, "I'll have nothing more to do with you. Mind now!"<|quote|>The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for some while in silence. Alice was just beginning to think to herself,</|quote|>"Now, what am I to do with this creature when I get it home?" when it grunted again, so violently, that she looked down into its face in some alarm. This time there could be _no_ mistake about it: it was neither more nor less than a pig, and she felt that it would be quite absurd for her to carry it further. So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see it trot away quietly into the wood. "If it had grown up," she said to herself, "it would have made a dreadfully ugly child: but it makes rather a handsome pig, I think." And she began thinking over other children she knew, who might do very well as pigs, and was just saying to herself, "if one only knew the right way to change them--" when she was a little startled by seeing the Cheshire Cat sitting on a bough of a tree a few yards off. The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-natured, she thought: still it had _very_ long claws and a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect. "Cheshire Puss," she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider. "Come, it's pleased so far," thought Alice, and she went on. "Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?" "That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said the Cat. "I don't much care where--" said Alice. "Then it doesn't matter which way you go," said the Cat. "--so long as I get _somewhere_," Alice added as an explanation. "Oh, you're sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long enough." Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question. "What sort of people live about here?" "In _that_ direction," the Cat said, waving its right paw round, "lives a Hatter: and in _that_ direction," waving the other paw, "lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they're both mad." "But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked. "Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad." "How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice. "You must be," said the
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"I don't know of any that do," Alice said very politely, feeling quite pleased to have got into a conversation. "You don't know much," said the Duchess; "and that's a fact." Alice did not at all like the tone of this remark, and thought it would be as well to introduce some other subject of conversation. While she was trying to fix on one, the cook took the cauldron of soup off the fire, and at once set to work throwing everything within her reach at the Duchess and the baby--the fire-irons came first; then followed a shower of saucepans, plates, and dishes. The Duchess took no notice of them even when they hit her; and the baby was howling so much already, that it was quite impossible to say whether the blows hurt it or not. "Oh, _please_ mind what you're doing!" cried Alice, jumping up and down in an agony of terror. "Oh, there goes his _precious_ nose!" as an unusually large saucepan flew close by it, and very nearly carried it off. "If everybody minded their own business," the Duchess said in a hoarse growl, "the world would go round a deal faster than it does." "Which would _not_ be an advantage," said Alice, who felt very glad to get an opportunity of showing off a little of her knowledge. "Just think of what work it would make with the day and night! You see the earth takes twenty-four hours to turn round on its axis--" "Talking of axes," said the Duchess, "chop off her head!" Alice glanced rather anxiously at the cook, to see if she meant to take the hint; but the cook was busily stirring the soup, and seemed not to be listening, so she went on again: "Twenty-four hours, I _think_; or is it twelve? I--" "Oh, don't bother _me_," said the Duchess; "I never could abide figures!" And with that she began nursing her child again, singing a sort of lullaby to it as she did so, and giving it a violent shake at the end of every line: ""Speak roughly to your little boy, And beat him when he sneezes: He only does it to annoy, Because he knows it teases."" CHORUS. (In which the cook and the baby joined): "Wow! wow! wow!" While the Duchess sang the second verse of the song, she kept tossing the baby violently up and down, and the poor little thing howled so, that Alice could hardly hear the words:-- ""I speak severely to my boy, I beat him when he sneezes; For he can thoroughly enjoy The pepper when he pleases!"" CHORUS. "Wow! wow! wow!" "Here! you may nurse it a bit, if you like!" the Duchess said to Alice, flinging the baby at her as she spoke. "I must go and get ready to play croquet with the Queen," and she hurried out of the room. The cook threw a frying-pan after her as she went out, but it just missed her. Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer-shaped little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all directions, "just like a star-fish," thought Alice. The poor little thing was snorting like a steam-engine when she caught it, and kept doubling itself up and straightening itself out again, so that altogether, for the first minute or two, it was as much as she could do to hold it. As soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it, (which was to twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep tight hold of its right ear and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself,) she carried it out into the open air. "If I don't take this child away with me," thought Alice, "they're sure to kill it in a day or two: wouldn't it be murder to leave it behind?" She said the last words out loud, and the little thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time). "Don't grunt," said Alice; "that's not at all a proper way of expressing yourself." The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into its face to see what was the matter with it. There could be no doubt that it had a _very_ turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose; also its eyes were getting extremely small for a baby: altogether Alice did not like the look of the thing at all. "But perhaps it was only sobbing," she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if there were any tears. No, there were no tears. "If you're going to turn into a pig, my dear," said Alice, seriously, "I'll have nothing more to do with you. Mind now!"<|quote|>The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for some while in silence. Alice was just beginning to think to herself,</|quote|>"Now, what am I to do with this creature when I get it home?" when it grunted again, so violently, that she looked down into its face in some alarm. This time there could be _no_ mistake about it: it was neither more nor less than a pig, and she felt that it would be quite absurd for her to carry it further. So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see it trot away quietly into the wood. "If it had grown up," she said to herself, "it would have made a dreadfully ugly child: but it makes rather a handsome pig, I think." And she began thinking over other children she knew, who might do very well as pigs, and was just saying to herself, "if one only knew the right way to change them--" when she was a little startled by seeing the Cheshire Cat sitting on a bough of a tree a few yards off. The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-natured, she thought: still it had _very_ long claws and a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect. "Cheshire Puss," she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider. "Come, it's pleased so far," thought Alice, and she went on. "Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?" "That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said the Cat. "I don't much care where--" said Alice. "Then it doesn't matter which way you go," said the Cat. "--so long as I get _somewhere_," Alice added as an explanation. "Oh, you're sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long enough." Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question. "What sort of people live about here?" "In _that_ direction," the Cat said, waving its right paw round, "lives a Hatter: and in _that_ direction," waving the other paw, "lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they're both mad." "But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked. "Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad." "How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice. "You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here." Alice didn't think that proved it at all; however, she went on "And how do you know that you're mad?" "To begin with," said the Cat, "a dog's not mad. You grant that?" "I suppose so," said Alice. "Well, then," the Cat went on, "you see, a dog growls when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now _I_ growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad." "_I_ call it purring, not growling," said Alice. "Call it what you like," said the Cat. "Do you play croquet with the Queen to-day?" "I should like it very much," said Alice, "but I haven't been invited yet." "You'll see me there," said the Cat, and vanished. Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used to queer things happening. While she was looking at the place where it had been, it suddenly appeared again. "By-the-bye, what became of the baby?" said the Cat. "I'd nearly forgotten to ask." "It turned into a pig," Alice quietly said, just as if it had come back in a natural way. "I thought it would," said the Cat, and vanished again. Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in which the March Hare was said to live. "I've seen hatters before," she said to herself; "the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so mad as it was in March." As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree. "Did you say pig, or fig?" said the Cat. "I said pig," replied Alice; "and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy." "All right," said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. "Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin," thought Alice; "but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!" She had not gone much farther before she came in sight
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hold it. As soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it, (which was to twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep tight hold of its right ear and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself,) she carried it out into the open air. "If I don't take this child away with me," thought Alice, "they're sure to kill it in a day or two: wouldn't it be murder to leave it behind?" She said the last words out loud, and the little thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time). "Don't grunt," said Alice; "that's not at all a proper way of expressing yourself." The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into its face to see what was the matter with it. There could be no doubt that it had a _very_ turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose; also its eyes were getting extremely small for a baby: altogether Alice did not like the look of the thing at all. "But perhaps it was only sobbing," she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if there were any tears. No, there were no tears. "If you're going to turn into a pig, my dear," said Alice, seriously, "I'll have nothing more to do with you. Mind now!"<|quote|>The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for some while in silence. Alice was just beginning to think to herself,</|quote|>"Now, what am I to do with this creature when I get it home?" when it grunted again, so violently, that she looked down into its face in some alarm. This time there could be _no_ mistake about it: it was neither more nor less than a pig, and she felt that it would be quite absurd for her to carry it further. So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see it trot away quietly into the wood. "If it had grown up," she said to herself, "it would have made a dreadfully ugly child: but it makes rather a handsome pig, I think." And she began thinking over other children she knew, who might do very well as pigs, and was just saying to herself, "if one only knew the right way to change them--" when she was a little startled by seeing the Cheshire Cat sitting on a bough of a tree a few yards off. The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-natured, she thought: still it had _very_ long claws and a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect. "Cheshire Puss," she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider. "Come, it's pleased so far," thought Alice, and she went on. "Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?" "That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said the Cat. "I don't much care where--" said Alice. "Then it doesn't matter which way you go," said the Cat. "--so long as I get _somewhere_," Alice added as an explanation. "Oh, you're sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long enough." Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question. "What sort of people live about here?" "In _that_ direction," the Cat said, waving its right paw round, "lives a Hatter: and in _that_ direction," waving the other paw, "lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they're both mad." "But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked. "Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad." "How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice. "You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here." Alice didn't think that proved it at all; however, she went on "And how do you know that you're mad?" "To begin with," said the Cat, "a dog's not mad. You grant that?" "I suppose so," said Alice. "Well, then," the Cat went on, "you see, a dog growls when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now _I_ growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad." "_I_ call it purring, not growling," said Alice. "Call it what you like," said the Cat. "Do you play croquet with the Queen to-day?" "I should like it very much," said Alice, "but I haven't been invited yet." "You'll see me there," said the Cat, and vanished. Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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"Why, what do you mean by this?"
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Josiah Bounderby
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was disclosed to his view.<|quote|>"Why, what do you mean by this?"</|quote|>was his highly unexpected demand,
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discomfiture, as old Mrs. Pegler was disclosed to his view.<|quote|>"Why, what do you mean by this?"</|quote|>was his highly unexpected demand, in great warmth. "I ask
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have effected this; but trouble in your service is to me a pleasure, and hunger, thirst, and cold a real gratification." Here Mrs. Sparsit ceased; for Mr. Bounderby's visage exhibited an extraordinary combination of all possible colours and expressions of discomfiture, as old Mrs. Pegler was disclosed to his view.<|quote|>"Why, what do you mean by this?"</|quote|>was his highly unexpected demand, in great warmth. "I ask you, what do you mean by this, Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?" "Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Sparsit, faintly. "Why don't you mind your own business, ma'am?" roared Bounderby. "How dare you go and poke your officious nose into my family affairs?" This allusion
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supposed to reside, as have been afforded by the young woman, Rachael, fortunately now present to identify, I have had the happiness to succeed, and to bring that person with me I need not say most unwillingly on her part. It has not been, sir, without some trouble that I have effected this; but trouble in your service is to me a pleasure, and hunger, thirst, and cold a real gratification." Here Mrs. Sparsit ceased; for Mr. Bounderby's visage exhibited an extraordinary combination of all possible colours and expressions of discomfiture, as old Mrs. Pegler was disclosed to his view.<|quote|>"Why, what do you mean by this?"</|quote|>was his highly unexpected demand, in great warmth. "I ask you, what do you mean by this, Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?" "Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Sparsit, faintly. "Why don't you mind your own business, ma'am?" roared Bounderby. "How dare you go and poke your officious nose into my family affairs?" This allusion to her favourite feature overpowered Mrs. Sparsit. She sat down stiffly in a chair, as if she were frozen; and with a fixed stare at Mr. Bounderby, slowly grated her mittens against one another, as if they were frozen too. "My dear Josiah!" cried Mrs. Pegler, trembling. "My darling boy!
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handed you over to him myself." Mr. Bounderby now appeared, accompanied by Mr. Gradgrind and the whelp, with whom he had been holding conference up-stairs. Mr. Bounderby looked more astonished than hospitable, at sight of this uninvited party in his dining-room. "Why, what's the matter now!" said he. "Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?" "Sir," explained that worthy woman, "I trust it is my good fortune to produce a person you have much desired to find. Stimulated by my wish to relieve your mind, sir, and connecting together such imperfect clues to the part of the country in which that person might be supposed to reside, as have been afforded by the young woman, Rachael, fortunately now present to identify, I have had the happiness to succeed, and to bring that person with me I need not say most unwillingly on her part. It has not been, sir, without some trouble that I have effected this; but trouble in your service is to me a pleasure, and hunger, thirst, and cold a real gratification." Here Mrs. Sparsit ceased; for Mr. Bounderby's visage exhibited an extraordinary combination of all possible colours and expressions of discomfiture, as old Mrs. Pegler was disclosed to his view.<|quote|>"Why, what do you mean by this?"</|quote|>was his highly unexpected demand, in great warmth. "I ask you, what do you mean by this, Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?" "Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Sparsit, faintly. "Why don't you mind your own business, ma'am?" roared Bounderby. "How dare you go and poke your officious nose into my family affairs?" This allusion to her favourite feature overpowered Mrs. Sparsit. She sat down stiffly in a chair, as if she were frozen; and with a fixed stare at Mr. Bounderby, slowly grated her mittens against one another, as if they were frozen too. "My dear Josiah!" cried Mrs. Pegler, trembling. "My darling boy! I am not to blame. It's not my fault, Josiah. I told this lady over and over again, that I knew she was doing what would not be agreeable to you, but she would do it." "What did you let her bring you for? Couldn't you knock her cap off, or her tooth out, or scratch her, or do something or other to her?" asked Bounderby. "My own boy! She threatened me that if I resisted her, I should be brought by constables, and it was better to come quietly than make that stir in such a" Mrs. Pegler glanced
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way into that dwelling-house and see the matter out. But when the phenomenon was enhanced by the notoriety and mystery by this time associated all over the town with the Bank robbery, it would have lured the stragglers in, with an irresistible attraction, though the roof had been expected to fall upon their heads. Accordingly, the chance witnesses on the ground, consisting of the busiest of the neighbours to the number of some five-and-twenty, closed in after Sissy and Rachael, as they closed in after Mrs. Sparsit and her prize; and the whole body made a disorderly irruption into Mr. Bounderby's dining-room, where the people behind lost not a moment's time in mounting on the chairs, to get the better of the people in front. "Fetch Mr. Bounderby down!" cried Mrs. Sparsit. "Rachael, young woman; you know who this is?" "It's Mrs. Pegler," said Rachael. "I should think it is!" cried Mrs. Sparsit, exulting. "Fetch Mr. Bounderby. Stand away, everybody!" Here old Mrs. Pegler, muffling herself up, and shrinking from observation, whispered a word of entreaty. "Don't tell me," said Mrs. Sparsit, aloud. "I have told you twenty times, coming along, that I will _not_ leave you till I have handed you over to him myself." Mr. Bounderby now appeared, accompanied by Mr. Gradgrind and the whelp, with whom he had been holding conference up-stairs. Mr. Bounderby looked more astonished than hospitable, at sight of this uninvited party in his dining-room. "Why, what's the matter now!" said he. "Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?" "Sir," explained that worthy woman, "I trust it is my good fortune to produce a person you have much desired to find. Stimulated by my wish to relieve your mind, sir, and connecting together such imperfect clues to the part of the country in which that person might be supposed to reside, as have been afforded by the young woman, Rachael, fortunately now present to identify, I have had the happiness to succeed, and to bring that person with me I need not say most unwillingly on her part. It has not been, sir, without some trouble that I have effected this; but trouble in your service is to me a pleasure, and hunger, thirst, and cold a real gratification." Here Mrs. Sparsit ceased; for Mr. Bounderby's visage exhibited an extraordinary combination of all possible colours and expressions of discomfiture, as old Mrs. Pegler was disclosed to his view.<|quote|>"Why, what do you mean by this?"</|quote|>was his highly unexpected demand, in great warmth. "I ask you, what do you mean by this, Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?" "Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Sparsit, faintly. "Why don't you mind your own business, ma'am?" roared Bounderby. "How dare you go and poke your officious nose into my family affairs?" This allusion to her favourite feature overpowered Mrs. Sparsit. She sat down stiffly in a chair, as if she were frozen; and with a fixed stare at Mr. Bounderby, slowly grated her mittens against one another, as if they were frozen too. "My dear Josiah!" cried Mrs. Pegler, trembling. "My darling boy! I am not to blame. It's not my fault, Josiah. I told this lady over and over again, that I knew she was doing what would not be agreeable to you, but she would do it." "What did you let her bring you for? Couldn't you knock her cap off, or her tooth out, or scratch her, or do something or other to her?" asked Bounderby. "My own boy! She threatened me that if I resisted her, I should be brought by constables, and it was better to come quietly than make that stir in such a" Mrs. Pegler glanced timidly but proudly round the walls "such a fine house as this. Indeed, indeed, it is not my fault! My dear, noble, stately boy! I have always lived quiet, and secret, Josiah, my dear. I have never broken the condition once. I have never said I was your mother. I have admired you at a distance; and if I have come to town sometimes, with long times between, to take a proud peep at you, I have done it unbeknown, my love, and gone away again." Mr. Bounderby, with his hands in his pockets, walked in impatient mortification up and down at the side of the long dining-table, while the spectators greedily took in every syllable of Mrs. Pegler's appeal, and at each succeeding syllable became more and more round-eyed. Mr. Bounderby still walking up and down when Mrs. Pegler had done, Mr. Gradgrind addressed that maligned old lady: "I am surprised, madam," he observed with severity, "that in your old age you have the face to claim Mr. Bounderby for your son, after your unnatural and inhuman treatment of him." "_Me_ unnatural!" cried poor old Mrs. Pegler. "_Me_ inhuman! To my dear boy?" "Dear!" repeated Mr. Gradgrind. "Yes; dear
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hand adjusted Rachael's shawl upon her shining black hair in the usual manner of her wearing it, and they went out. The night being fine, little knots of Hands were here and there lingering at street corners; but it was supper-time with the greater part of them, and there were but few people in the streets. "You're not so hurried now, Rachael, and your hand is cooler." "I get better, dear, if I can only walk, and breathe a little fresh. 'Times when I can't, I turn weak and confused." "But you must not begin to fail, Rachael, for you may be wanted at any time to stand by Stephen. To-morrow is Saturday. If no news comes to-morrow, let us walk in the country on Sunday morning, and strengthen you for another week. Will you go?" "Yes, dear." They were by this time in the street where Mr. Bounderby's house stood. The way to Sissy's destination led them past the door, and they were going straight towards it. Some train had newly arrived in Coketown, which had put a number of vehicles in motion, and scattered a considerable bustle about the town. Several coaches were rattling before them and behind them as they approached Mr. Bounderby's, and one of the latter drew up with such briskness as they were in the act of passing the house, that they looked round involuntarily. The bright gaslight over Mr. Bounderby's steps showed them Mrs. Sparsit in the coach, in an ecstasy of excitement, struggling to open the door; Mrs. Sparsit seeing them at the same moment, called to them to stop. "It's a coincidence," exclaimed Mrs. Sparsit, as she was released by the coachman. "It's a Providence! Come out, ma'am!" then said Mrs. Sparsit, to some one inside, "come out, or we'll have you dragged out!" Hereupon, no other than the mysterious old woman descended. Whom Mrs. Sparsit incontinently collared. "Leave her alone, everybody!" cried Mrs. Sparsit, with great energy. "Let nobody touch her. She belongs to me. Come in, ma'am!" then said Mrs. Sparsit, reversing her former word of command. "Come in, ma'am, or we'll have you dragged in!" The spectacle of a matron of classical deportment, seizing an ancient woman by the throat, and hauling her into a dwelling-house, would have been under any circumstances, sufficient temptation to all true English stragglers so blest as to witness it, to force a way into that dwelling-house and see the matter out. But when the phenomenon was enhanced by the notoriety and mystery by this time associated all over the town with the Bank robbery, it would have lured the stragglers in, with an irresistible attraction, though the roof had been expected to fall upon their heads. Accordingly, the chance witnesses on the ground, consisting of the busiest of the neighbours to the number of some five-and-twenty, closed in after Sissy and Rachael, as they closed in after Mrs. Sparsit and her prize; and the whole body made a disorderly irruption into Mr. Bounderby's dining-room, where the people behind lost not a moment's time in mounting on the chairs, to get the better of the people in front. "Fetch Mr. Bounderby down!" cried Mrs. Sparsit. "Rachael, young woman; you know who this is?" "It's Mrs. Pegler," said Rachael. "I should think it is!" cried Mrs. Sparsit, exulting. "Fetch Mr. Bounderby. Stand away, everybody!" Here old Mrs. Pegler, muffling herself up, and shrinking from observation, whispered a word of entreaty. "Don't tell me," said Mrs. Sparsit, aloud. "I have told you twenty times, coming along, that I will _not_ leave you till I have handed you over to him myself." Mr. Bounderby now appeared, accompanied by Mr. Gradgrind and the whelp, with whom he had been holding conference up-stairs. Mr. Bounderby looked more astonished than hospitable, at sight of this uninvited party in his dining-room. "Why, what's the matter now!" said he. "Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?" "Sir," explained that worthy woman, "I trust it is my good fortune to produce a person you have much desired to find. Stimulated by my wish to relieve your mind, sir, and connecting together such imperfect clues to the part of the country in which that person might be supposed to reside, as have been afforded by the young woman, Rachael, fortunately now present to identify, I have had the happiness to succeed, and to bring that person with me I need not say most unwillingly on her part. It has not been, sir, without some trouble that I have effected this; but trouble in your service is to me a pleasure, and hunger, thirst, and cold a real gratification." Here Mrs. Sparsit ceased; for Mr. Bounderby's visage exhibited an extraordinary combination of all possible colours and expressions of discomfiture, as old Mrs. Pegler was disclosed to his view.<|quote|>"Why, what do you mean by this?"</|quote|>was his highly unexpected demand, in great warmth. "I ask you, what do you mean by this, Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?" "Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Sparsit, faintly. "Why don't you mind your own business, ma'am?" roared Bounderby. "How dare you go and poke your officious nose into my family affairs?" This allusion to her favourite feature overpowered Mrs. Sparsit. She sat down stiffly in a chair, as if she were frozen; and with a fixed stare at Mr. Bounderby, slowly grated her mittens against one another, as if they were frozen too. "My dear Josiah!" cried Mrs. Pegler, trembling. "My darling boy! I am not to blame. It's not my fault, Josiah. I told this lady over and over again, that I knew she was doing what would not be agreeable to you, but she would do it." "What did you let her bring you for? Couldn't you knock her cap off, or her tooth out, or scratch her, or do something or other to her?" asked Bounderby. "My own boy! She threatened me that if I resisted her, I should be brought by constables, and it was better to come quietly than make that stir in such a" Mrs. Pegler glanced timidly but proudly round the walls "such a fine house as this. Indeed, indeed, it is not my fault! My dear, noble, stately boy! I have always lived quiet, and secret, Josiah, my dear. I have never broken the condition once. I have never said I was your mother. I have admired you at a distance; and if I have come to town sometimes, with long times between, to take a proud peep at you, I have done it unbeknown, my love, and gone away again." Mr. Bounderby, with his hands in his pockets, walked in impatient mortification up and down at the side of the long dining-table, while the spectators greedily took in every syllable of Mrs. Pegler's appeal, and at each succeeding syllable became more and more round-eyed. Mr. Bounderby still walking up and down when Mrs. Pegler had done, Mr. Gradgrind addressed that maligned old lady: "I am surprised, madam," he observed with severity, "that in your old age you have the face to claim Mr. Bounderby for your son, after your unnatural and inhuman treatment of him." "_Me_ unnatural!" cried poor old Mrs. Pegler. "_Me_ inhuman! To my dear boy?" "Dear!" repeated Mr. Gradgrind. "Yes; dear in his self-made prosperity, madam, I dare say. Not very dear, however, when you deserted him in his infancy, and left him to the brutality of a drunken grandmother." "_I_ deserted my Josiah!" cried Mrs. Pegler, clasping her hands. "Now, Lord forgive you, sir, for your wicked imaginations, and for your scandal against the memory of my poor mother, who died in my arms before Josiah was born. May you repent of it, sir, and live to know better!" She was so very earnest and injured, that Mr. Gradgrind, shocked by the possibility which dawned upon him, said in a gentler tone: "Do you deny, then, madam, that you left your son to to be brought up in the gutter?" "Josiah in the gutter!" exclaimed Mrs. Pegler. "No such a thing, sir. Never! For shame on you! My dear boy knows, and will give _you_ to know, that though he come of humble parents, he come of parents that loved him as dear as the best could, and never thought it hardship on themselves to pinch a bit that he might write and cipher beautiful, and I've his books at home to show it! Aye, have I!" said Mrs. Pegler, with indignant pride. "And my dear boy knows, and will give _you_ to know, sir, that after his beloved father died, when he was eight years old, his mother, too, could pinch a bit, as it was her duty and her pleasure and her pride to do it, to help him out in life, and put him 'prentice. And a steady lad he was, and a kind master he had to lend him a hand, and well he worked his own way forward to be rich and thriving. And _I_'ll give you to know, sir for this my dear boy won't that though his mother kept but a little village shop, he never forgot her, but pensioned me on thirty pound a year more than I want, for I put by out of it only making the condition that I was to keep down in my own part, and make no boasts about him, and not trouble him. And I never have, except with looking at him once a year, when he has never knowed it. And it's right," said poor old Mrs. Pegler, in affectionate championship, "that I _should_ keep down in my own part, and I have no
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a moment's time in mounting on the chairs, to get the better of the people in front. "Fetch Mr. Bounderby down!" cried Mrs. Sparsit. "Rachael, young woman; you know who this is?" "It's Mrs. Pegler," said Rachael. "I should think it is!" cried Mrs. Sparsit, exulting. "Fetch Mr. Bounderby. Stand away, everybody!" Here old Mrs. Pegler, muffling herself up, and shrinking from observation, whispered a word of entreaty. "Don't tell me," said Mrs. Sparsit, aloud. "I have told you twenty times, coming along, that I will _not_ leave you till I have handed you over to him myself." Mr. Bounderby now appeared, accompanied by Mr. Gradgrind and the whelp, with whom he had been holding conference up-stairs. Mr. Bounderby looked more astonished than hospitable, at sight of this uninvited party in his dining-room. "Why, what's the matter now!" said he. "Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?" "Sir," explained that worthy woman, "I trust it is my good fortune to produce a person you have much desired to find. Stimulated by my wish to relieve your mind, sir, and connecting together such imperfect clues to the part of the country in which that person might be supposed to reside, as have been afforded by the young woman, Rachael, fortunately now present to identify, I have had the happiness to succeed, and to bring that person with me I need not say most unwillingly on her part. It has not been, sir, without some trouble that I have effected this; but trouble in your service is to me a pleasure, and hunger, thirst, and cold a real gratification." Here Mrs. Sparsit ceased; for Mr. Bounderby's visage exhibited an extraordinary combination of all possible colours and expressions of discomfiture, as old Mrs. Pegler was disclosed to his view.<|quote|>"Why, what do you mean by this?"</|quote|>was his highly unexpected demand, in great warmth. "I ask you, what do you mean by this, Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?" "Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Sparsit, faintly. "Why don't you mind your own business, ma'am?" roared Bounderby. "How dare you go and poke your officious nose into my family affairs?" This allusion to her favourite feature overpowered Mrs. Sparsit. She sat down stiffly in a chair, as if she were frozen; and with a fixed stare at Mr. Bounderby, slowly grated her mittens against one another, as if they were frozen too. "My dear Josiah!" cried Mrs. Pegler, trembling. "My darling boy! I am not to blame. It's not my fault, Josiah. I told this lady over and over again, that I knew she was doing what would not be agreeable to you, but she would do it." "What did you let her bring you for? Couldn't you knock her cap off, or her tooth out, or scratch her, or do something or other to her?" asked Bounderby. "My own boy! She threatened me that if I resisted her, I should be brought by constables, and it was better to come quietly than make that stir in such a" Mrs. Pegler glanced timidly but proudly round the walls "such a fine house as this. Indeed, indeed, it is not my fault! My dear, noble, stately boy! I have always lived quiet, and secret, Josiah, my dear. I have never broken the condition once. I have never said I was your mother. I have admired you at a distance; and if I have come to town sometimes, with long times between, to take a proud peep at you, I have done it unbeknown, my love, and gone away again." Mr. Bounderby, with his hands in his pockets, walked in impatient mortification up and down at the side of the long dining-table, while the spectators greedily took in every syllable of Mrs. Pegler's appeal, and at each succeeding syllable became more and more round-eyed. Mr. Bounderby still walking up and down when Mrs. Pegler had done, Mr. Gradgrind addressed that maligned old lady: "I am surprised, madam," he observed with severity, "that in your old age you have the face to claim Mr. Bounderby for your son, after your unnatural and inhuman treatment of him." "_Me_ unnatural!" cried poor old Mrs. Pegler. "_Me_ inhuman! To my dear boy?" "Dear!" repeated Mr. Gradgrind. "Yes; dear in his self-made prosperity, madam, I dare say. Not very dear, however, when you deserted him in his infancy, and left him to the brutality of a drunken grandmother." "_I_ deserted my Josiah!" cried Mrs. Pegler, clasping her hands. "Now, Lord forgive you, sir, for your wicked imaginations, and for your scandal against the memory of my poor mother, who died in my arms before Josiah was born. May you repent of it, sir, and live to know better!" She was so very earnest and injured, that Mr. Gradgrind, shocked by the possibility which dawned upon
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Hard Times
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he said, excitedly;
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No speaker
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seeming to nod approval. "Pakeha!"<|quote|>he said, excitedly;</|quote|>"my pakeha; Maori pakeha." "What
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shoulder with his hand, and seeming to nod approval. "Pakeha!"<|quote|>he said, excitedly;</|quote|>"my pakeha; Maori pakeha." "What does he mean by that?"
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"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!"<|quote|>he said, excitedly;</|quote|>"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
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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!"<|quote|>he said, excitedly;</|quote|>"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
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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!"<|quote|>he said, excitedly;</|quote|>"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
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"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," said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut; "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!"<|quote|>he said, excitedly;</|quote|>"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
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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," said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut; "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!"<|quote|>he said, excitedly;</|quote|>"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 powerful man," said Don. "They'd obey you, but they wouldn't obey me." "Oh, yes, they would, if you went the right way to work. It isn't only being big. They're big, much bigger all round than Englishmen, and stronger and more active. They're not afraid of your body, but of your mind; that's what they can't understand. If I was to write down something on a bit of wood or a leaf--we don't often see paper here--and give it to you to read, and you did the same to me, that gets over them: it's a wonder they can't understand. And lots of other things we know are puzzles to them, and so they think us big. You consider it over a bit, my lad; and if you decide to run for it, I'll see as you don't come to no harm." "And him too?" "Oh, yes; he shall be all right too; I'll see to that." "Shouldn't be too tempting for 'em, eh? Should I?" said Jem. "Not for our tribes here," said the Englishman, laughing; "but I may as well be plain with you. If we went to war with some of the others, and they got hold of you--" "Say, Mas' Don," said Jem interrupting the speaker, "I don't like being a sort of white nigger aboard ship, and being kept a prisoner, and told it's to serve the king; but a man can go into the galley to speak to the cook without feeling that he's wondering which jynte of you he shall use first. No thankye; it's a werry lovely country, but I want to get home to my Sally some day; and if we cut and run here, I'm afraid I never should." "You turn it over in your own minds, both of you, my lads. There, my pipe's out, and I think we'll go. Stop here
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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," said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut; "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!"<|quote|>he said, excitedly;</|quote|>"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
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Don Lavington
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