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"Never mind for the moment what I mean by that,"
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Margaret
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I have actually been forgiven--?"<|quote|>"Never mind for the moment what I mean by that,"</|quote|>said Margaret. "Answer my question."
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That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?"<|quote|>"Never mind for the moment what I mean by that,"</|quote|>said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her
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which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?"<|quote|>"Never mind for the moment what I mean by that,"</|quote|>said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that
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time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?"<|quote|>"Never mind for the moment what I mean by that,"</|quote|>said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention
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did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself." "I think you yourself recommended plain speaking." They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?"<|quote|>"Never mind for the moment what I mean by that,"</|quote|>said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress--I forgave you. My sister has a lover--you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh, contemptible!--a man who insults his wife when she s alive and cants with her memory when she s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his
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Margaret. "Call it fancy. But realise that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen is fanciful, and wants to." Then he surprised her--a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps." "Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. "And suppose we don t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture. "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself." "I think you yourself recommended plain speaking." They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?"<|quote|>"Never mind for the moment what I mean by that,"</|quote|>said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress--I forgave you. My sister has a lover--you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh, contemptible!--a man who insults his wife when she s alive and cants with her memory when she s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other men. And gives bad financial advice, and then says he is not responsible. These men are you. You can t recognise them, because you cannot connect. I ve had enough of your unneeded kindness. I ve spoilt you long enough. All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. No one has ever told what you are--muddled, criminally muddled. Men like you use repentance as a blind, so don t repent. Only say to yourself, What Helen has done, I ve done." "The two cases are different," Henry stammered. His real retort was not quite ready. His brain was still in a whirl, and he wanted a little longer. "In what way different? You have betrayed Mrs. Wilcox, Helen only herself. You remain in society, Helen can t. You have had only pleasure, she may die. You have the insolence to talk to me of differences, Henry?" Oh, the uselessness of it! Henry s retort came. "I perceive you are attempting blackmail. It is scarcely a pretty weapon for a wife to use against her husband. My rule through life has been never to pay the least attention to threats,
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had saved her as well as himself. Exhausted with anger, she sat down again, blinking at him as he told her as much as he thought fit. At last she said: "May I ask you my question now?" "Certainly, my dear." "To-morrow Helen goes to Munich--" "Well, possibly she is right." "Henry, let a lady finish. To-morrow she goes; to-night, with your permission, she would like to sleep at Howards End." It was the crisis of his life. Again she would have recalled the words as soon as they were uttered. She had not led up to them with sufficient care. She longed to warn him that they were far more important than he supposed. She saw him weighing them, as if they were a business proposition. "Why Howards End?" he said at last. "Would she not be more comfortable, as I suggested, at the hotel?" Margaret hastened to give him reasons. "It is an odd request, but you know what Helen is and what women in her state are." He frowned, and moved irritably. "She has the idea that one night in your house would give her pleasure and do her good. I think she s right. Being one of those imaginative girls, the presence of all our books and furniture soothes her. This is a fact. It is the end of her girlhood. Her last words to me were, A beautiful ending." "She values the old furniture for sentimental reasons, in fact." "Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her last hope of being with it." "I don t agree there, my dear! Helen will have her share of the goods wherever she goes--possibly more than her share, for you are so fond of her that you d give her anything of yours that she fancies, wouldn t you? and I d raise no objection. I could understand it if it was her old home, because a home, or a house," he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a telling point--" "because a house in which one has once lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don t know why. Associations and so on. Now Helen has no associations with Howards End, though I and Charles and Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay the night there. She will only catch cold." "Leave it that you don t see," cried Margaret. "Call it fancy. But realise that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen is fanciful, and wants to." Then he surprised her--a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps." "Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. "And suppose we don t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture. "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself." "I think you yourself recommended plain speaking." They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?"<|quote|>"Never mind for the moment what I mean by that,"</|quote|>said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress--I forgave you. My sister has a lover--you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh, contemptible!--a man who insults his wife when she s alive and cants with her memory when she s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other men. And gives bad financial advice, and then says he is not responsible. These men are you. You can t recognise them, because you cannot connect. I ve had enough of your unneeded kindness. I ve spoilt you long enough. All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. No one has ever told what you are--muddled, criminally muddled. Men like you use repentance as a blind, so don t repent. Only say to yourself, What Helen has done, I ve done." "The two cases are different," Henry stammered. His real retort was not quite ready. His brain was still in a whirl, and he wanted a little longer. "In what way different? You have betrayed Mrs. Wilcox, Helen only herself. You remain in society, Helen can t. You have had only pleasure, she may die. You have the insolence to talk to me of differences, Henry?" Oh, the uselessness of it! Henry s retort came. "I perceive you are attempting blackmail. It is scarcely a pretty weapon for a wife to use against her husband. My rule through life has been never to pay the least attention to threats, and I can only repeat what I said before: I do not give you and your sister leave to sleep at Howards End." Margaret loosed his hands. He went into the house, wiping first one and then the other on his handkerchief. For a little she stood looking at the Six Hills, tombs of warriors, breasts of the spring. Then she passed out into what was now the evening. CHAPTER XXXIX Charles and Tibby met at Ducie Street, where the latter was staying. Their interview was short and absurd. They had nothing in common but the English language, and tried by its help to express what neither of them understood. Charles saw in Helen the family foe. He had singled her out as the most dangerous of the Schlegels, and, angry as he was, looked forward to telling his wife how right he had been. His mind was made up at once; the girl must be got out of the way before she disgraced them farther. If occasion offered she might be married to a villain, or, possibly, to a fool. But this was a concession to morality, it formed no part of his main scheme. Honest and hearty was Charles s dislike, and the past spread itself out very clearly before him; hatred is a skilful compositor. As if they were heads in a note-book, he ran through all the incidents of the Schlegels campaign: the attempt to compromise his brother, his mother s legacy, his father s marriage, the introduction of the furniture, the unpacking of the same. He had not yet heard of the request to sleep at Howards End; that was to be their master-stroke and the opportunity for his. But he already felt that Howards End was the objective, and, though he disliked the house, was determined to defend it. Tibby, on the other hand, had no opinions. He stood above the conventions: his sister had a right to do what she thought right. It is not difficult to stand above the conventions when we leave no hostages among them; men can always be more unconventional than women, and a bachelor of independent means need encounter no difficulties at all. Unlike Charles, Tibby had money enough; his ancestors had earned it for him, and if he shocked the people in one set of lodgings he had only to move into another. His was the leisure
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precipice in sight. "And suppose we don t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture. "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself." "I think you yourself recommended plain speaking." They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?"<|quote|>"Never mind for the moment what I mean by that,"</|quote|>said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress--I forgave you. My sister has a lover--you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh, contemptible!--a man who insults his wife when she s alive and cants with her memory when she s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other men. And gives
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Howards End
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"Ah! Indeed!"
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Josiah Bounderby
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Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind.<|quote|>"Ah! Indeed!"</|quote|>cried Bounderby. "And in that
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your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind.<|quote|>"Ah! Indeed!"</|quote|>cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary
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not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind.<|quote|>"Ah! Indeed!"</|quote|>cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here."
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and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her. "If you can't get it out, ma'am," said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind.<|quote|>"Ah! Indeed!"</|quote|>cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here." "Here?" "My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these loud out-breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to you, Louisa
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no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance, "I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her. "If you can't get it out, ma'am," said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind.<|quote|>"Ah! Indeed!"</|quote|>cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here." "Here?" "My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these loud out-breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for protection. I myself had not been at home many hours, when I received her here, in this room. She hurried by the train to town, she ran from town to this house, through a raging storm, and presented herself before me in a state of distraction. Of course, she has remained here ever since. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and for hers, to be more quiet." Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him for some moments, in every direction except Mrs. Sparsit's direction; and then, abruptly turning upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to
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various stages of suffering on the floor. He next had recourse to the administration of potent restoratives, such as screwing the patient's thumbs, smiting her hands, abundantly watering her face, and inserting salt in her mouth. When these attentions had recovered her (which they speedily did), he hustled her into a fast train without offering any other refreshment, and carried her back to Coketown more dead than alive. Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. Sparsit was an interesting spectacle on her arrival at her journey's end; but considered in any other light, the amount of damage she had by that time sustained was excessive, and impaired her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless of the wear and tear of her clothes and constitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance, "I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her. "If you can't get it out, ma'am," said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind.<|quote|>"Ah! Indeed!"</|quote|>cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here." "Here?" "My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these loud out-breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for protection. I myself had not been at home many hours, when I received her here, in this room. She hurried by the train to town, she ran from town to this house, through a raging storm, and presented herself before me in a state of distraction. Of course, she has remained here ever since. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and for hers, to be more quiet." Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him for some moments, in every direction except Mrs. Sparsit's direction; and then, abruptly turning upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to that wretched woman: "Now, ma'am! We shall be happy to hear any little apology you may think proper to offer, for going about the country at express pace, with no other luggage than a Cock-and-a-Bull, ma'am!" "Sir," whispered Mrs. Sparsit, "my nerves are at present too much shaken, and my health is at present too much impaired, in your service, to admit of my doing more than taking refuge in tears." (Which she did.) "Well, ma'am," said Bounderby, "without making any observation to you that may not be made with propriety to a woman of good family, what I have got to add to that, is that there is something else in which it appears to me you may take refuge, namely, a coach. And the coach in which we came here being at the door, you'll allow me to hand you down to it, and pack you home to the Bank: where the best course for you to pursue, will be to put your feet into the hottest water you can bear, and take a glass of scalding rum and butter after you get into bed." With these words, Mr. Bounderby extended his right hand to the weeping lady,
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be considered perfectly accomplished. Only a poor girl only a stroller only James Harthouse made nothing of only James Harthouse a Great Pyramid of failure." The Great Pyramid put it into his head to go up the Nile. He took a pen upon the instant, and wrote the following note (in appropriate hieroglyphics) to his brother: Dear Jack, All up at Coketown. Bored out of the place, and going in for camels. Affectionately, JEM. He rang the bell. "Send my fellow here." "Gone to bed, sir." "Tell him to get up, and pack up." He wrote two more notes. One, to Mr. Bounderby, announcing his retirement from that part of the country, and showing where he would be found for the next fortnight. The other, similar in effect, to Mr. Gradgrind. Almost as soon as the ink was dry upon their superscriptions, he had left the tall chimneys of Coketown behind, and was in a railway carriage, tearing and glaring over the dark landscape. The moral sort of fellows might suppose that Mr. James Harthouse derived some comfortable reflections afterwards, from this prompt retreat, as one of his few actions that made any amends for anything, and as a token to himself that he had escaped the climax of a very bad business. But it was not so, at all. A secret sense of having failed and been ridiculous a dread of what other fellows who went in for similar sorts of things, would say at his expense if they knew it so oppressed him, that what was about the very best passage in his life was the one of all others he would not have owned to on any account, and the only one that made him ashamed of himself. CHAPTER III VERY DECIDED THE indefatigable Mrs. Sparsit, with a violent cold upon her, her voice reduced to a whisper, and her stately frame so racked by continual sneezes that it seemed in danger of dismemberment, gave chase to her patron until she found him in the metropolis; and there, majestically sweeping in upon him at his hotel in St. James's Street, exploded the combustibles with which she was charged, and blew up. Having executed her mission with infinite relish, this high-minded woman then fainted away on Mr. Bounderby's coat-collar. Mr. Bounderby's first procedure was to shake Mrs. Sparsit off, and leave her to progress as she might through various stages of suffering on the floor. He next had recourse to the administration of potent restoratives, such as screwing the patient's thumbs, smiting her hands, abundantly watering her face, and inserting salt in her mouth. When these attentions had recovered her (which they speedily did), he hustled her into a fast train without offering any other refreshment, and carried her back to Coketown more dead than alive. Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. Sparsit was an interesting spectacle on her arrival at her journey's end; but considered in any other light, the amount of damage she had by that time sustained was excessive, and impaired her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless of the wear and tear of her clothes and constitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance, "I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her. "If you can't get it out, ma'am," said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind.<|quote|>"Ah! Indeed!"</|quote|>cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here." "Here?" "My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these loud out-breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for protection. I myself had not been at home many hours, when I received her here, in this room. She hurried by the train to town, she ran from town to this house, through a raging storm, and presented herself before me in a state of distraction. Of course, she has remained here ever since. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and for hers, to be more quiet." Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him for some moments, in every direction except Mrs. Sparsit's direction; and then, abruptly turning upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to that wretched woman: "Now, ma'am! We shall be happy to hear any little apology you may think proper to offer, for going about the country at express pace, with no other luggage than a Cock-and-a-Bull, ma'am!" "Sir," whispered Mrs. Sparsit, "my nerves are at present too much shaken, and my health is at present too much impaired, in your service, to admit of my doing more than taking refuge in tears." (Which she did.) "Well, ma'am," said Bounderby, "without making any observation to you that may not be made with propriety to a woman of good family, what I have got to add to that, is that there is something else in which it appears to me you may take refuge, namely, a coach. And the coach in which we came here being at the door, you'll allow me to hand you down to it, and pack you home to the Bank: where the best course for you to pursue, will be to put your feet into the hottest water you can bear, and take a glass of scalding rum and butter after you get into bed." With these words, Mr. Bounderby extended his right hand to the weeping lady, and escorted her to the conveyance in question, shedding many plaintive sneezes by the way. He soon returned alone. "Now, as you showed me in your face, Tom Gradgrind, that you wanted to speak to me," he resumed, "here I am. But, I am not in a very agreeable state, I tell you plainly: not relishing this business, even as it is, and not considering that I am at any time as dutifully and submissively treated by your daughter, as Josiah Bounderby of Coketown ought to be treated by his wife. You have your opinion, I dare say; and I have mine, I know. If you mean to say anything to me to-night, that goes against this candid remark, you had better let it alone." Mr. Gradgrind, it will be observed, being much softened, Mr. Bounderby took particular pains to harden himself at all points. It was his amiable nature. "My dear Bounderby," Mr. Gradgrind began in reply. "Now, you'll excuse me," said Bounderby, "but I don't want to be too dear. That, to start with. When I begin to be dear to a man, I generally find that his intention is to come over me. I am not speaking to you politely; but, as you are aware, I am _not_ polite. If you like politeness, you know where to get it. You have your gentleman-friends, you know, and they'll serve you with as much of the article as you want. I don't keep it myself." "Bounderby," urged Mr. Gradgrind, "we are all liable to mistakes" "I thought you couldn't make 'em," interrupted Bounderby. "Perhaps I thought so. But, I say we are all liable to mistakes and I should feel sensible of your delicacy, and grateful for it, if you would spare me these references to Harthouse. I shall not associate him in our conversation with your intimacy and encouragement; pray do not persist in connecting him with mine." "I never mentioned his name!" said Bounderby. "Well, well!" returned Mr. Gradgrind, with a patient, even a submissive, air. And he sat for a little while pondering. "Bounderby, I see reason to doubt whether we have ever quite understood Louisa." "Who do you mean by We?" "Let me say I, then," he returned, in answer to the coarsely blurted question; "I doubt whether I have understood Louisa. I doubt whether I have been quite right in the manner of her
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other refreshment, and carried her back to Coketown more dead than alive. Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. Sparsit was an interesting spectacle on her arrival at her journey's end; but considered in any other light, the amount of damage she had by that time sustained was excessive, and impaired her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless of the wear and tear of her clothes and constitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance, "I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her. "If you can't get it out, ma'am," said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind.<|quote|>"Ah! Indeed!"</|quote|>cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here." "Here?" "My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these loud out-breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for protection. I myself had not been at home many hours, when I received her here, in this room. She hurried by the train to town, she ran from town to this house, through a raging storm, and presented herself before me in a state of distraction. Of course, she has remained here ever since. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and for hers, to be more quiet." Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him for some moments, in every direction except Mrs. Sparsit's direction; and then, abruptly turning upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to that wretched woman: "Now, ma'am! We shall be happy to hear any little apology you may think proper to offer, for going about the country at express pace, with no other luggage than a Cock-and-a-Bull, ma'am!" "Sir," whispered Mrs. Sparsit, "my nerves are at present too much shaken, and my health is at present too much impaired, in your service, to admit of my doing more than taking refuge in tears." (Which she did.) "Well, ma'am," said Bounderby, "without making any observation to you that may not be made with propriety to a woman of good family, what I have got to add to that, is that there is something else in which it appears to me you may take refuge, namely, a coach. And the coach in which we came here being at the door, you'll allow me to hand you down to it, and pack you home to the Bank: where the best course for you to pursue, will be to put your feet into the hottest water you can bear, and take a glass of scalding rum and butter after you get into bed." With these words, Mr. Bounderby extended his right hand to the weeping
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Hard Times
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inquired Fagin.
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No speaker
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the same person. "Any news?"<|quote|>inquired Fagin.</|quote|>"Great." "And and good?" asked
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looks to have proceeded from the same person. "Any news?"<|quote|>inquired Fagin.</|quote|>"Great." "And and good?" asked Fagin, hesitating as though he
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levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person. "Any news?"<|quote|>inquired Fagin.</|quote|>"Great." "And and good?" asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the other man by being too sanguine. "Not bad, any way," replied Monks with a smile. "I have been prompt enough this time. Let me have a word with you." The girl drew closer to the table,
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the room, was close upon the girl before he observed her. It was Monks. "Only one of my young people," said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, on beholding a stranger. "Don't move, Nancy." The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person. "Any news?"<|quote|>inquired Fagin.</|quote|>"Great." "And and good?" asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the other man by being too sanguine. "Not bad, any way," replied Monks with a smile. "I have been prompt enough this time. Let me have a word with you." The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room, although she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps fearing she might say something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured to get rid of her: pointed upward, and took Monks out of the room. "Not that infernal
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the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time. "Bah!" he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; "it's the man I expected before; he's coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he's here, Nance. He won't stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear." Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man's step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close upon the girl before he observed her. It was Monks. "Only one of my young people," said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, on beholding a stranger. "Don't move, Nancy." The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person. "Any news?"<|quote|>inquired Fagin.</|quote|>"Great." "And and good?" asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the other man by being too sanguine. "Not bad, any way," replied Monks with a smile. "I have been prompt enough this time. Let me have a word with you." The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room, although she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps fearing she might say something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured to get rid of her: pointed upward, and took Monks out of the room. "Not that infernal hole we were in before," she could hear the man say as they went upstairs. Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did not reach her, seemed, by the creaking of the boards, to lead his companion to the second story. Before the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo through the house, the girl had slipped off her shoes; and drawing her gown loosely over her head, and muffling her arms in it, stood at the door, listening with breathless interest. The moment the noise ceased, she glided from the room; ascended the stairs with incredible softness and
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reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit. "Now," said Fagin, when they had left the room, "I'll go and get you that cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few odd things the boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I've got none to lock up, my dear ha! ha! ha! none to lock up. It's a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I'm fond of seeing the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all. Hush!" he said, hastily concealing the key in his breast; "who's that? Listen!" The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever he was, came or went: until the murmur of a man's voice reached her ears. The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time. "Bah!" he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; "it's the man I expected before; he's coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he's here, Nance. He won't stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear." Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man's step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close upon the girl before he observed her. It was Monks. "Only one of my young people," said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, on beholding a stranger. "Don't move, Nancy." The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person. "Any news?"<|quote|>inquired Fagin.</|quote|>"Great." "And and good?" asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the other man by being too sanguine. "Not bad, any way," replied Monks with a smile. "I have been prompt enough this time. Let me have a word with you." The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room, although she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps fearing she might say something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured to get rid of her: pointed upward, and took Monks out of the room. "Not that infernal hole we were in before," she could hear the man say as they went upstairs. Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did not reach her, seemed, by the creaking of the boards, to lead his companion to the second story. Before the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo through the house, the girl had slipped off her shoes; and drawing her gown loosely over her head, and muffling her arms in it, stood at the door, listening with breathless interest. The moment the noise ceased, she glided from the room; ascended the stairs with incredible softness and silence; and was lost in the gloom above. The room remained deserted for a quarter of an hour or more; the girl glided back with the same unearthly tread; and, immediately afterwards, the two men were heard descending. Monks went at once into the street; and the Jew crawled upstairs again for the money. When he returned, the girl was adjusting her shawl and bonnet, as if preparing to be gone. "Why, Nance!" exclaimed the Jew, starting back as he put down the candle, "how pale you are!" "Pale!" echoed the girl, shading her eyes with her hands, as if to look steadily at him. "Quite horrible. What have you been doing to yourself?" "Nothing that I know of, except sitting in this close place for I don't know how long and all," replied the girl carelessly. "Come! Let me get back; that's a dear." With a sigh for every piece of money, Fagin told the amount into her hand. They parted without more conversation, merely interchanging a "good-night." When the girl got into the open street, she sat down upon a doorstep; and seemed, for a few moments, wholly bewildered and unable to pursue her way. Suddenly she arose;
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as flat as a juryman; and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn't had the good natur' to amuse this youngster. Horrid dull, I'm blessed if I an't!" With these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr. Toby Crackit swept up his winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with a haughty air, as though such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the consideration of a man of his figure; this done, he swaggered out of the room, with so much elegance and gentility, that Mr. Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glances on his legs and boots till they were out of sight, assured the company that he considered his acquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he didn't value his losses the snap of his little finger. "Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!" said Master Bates, highly amused by this declaration. "Not a bit of it," replied Mr. Chitling. "Am I, Fagin?" "A very clever fellow, my dear," said Fagin, patting him on the shoulder, and winking to his other pupils. "And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an't he, Fagin?" asked Tom. "No doubt at all of that, my dear." "And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an't it, Fagin?" pursued Tom. "Very much so, indeed, my dear. They're only jealous, Tom, because he won't give it to them." "Ah!" cried Tom, triumphantly, "that's where it is! He has cleaned me out. But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?" "To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don't lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It's time you were on the lay. Come! It's near ten, and nothing done yet." In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit. "Now," said Fagin, when they had left the room, "I'll go and get you that cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few odd things the boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I've got none to lock up, my dear ha! ha! ha! none to lock up. It's a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I'm fond of seeing the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all. Hush!" he said, hastily concealing the key in his breast; "who's that? Listen!" The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever he was, came or went: until the murmur of a man's voice reached her ears. The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time. "Bah!" he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; "it's the man I expected before; he's coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he's here, Nance. He won't stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear." Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man's step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close upon the girl before he observed her. It was Monks. "Only one of my young people," said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, on beholding a stranger. "Don't move, Nancy." The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person. "Any news?"<|quote|>inquired Fagin.</|quote|>"Great." "And and good?" asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the other man by being too sanguine. "Not bad, any way," replied Monks with a smile. "I have been prompt enough this time. Let me have a word with you." The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room, although she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps fearing she might say something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured to get rid of her: pointed upward, and took Monks out of the room. "Not that infernal hole we were in before," she could hear the man say as they went upstairs. Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did not reach her, seemed, by the creaking of the boards, to lead his companion to the second story. Before the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo through the house, the girl had slipped off her shoes; and drawing her gown loosely over her head, and muffling her arms in it, stood at the door, listening with breathless interest. The moment the noise ceased, she glided from the room; ascended the stairs with incredible softness and silence; and was lost in the gloom above. The room remained deserted for a quarter of an hour or more; the girl glided back with the same unearthly tread; and, immediately afterwards, the two men were heard descending. Monks went at once into the street; and the Jew crawled upstairs again for the money. When he returned, the girl was adjusting her shawl and bonnet, as if preparing to be gone. "Why, Nance!" exclaimed the Jew, starting back as he put down the candle, "how pale you are!" "Pale!" echoed the girl, shading her eyes with her hands, as if to look steadily at him. "Quite horrible. What have you been doing to yourself?" "Nothing that I know of, except sitting in this close place for I don't know how long and all," replied the girl carelessly. "Come! Let me get back; that's a dear." With a sigh for every piece of money, Fagin told the amount into her hand. They parted without more conversation, merely interchanging a "good-night." When the girl got into the open street, she sat down upon a doorstep; and seemed, for a few moments, wholly bewildered and unable to pursue her way. Suddenly she arose; and hurrying on, in a direction quite opposite to that in which Sikes was awaiting her returned, quickened her pace, until it gradually resolved into a violent run. After completely exhausting herself, she stopped to take breath: and, as if suddenly recollecting herself, and deploring her inability to do something she was bent upon, wrung her hands, and burst into tears. It might be that her tears relieved her, or that she felt the full hopelessness of her condition; but she turned back; and hurrying with nearly as great rapidity in the contrary direction; partly to recover lost time, and partly to keep pace with the violent current of her own thoughts: soon reached the dwelling where she had left the housebreaker. If she betrayed any agitation, when she presented herself to Mr. Sikes, he did not observe it; for merely inquiring if she had brought the money, and receiving a reply in the affirmative, he uttered a growl of satisfaction, and replacing his head upon the pillow, resumed the slumbers which her arrival had interrupted. It was fortunate for her that the possession of money occasioned him so much employment next day in the way of eating and drinking; and withal had so beneficial an effect in smoothing down the asperities of his temper; that he had neither time nor inclination to be very critical upon her behaviour and deportment. That she had all the abstracted and nervous manner of one who is on the eve of some bold and hazardous step, which it has required no common struggle to resolve upon, would have been obvious to the lynx-eyed Fagin, who would most probably have taken the alarm at once; but Mr. Sikes lacking the niceties of discrimination, and being troubled with no more subtle misgivings than those which resolve themselves into a dogged roughness of behaviour towards everybody; and being, furthermore, in an unusually amiable condition, as has been already observed; saw nothing unusual in her demeanor, and indeed, troubled himself so little about her, that, had her agitation been far more perceptible than it was, it would have been very unlikely to have awakened his suspicions. As that day closed in, the girl's excitement increased; and, when night came on, and she sat by, watching until the housebreaker should drink himself asleep, there was an unusual paleness in her cheek, and a fire in her eye, that
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hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit. "Now," said Fagin, when they had left the room, "I'll go and get you that cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few odd things the boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I've got none to lock up, my dear ha! ha! ha! none to lock up. It's a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I'm fond of seeing the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all. Hush!" he said, hastily concealing the key in his breast; "who's that? Listen!" The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever he was, came or went: until the murmur of a man's voice reached her ears. The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time. "Bah!" he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; "it's the man I expected before; he's coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he's here, Nance. He won't stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear." Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man's step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close upon the girl before he observed her. It was Monks. "Only one of my young people," said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, on beholding a stranger. "Don't move, Nancy." The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person. "Any news?"<|quote|>inquired Fagin.</|quote|>"Great." "And and good?" asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the other man by being too sanguine. "Not bad, any way," replied Monks with a smile. "I have been prompt enough this time. Let me have a word with you." The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room, although she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps fearing she might say something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured to get rid of her: pointed upward, and took Monks out of the room. "Not that infernal hole we were in before," she could hear the man say as they went upstairs. Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did not reach her, seemed, by the creaking of the boards, to lead his companion to the second story. Before the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo through the house, the girl had slipped off her shoes; and drawing her gown loosely over her head, and muffling her arms in it, stood at the door, listening with breathless interest. The moment the noise ceased, she glided from the room; ascended the stairs with incredible softness and silence; and was lost in the gloom above. The room remained deserted for a quarter of an hour or more; the girl glided back with the same unearthly tread; and, immediately afterwards, the two men were heard descending. Monks went at once into the street; and the Jew crawled upstairs again for the money. When he returned, the girl was adjusting her shawl and bonnet, as if preparing to be gone. "Why, Nance!" exclaimed the Jew, starting back as he put down the candle, "how pale you are!" "Pale!" echoed the girl, shading her eyes with her hands, as if to look steadily at
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Oliver Twist
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"I can easily believe it. Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they are intelligent may be well worth listening to. Such varieties of human nature as they are in the habit of witnessing! And it is not merely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it occasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or affecting. What instances must pass before them of ardent, disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude, patience, resignation: of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble us most. A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of volumes."
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Anne Elliot
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cavil at the pleasure, replied,<|quote|>"I can easily believe it. Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they are intelligent may be well worth listening to. Such varieties of human nature as they are in the habit of witnessing! And it is not merely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it occasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or affecting. What instances must pass before them of ardent, disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude, patience, resignation: of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble us most. A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of volumes."</|quote|>"Yes," said Mrs Smith more
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Anne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied,<|quote|>"I can easily believe it. Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they are intelligent may be well worth listening to. Such varieties of human nature as they are in the habit of witnessing! And it is not merely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it occasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or affecting. What instances must pass before them of ardent, disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude, patience, resignation: of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble us most. A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of volumes."</|quote|>"Yes," said Mrs Smith more doubtingly, "sometimes it may, though
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one's species better. One likes to hear what is going on, to be au fait as to the newest modes of being trifling and silly. To me, who live so much alone, her conversation, I assure you, is a treat." Anne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied,<|quote|>"I can easily believe it. Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they are intelligent may be well worth listening to. Such varieties of human nature as they are in the habit of witnessing! And it is not merely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it occasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or affecting. What instances must pass before them of ardent, disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude, patience, resignation: of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble us most. A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of volumes."</|quote|>"Yes," said Mrs Smith more doubtingly, "sometimes it may, though I fear its lessons are not often in the elevated style you describe. Here and there, human nature may be great in times of trial; but generally speaking, it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a
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only received 'the best education in the world,' know nothing worth attending to. Call it gossip, if you will, but when Nurse Rooke has half an hour's leisure to bestow on me, she is sure to have something to relate that is entertaining and profitable: something that makes one know one's species better. One likes to hear what is going on, to be au fait as to the newest modes of being trifling and silly. To me, who live so much alone, her conversation, I assure you, is a treat." Anne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied,<|quote|>"I can easily believe it. Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they are intelligent may be well worth listening to. Such varieties of human nature as they are in the habit of witnessing! And it is not merely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it occasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or affecting. What instances must pass before them of ardent, disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude, patience, resignation: of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble us most. A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of volumes."</|quote|>"Yes," said Mrs Smith more doubtingly, "sometimes it may, though I fear its lessons are not often in the elevated style you describe. Here and there, human nature may be great in times of trial; but generally speaking, it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a sick chamber: it is selfishness and impatience rather than generosity and fortitude, that one hears of. There is so little real friendship in the world! and unfortunately" (speaking low and tremulously) "there are so many who forget to think seriously till it is almost too late." Anne saw the misery
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in this neighbourhood. She had a large acquaintance, of course professionally, among those who can afford to buy, and she disposes of my merchandise. She always takes the right time for applying. Everybody's heart is open, you know, when they have recently escaped from severe pain, or are recovering the blessing of health, and Nurse Rooke thoroughly understands when to speak. She is a shrewd, intelligent, sensible woman. Hers is a line for seeing human nature; and she has a fund of good sense and observation, which, as a companion, make her infinitely superior to thousands of those who having only received 'the best education in the world,' know nothing worth attending to. Call it gossip, if you will, but when Nurse Rooke has half an hour's leisure to bestow on me, she is sure to have something to relate that is entertaining and profitable: something that makes one know one's species better. One likes to hear what is going on, to be au fait as to the newest modes of being trifling and silly. To me, who live so much alone, her conversation, I assure you, is a treat." Anne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied,<|quote|>"I can easily believe it. Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they are intelligent may be well worth listening to. Such varieties of human nature as they are in the habit of witnessing! And it is not merely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it occasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or affecting. What instances must pass before them of ardent, disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude, patience, resignation: of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble us most. A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of volumes."</|quote|>"Yes," said Mrs Smith more doubtingly, "sometimes it may, though I fear its lessons are not often in the elevated style you describe. Here and there, human nature may be great in times of trial; but generally speaking, it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a sick chamber: it is selfishness and impatience rather than generosity and fortitude, that one hears of. There is so little real friendship in the world! and unfortunately" (speaking low and tremulously) "there are so many who forget to think seriously till it is almost too late." Anne saw the misery of such feelings. The husband had not been what he ought, and the wife had been led among that part of mankind which made her think worse of the world than she hoped it deserved. It was but a passing emotion however with Mrs Smith; she shook it off, and soon added in a different tone-- "I do not suppose the situation my friend Mrs Rooke is in at present, will furnish much either to interest or edify me. She is only nursing Mrs Wallis of Marlborough Buildings; a mere pretty, silly, expensive, fashionable woman, I believe; and of course
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having a regular nurse, and finances at that moment particularly unfit to meet any extraordinary expense. She had weathered it, however, and could truly say that it had done her good. It had increased her comforts by making her feel herself to be in good hands. She had seen too much of the world, to expect sudden or disinterested attachment anywhere, but her illness had proved to her that her landlady had a character to preserve, and would not use her ill; and she had been particularly fortunate in her nurse, as a sister of her landlady, a nurse by profession, and who had always a home in that house when unemployed, chanced to be at liberty just in time to attend her. "And she," said Mrs Smith, "besides nursing me most admirably, has really proved an invaluable acquaintance. As soon as I could use my hands she taught me to knit, which has been a great amusement; and she put me in the way of making these little thread-cases, pin-cushions and card-racks, which you always find me so busy about, and which supply me with the means of doing a little good to one or two very poor families in this neighbourhood. She had a large acquaintance, of course professionally, among those who can afford to buy, and she disposes of my merchandise. She always takes the right time for applying. Everybody's heart is open, you know, when they have recently escaped from severe pain, or are recovering the blessing of health, and Nurse Rooke thoroughly understands when to speak. She is a shrewd, intelligent, sensible woman. Hers is a line for seeing human nature; and she has a fund of good sense and observation, which, as a companion, make her infinitely superior to thousands of those who having only received 'the best education in the world,' know nothing worth attending to. Call it gossip, if you will, but when Nurse Rooke has half an hour's leisure to bestow on me, she is sure to have something to relate that is entertaining and profitable: something that makes one know one's species better. One likes to hear what is going on, to be au fait as to the newest modes of being trifling and silly. To me, who live so much alone, her conversation, I assure you, is a treat." Anne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied,<|quote|>"I can easily believe it. Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they are intelligent may be well worth listening to. Such varieties of human nature as they are in the habit of witnessing! And it is not merely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it occasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or affecting. What instances must pass before them of ardent, disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude, patience, resignation: of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble us most. A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of volumes."</|quote|>"Yes," said Mrs Smith more doubtingly, "sometimes it may, though I fear its lessons are not often in the elevated style you describe. Here and there, human nature may be great in times of trial; but generally speaking, it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a sick chamber: it is selfishness and impatience rather than generosity and fortitude, that one hears of. There is so little real friendship in the world! and unfortunately" (speaking low and tremulously) "there are so many who forget to think seriously till it is almost too late." Anne saw the misery of such feelings. The husband had not been what he ought, and the wife had been led among that part of mankind which made her think worse of the world than she hoped it deserved. It was but a passing emotion however with Mrs Smith; she shook it off, and soon added in a different tone-- "I do not suppose the situation my friend Mrs Rooke is in at present, will furnish much either to interest or edify me. She is only nursing Mrs Wallis of Marlborough Buildings; a mere pretty, silly, expensive, fashionable woman, I believe; and of course will have nothing to report but of lace and finery. I mean to make my profit of Mrs Wallis, however. She has plenty of money, and I intend she shall buy all the high-priced things I have in hand now." Anne had called several times on her friend, before the existence of such a person was known in Camden Place. At last, it became necessary to speak of her. Sir Walter, Elizabeth and Mrs Clay, returned one morning from Laura Place, with a sudden invitation from Lady Dalrymple for the same evening, and Anne was already engaged, to spend that evening in Westgate Buildings. She was not sorry for the excuse. They were only asked, she was sure, because Lady Dalrymple being kept at home by a bad cold, was glad to make use of the relationship which had been so pressed on her; and she declined on her own account with great alacrity--"She was engaged to spend the evening with an old schoolfellow." They were not much interested in anything relative to Anne; but still there were questions enough asked, to make it understood what this old schoolfellow was; and Elizabeth was disdainful, and Sir Walter severe. "Westgate Buildings!"
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good sense and agreeable manners which she had almost ventured to depend on, and a disposition to converse and be cheerful beyond her expectation. Neither the dissipations of the past--and she had lived very much in the world--nor the restrictions of the present, neither sickness nor sorrow seemed to have closed her heart or ruined her spirits. In the course of a second visit she talked with great openness, and Anne's astonishment increased. She could scarcely imagine a more cheerless situation in itself than Mrs Smith's. She had been very fond of her husband: she had buried him. She had been used to affluence: it was gone. She had no child to connect her with life and happiness again, no relations to assist in the arrangement of perplexed affairs, no health to make all the rest supportable. Her accommodations were limited to a noisy parlour, and a dark bedroom behind, with no possibility of moving from one to the other without assistance, which there was only one servant in the house to afford, and she never quitted the house but to be conveyed into the warm bath. Yet, in spite of all this, Anne had reason to believe that she had moments only of languor and depression, to hours of occupation and enjoyment. How could it be? She watched, observed, reflected, and finally determined that this was not a case of fortitude or of resignation only. A submissive spirit might be patient, a strong understanding would supply resolution, but here was something more; here was that elasticity of mind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily from evil to good, and of finding employment which carried her out of herself, which was from nature alone. It was the choicest gift of Heaven; and Anne viewed her friend as one of those instances in which, by a merciful appointment, it seems designed to counterbalance almost every other want. There had been a time, Mrs Smith told her, when her spirits had nearly failed. She could not call herself an invalid now, compared with her state on first reaching Bath. Then she had, indeed, been a pitiable object; for she had caught cold on the journey, and had hardly taken possession of her lodgings before she was again confined to her bed and suffering under severe and constant pain; and all this among strangers, with the absolute necessity of having a regular nurse, and finances at that moment particularly unfit to meet any extraordinary expense. She had weathered it, however, and could truly say that it had done her good. It had increased her comforts by making her feel herself to be in good hands. She had seen too much of the world, to expect sudden or disinterested attachment anywhere, but her illness had proved to her that her landlady had a character to preserve, and would not use her ill; and she had been particularly fortunate in her nurse, as a sister of her landlady, a nurse by profession, and who had always a home in that house when unemployed, chanced to be at liberty just in time to attend her. "And she," said Mrs Smith, "besides nursing me most admirably, has really proved an invaluable acquaintance. As soon as I could use my hands she taught me to knit, which has been a great amusement; and she put me in the way of making these little thread-cases, pin-cushions and card-racks, which you always find me so busy about, and which supply me with the means of doing a little good to one or two very poor families in this neighbourhood. She had a large acquaintance, of course professionally, among those who can afford to buy, and she disposes of my merchandise. She always takes the right time for applying. Everybody's heart is open, you know, when they have recently escaped from severe pain, or are recovering the blessing of health, and Nurse Rooke thoroughly understands when to speak. She is a shrewd, intelligent, sensible woman. Hers is a line for seeing human nature; and she has a fund of good sense and observation, which, as a companion, make her infinitely superior to thousands of those who having only received 'the best education in the world,' know nothing worth attending to. Call it gossip, if you will, but when Nurse Rooke has half an hour's leisure to bestow on me, she is sure to have something to relate that is entertaining and profitable: something that makes one know one's species better. One likes to hear what is going on, to be au fait as to the newest modes of being trifling and silly. To me, who live so much alone, her conversation, I assure you, is a treat." Anne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied,<|quote|>"I can easily believe it. Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they are intelligent may be well worth listening to. Such varieties of human nature as they are in the habit of witnessing! And it is not merely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it occasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or affecting. What instances must pass before them of ardent, disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude, patience, resignation: of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble us most. A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of volumes."</|quote|>"Yes," said Mrs Smith more doubtingly, "sometimes it may, though I fear its lessons are not often in the elevated style you describe. Here and there, human nature may be great in times of trial; but generally speaking, it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a sick chamber: it is selfishness and impatience rather than generosity and fortitude, that one hears of. There is so little real friendship in the world! and unfortunately" (speaking low and tremulously) "there are so many who forget to think seriously till it is almost too late." Anne saw the misery of such feelings. The husband had not been what he ought, and the wife had been led among that part of mankind which made her think worse of the world than she hoped it deserved. It was but a passing emotion however with Mrs Smith; she shook it off, and soon added in a different tone-- "I do not suppose the situation my friend Mrs Rooke is in at present, will furnish much either to interest or edify me. She is only nursing Mrs Wallis of Marlborough Buildings; a mere pretty, silly, expensive, fashionable woman, I believe; and of course will have nothing to report but of lace and finery. I mean to make my profit of Mrs Wallis, however. She has plenty of money, and I intend she shall buy all the high-priced things I have in hand now." Anne had called several times on her friend, before the existence of such a person was known in Camden Place. At last, it became necessary to speak of her. Sir Walter, Elizabeth and Mrs Clay, returned one morning from Laura Place, with a sudden invitation from Lady Dalrymple for the same evening, and Anne was already engaged, to spend that evening in Westgate Buildings. She was not sorry for the excuse. They were only asked, she was sure, because Lady Dalrymple being kept at home by a bad cold, was glad to make use of the relationship which had been so pressed on her; and she declined on her own account with great alacrity--"She was engaged to spend the evening with an old schoolfellow." They were not much interested in anything relative to Anne; but still there were questions enough asked, to make it understood what this old schoolfellow was; and Elizabeth was disdainful, and Sir Walter severe. "Westgate Buildings!" said he, "and who is Miss Anne Elliot to be visiting in Westgate Buildings? A Mrs Smith. A widow Mrs Smith; and who was her husband? One of five thousand Mr Smiths whose names are to be met with everywhere. And what is her attraction? That she is old and sickly. Upon my word, Miss Anne Elliot, you have the most extraordinary taste! Everything that revolts other people, low company, paltry rooms, foul air, disgusting associations are inviting to you. But surely you may put off this old lady till to-morrow: she is not so near her end, I presume, but that she may hope to see another day. What is her age? Forty?" "No, sir, she is not one-and-thirty; but I do not think I can put off my engagement, because it is the only evening for some time which will at once suit her and myself. She goes into the warm bath to-morrow, and for the rest of the week, you know, we are engaged." "But what does Lady Russell think of this acquaintance?" asked Elizabeth. "She sees nothing to blame in it," replied Anne; "on the contrary, she approves it, and has generally taken me when I have called on Mrs Smith." "Westgate Buildings must have been rather surprised by the appearance of a carriage drawn up near its pavement," observed Sir Walter. "Sir Henry Russell's widow, indeed, has no honours to distinguish her arms, but still it is a handsome equipage, and no doubt is well known to convey a Miss Elliot. A widow Mrs Smith lodging in Westgate Buildings! A poor widow barely able to live, between thirty and forty; a mere Mrs Smith, an every-day Mrs Smith, of all people and all names in the world, to be the chosen friend of Miss Anne Elliot, and to be preferred by her to her own family connections among the nobility of England and Ireland! Mrs Smith! Such a name!" Mrs Clay, who had been present while all this passed, now thought it advisable to leave the room, and Anne could have said much, and did long to say a little in defence of her friend's not very dissimilar claims to theirs, but her sense of personal respect to her father prevented her. She made no reply. She left it to himself to recollect, that Mrs Smith was not the only widow in Bath between thirty
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now, compared with her state on first reaching Bath. Then she had, indeed, been a pitiable object; for she had caught cold on the journey, and had hardly taken possession of her lodgings before she was again confined to her bed and suffering under severe and constant pain; and all this among strangers, with the absolute necessity of having a regular nurse, and finances at that moment particularly unfit to meet any extraordinary expense. She had weathered it, however, and could truly say that it had done her good. It had increased her comforts by making her feel herself to be in good hands. She had seen too much of the world, to expect sudden or disinterested attachment anywhere, but her illness had proved to her that her landlady had a character to preserve, and would not use her ill; and she had been particularly fortunate in her nurse, as a sister of her landlady, a nurse by profession, and who had always a home in that house when unemployed, chanced to be at liberty just in time to attend her. "And she," said Mrs Smith, "besides nursing me most admirably, has really proved an invaluable acquaintance. As soon as I could use my hands she taught me to knit, which has been a great amusement; and she put me in the way of making these little thread-cases, pin-cushions and card-racks, which you always find me so busy about, and which supply me with the means of doing a little good to one or two very poor families in this neighbourhood. She had a large acquaintance, of course professionally, among those who can afford to buy, and she disposes of my merchandise. She always takes the right time for applying. Everybody's heart is open, you know, when they have recently escaped from severe pain, or are recovering the blessing of health, and Nurse Rooke thoroughly understands when to speak. She is a shrewd, intelligent, sensible woman. Hers is a line for seeing human nature; and she has a fund of good sense and observation, which, as a companion, make her infinitely superior to thousands of those who having only received 'the best education in the world,' know nothing worth attending to. Call it gossip, if you will, but when Nurse Rooke has half an hour's leisure to bestow on me, she is sure to have something to relate that is entertaining and profitable: something that makes one know one's species better. One likes to hear what is going on, to be au fait as to the newest modes of being trifling and silly. To me, who live so much alone, her conversation, I assure you, is a treat." Anne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied,<|quote|>"I can easily believe it. Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they are intelligent may be well worth listening to. Such varieties of human nature as they are in the habit of witnessing! And it is not merely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it occasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or affecting. What instances must pass before them of ardent, disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude, patience, resignation: of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble us most. A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of volumes."</|quote|>"Yes," said Mrs Smith more doubtingly, "sometimes it may, though I fear its lessons are not often in the elevated style you describe. Here and there, human nature may be great in times of trial; but generally speaking, it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a sick chamber: it is selfishness and impatience rather than generosity and fortitude, that one hears of. There is so little real friendship in the world! and unfortunately" (speaking low and tremulously) "there are so many who forget to think seriously till it is almost too late." Anne saw the misery of such feelings. The husband had not been what he ought, and the wife had been led among that part of mankind which made her think worse of the world than she hoped it deserved. It was but a passing emotion however with Mrs Smith; she shook it off, and soon added in a different tone-- "I do not suppose the situation my friend Mrs Rooke is in at present, will furnish much either to interest or edify me. She is only nursing Mrs Wallis of Marlborough Buildings; a mere pretty, silly, expensive, fashionable woman, I believe; and of course will have nothing to report but of lace and finery. I mean to make my profit of Mrs Wallis, however. She has plenty of money, and I intend she shall buy all the high-priced things I have in hand now." Anne had called several times on her friend, before the existence of such a person was known in Camden Place. At last, it became necessary to speak of her. Sir Walter, Elizabeth and Mrs Clay, returned one morning from Laura Place, with a sudden invitation from Lady Dalrymple for the same evening, and Anne was already engaged, to spend that evening in Westgate Buildings. She was not sorry for the excuse. They were only asked, she was sure, because Lady Dalrymple being kept at home by a bad cold, was glad to make use of the relationship which had been so pressed on her; and she declined on her own account with great alacrity--"She was engaged to spend the evening with an old schoolfellow." They were not much interested in anything relative to Anne; but still there were questions enough asked, to make it understood what this old schoolfellow was; and Elizabeth was disdainful, and Sir Walter severe. "Westgate Buildings!" said he, "and who is Miss Anne Elliot to be visiting in Westgate Buildings? A Mrs Smith. A widow Mrs Smith; and who was her husband? One of five thousand Mr Smiths whose names are to be met with everywhere. And what is her attraction? That she is old and sickly. Upon my word, Miss Anne Elliot, you have the
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Persuasion
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"Henry, I am awfully sorry."
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Margaret
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"There now, I love you."<|quote|>"Henry, I am awfully sorry."</|quote|>"And pray why?" he asked,
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boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you."<|quote|>"Henry, I am awfully sorry."</|quote|>"And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so
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"I congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked. "Hen, don t go. You do love me, dear, don t you?" "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jacky pointed with her cake. "You re a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you."<|quote|>"Henry, I am awfully sorry."</|quote|>"And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. "To have brought this down on you." "Pray don t apologise." The voice continued. "Why does she call you Hen ?" said Margaret innocently. "Has
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the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn t Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout fait diff rent." "Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked. "Hen, don t go. You do love me, dear, don t you?" "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jacky pointed with her cake. "You re a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you."<|quote|>"Henry, I am awfully sorry."</|quote|>"And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. "To have brought this down on you." "Pray don t apologise." The voice continued. "Why does she call you Hen ?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she ever seen you before?" "Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn t seen Hen? He s serving you like me, my boys! You wait--Still we love em." "Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked. Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don t know what it is all about," she said.
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abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired," Margaret whispered. "She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn t Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout fait diff rent." "Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked. "Hen, don t go. You do love me, dear, don t you?" "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jacky pointed with her cake. "You re a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you."<|quote|>"Henry, I am awfully sorry."</|quote|>"And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. "To have brought this down on you." "Pray don t apologise." The voice continued. "Why does she call you Hen ?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she ever seen you before?" "Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn t seen Hen? He s serving you like me, my boys! You wait--Still we love em." "Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked. Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don t know what it is all about," she said. "Let s come in." But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. "Don t you indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your plan." "This is Helen s plan, not mine." "I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out. I am amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right--it was necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man s past. I have the honour to release you from your engagement." Still she could not understand. She
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would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover s arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired," Margaret whispered. "She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn t Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout fait diff rent." "Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked. "Hen, don t go. You do love me, dear, don t you?" "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jacky pointed with her cake. "You re a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you."<|quote|>"Henry, I am awfully sorry."</|quote|>"And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. "To have brought this down on you." "Pray don t apologise." The voice continued. "Why does she call you Hen ?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she ever seen you before?" "Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn t seen Hen? He s serving you like me, my boys! You wait--Still we love em." "Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked. Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don t know what it is all about," she said. "Let s come in." But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. "Don t you indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your plan." "This is Helen s plan, not mine." "I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out. I am amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right--it was necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man s past. I have the honour to release you from your engagement." Still she could not understand. She knew of life s seamy side as a theory; she could not grasp it as a fact. More words from Jacky were necessary--words unequivocal, undenied. "So that--" burst from her, and she went indoors. She stopped herself from saying more. "So what?" asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting ready to start in the hall. "We were saying--Henry and I were just having the fiercest argument, my point being--" Seizing his fur coat from a footman, she offered to help him on. He protested, and there was a playful little scene. "No, let me do that," said Henry, following. "Thanks so much! You see--he has forgiven me!" The Colonel said gallantly: "I don t expect there s much to forgive." He got into the car. The ladies followed him after an interval. Maids, courier, and heavier luggage had been sent on earlier by the branch-line. Still chattering, still thanking their host and patronising their future hostess, the guests were borne away. Then Margaret continued: "So that woman has been your mistress?" "You put it with your usual delicacy," he replied. "When, please?" "Why?" "When, please?" "Ten years ago." She left him without a word. For it was not her tragedy; it
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he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don t know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. "Where was he before?" "Dempster s Bank." "Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering nothing. "They reduced their staff." "All right; I ll see him." It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can t influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem. "I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don t know whether he s qualified." "I ll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn t be taken as a precedent." "No, of course--of course--" "I can t fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer." "I can promise you he s the last. He--he s rather a special case." "Proteges always are." She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself--hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air. "Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will just be starting." On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover s arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired," Margaret whispered. "She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn t Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout fait diff rent." "Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked. "Hen, don t go. You do love me, dear, don t you?" "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jacky pointed with her cake. "You re a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you."<|quote|>"Henry, I am awfully sorry."</|quote|>"And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. "To have brought this down on you." "Pray don t apologise." The voice continued. "Why does she call you Hen ?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she ever seen you before?" "Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn t seen Hen? He s serving you like me, my boys! You wait--Still we love em." "Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked. Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don t know what it is all about," she said. "Let s come in." But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. "Don t you indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your plan." "This is Helen s plan, not mine." "I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out. I am amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right--it was necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man s past. I have the honour to release you from your engagement." Still she could not understand. She knew of life s seamy side as a theory; she could not grasp it as a fact. More words from Jacky were necessary--words unequivocal, undenied. "So that--" burst from her, and she went indoors. She stopped herself from saying more. "So what?" asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting ready to start in the hall. "We were saying--Henry and I were just having the fiercest argument, my point being--" Seizing his fur coat from a footman, she offered to help him on. He protested, and there was a playful little scene. "No, let me do that," said Henry, following. "Thanks so much! You see--he has forgiven me!" The Colonel said gallantly: "I don t expect there s much to forgive." He got into the car. The ladies followed him after an interval. Maids, courier, and heavier luggage had been sent on earlier by the branch-line. Still chattering, still thanking their host and patronising their future hostess, the guests were borne away. Then Margaret continued: "So that woman has been your mistress?" "You put it with your usual delicacy," he replied. "When, please?" "Why?" "When, please?" "Ten years ago." She left him without a word. For it was not her tragedy; it was Mrs. Wilcox s. CHAPTER XXVII Helen began to wonder why she had spent a matter of eight pounds in making some people ill and others angry. Now that the wave of excitement was ebbing, and had left her, Mr. Bast, and Mrs. Bast stranded for the night in a Shropshire hotel, she asked herself what forces had made the wave flow. At all events, no harm was done. Margaret would play the game properly now, and though Helen disapproved of her sister s methods, she knew that the Basts would benefit by them in the long-run. "Mr. Wilcox is so illogical," she explained to Leonard, who had put his wife to bed, and was sitting with her in the empty coffee-room. "If we told him it was his duty to take you on, he might refuse to do it. The fact is, he isn t properly educated. I don t want to set you against him, but you ll find him a trial." "I can never thank you sufficiently, Miss Schlegel," was all that Leonard felt equal to. "I believe in personal responsibility. Don t you? And in personal everything. I hate--I suppose I oughtn t to say that--but the Wilcoxes are on the wrong tack surely. Or perhaps it isn t their fault. Perhaps the little thing that says I is missing out of the middle of their heads, and then it s a waste of time to blame them. There s a nightmare of a theory that says a special race is being born which will rule the rest of us in the future just because it lacks the little thing that says I. Had you heard that?" "I get no time for reading." "Had you thought it, then? That there are two kinds of people--our kind, who live straight from the middle of their heads, and the other kind who can t, because their heads have no middle? They can t say I. They AREN T in fact, and so they re supermen. Pierpont Morgan has never said I in his life." Leonard roused himself. If his benefactress wanted intellectual conversation, she must have it. She was more important than his ruined past. "I never got on to Nietzsche," he said. "But I always understood that those supermen were rather what you may call egoists." "Oh no, that s wrong," replied Helen. "No superman ever said
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the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover s arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired," Margaret whispered. "She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn t Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout fait diff rent." "Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked. "Hen, don t go. You do love me, dear, don t you?" "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jacky pointed with her cake. "You re a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you."<|quote|>"Henry, I am awfully sorry."</|quote|>"And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. "To have brought this down on you." "Pray don t apologise." The voice continued. "Why does she call you Hen ?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she ever seen you before?" "Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn t seen Hen? He s serving you like me, my boys! You wait--Still we love em." "Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked. Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don t know what it is all about," she said. "Let s come in." But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. "Don t you indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your plan." "This is Helen s plan, not mine." "I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out. I am amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right--it was necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man s past. I have the honour to release you from your engagement." Still she could not understand. She knew of life s seamy side as a theory; she could not grasp it as a fact. More words from Jacky were necessary--words unequivocal, undenied. "So that--" burst from her, and she went indoors. She stopped herself from saying more. "So what?" asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting ready to start in the hall. "We were saying--Henry and I were just having the fiercest argument, my point being--" Seizing his fur coat from a footman, she offered to help him on. He protested, and
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Howards End
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"She loves you."
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Katharine Hilbery
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sentence yet a third time.<|quote|>"She loves you."</|quote|>William slowly raised himself. He
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raised herself and repeated the sentence yet a third time.<|quote|>"She loves you."</|quote|>William slowly raised himself. He believed instinctively what Katharine said,
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protection. "Yes, yes, yes," he murmured, "you accept me, Katharine. You love me." For a moment she remained silent. He then heard her murmur: "Cassandra loves you more than I do." "Cassandra?" he whispered. "She loves you," Katharine repeated. She raised herself and repeated the sentence yet a third time.<|quote|>"She loves you."</|quote|>William slowly raised himself. He believed instinctively what Katharine said, but what it meant to him he was unable to understand. Could Cassandra love him? Could she have told Katharine that she loved him? The desire to know the truth of this was urgent, unknown though the consequences might be.
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her the only thing that could make it tolerable to live. She let him press his lips to her cheek, and leant her head upon his arm. It was the moment of his triumph. It was the only moment in which she belonged to him and was dependent upon his protection. "Yes, yes, yes," he murmured, "you accept me, Katharine. You love me." For a moment she remained silent. He then heard her murmur: "Cassandra loves you more than I do." "Cassandra?" he whispered. "She loves you," Katharine repeated. She raised herself and repeated the sentence yet a third time.<|quote|>"She loves you."</|quote|>William slowly raised himself. He believed instinctively what Katharine said, but what it meant to him he was unable to understand. Could Cassandra love him? Could she have told Katharine that she loved him? The desire to know the truth of this was urgent, unknown though the consequences might be. The thrill of excitement associated with the thought of Cassandra once more took possession of him. No longer was it the excitement of anticipation and ignorance; it was the excitement of something greater than a possibility, for now he knew her and had measure of the sympathy between them. But
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at that moment, owing, perhaps, to her vicissitudes of feeling, all sense of love left her, as in a moment a mist lifts from the earth. And when the mist departed a skeleton world and blankness alone remained a terrible prospect for the eyes of the living to behold. He saw the look of terror in her face, and without understanding its origin, took her hand in his. With the sense of companionship returned a desire, like that of a child for shelter, to accept what he had to offer her and at that moment it seemed that he offered her the only thing that could make it tolerable to live. She let him press his lips to her cheek, and leant her head upon his arm. It was the moment of his triumph. It was the only moment in which she belonged to him and was dependent upon his protection. "Yes, yes, yes," he murmured, "you accept me, Katharine. You love me." For a moment she remained silent. He then heard her murmur: "Cassandra loves you more than I do." "Cassandra?" he whispered. "She loves you," Katharine repeated. She raised herself and repeated the sentence yet a third time.<|quote|>"She loves you."</|quote|>William slowly raised himself. He believed instinctively what Katharine said, but what it meant to him he was unable to understand. Could Cassandra love him? Could she have told Katharine that she loved him? The desire to know the truth of this was urgent, unknown though the consequences might be. The thrill of excitement associated with the thought of Cassandra once more took possession of him. No longer was it the excitement of anticipation and ignorance; it was the excitement of something greater than a possibility, for now he knew her and had measure of the sympathy between them. But who could give him certainty? Could Katharine, Katharine who had lately lain in his arms, Katharine herself the most admired of women? He looked at her, with doubt, and with anxiety, but said nothing. "Yes, yes," she said, interpreting his wish for assurance, "it s true. I know what she feels for you." "She loves me?" Katharine nodded. "Ah, but who knows what I feel? How can I be sure of my feeling myself? Ten minutes ago I asked you to marry me. I still wish it I don t know what I wish" He clenched his hands and turned
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jealous, and I couldn t control myself. I laughed at you, I know." "You jealous!" William exclaimed. "I assure you, Katharine, you ve not the slightest reason to be jealous. Cassandra dislikes me, so far as she feels about me at all. I was foolish enough to try to explain the nature of our relationship. I couldn t resist telling her what I supposed myself to feel for her. She refused to listen, very rightly. But she left me in no doubt of her scorn." Katharine hesitated. She was confused, agitated, physically tired, and had already to reckon with the violent feeling of dislike aroused by her aunt which still vibrated through all the rest of her feelings. She sank into a chair and dropped her flowers upon her lap. "She charmed me," Rodney continued. "I thought I loved her. But that s a thing of the past. It s all over, Katharine. It was a dream an hallucination. We were both equally to blame, but no harm s done if you believe how truly I care for you. Say you believe me!" He stood over her, as if in readiness to seize the first sign of her assent. Precisely at that moment, owing, perhaps, to her vicissitudes of feeling, all sense of love left her, as in a moment a mist lifts from the earth. And when the mist departed a skeleton world and blankness alone remained a terrible prospect for the eyes of the living to behold. He saw the look of terror in her face, and without understanding its origin, took her hand in his. With the sense of companionship returned a desire, like that of a child for shelter, to accept what he had to offer her and at that moment it seemed that he offered her the only thing that could make it tolerable to live. She let him press his lips to her cheek, and leant her head upon his arm. It was the moment of his triumph. It was the only moment in which she belonged to him and was dependent upon his protection. "Yes, yes, yes," he murmured, "you accept me, Katharine. You love me." For a moment she remained silent. He then heard her murmur: "Cassandra loves you more than I do." "Cassandra?" he whispered. "She loves you," Katharine repeated. She raised herself and repeated the sentence yet a third time.<|quote|>"She loves you."</|quote|>William slowly raised himself. He believed instinctively what Katharine said, but what it meant to him he was unable to understand. Could Cassandra love him? Could she have told Katharine that she loved him? The desire to know the truth of this was urgent, unknown though the consequences might be. The thrill of excitement associated with the thought of Cassandra once more took possession of him. No longer was it the excitement of anticipation and ignorance; it was the excitement of something greater than a possibility, for now he knew her and had measure of the sympathy between them. But who could give him certainty? Could Katharine, Katharine who had lately lain in his arms, Katharine herself the most admired of women? He looked at her, with doubt, and with anxiety, but said nothing. "Yes, yes," she said, interpreting his wish for assurance, "it s true. I know what she feels for you." "She loves me?" Katharine nodded. "Ah, but who knows what I feel? How can I be sure of my feeling myself? Ten minutes ago I asked you to marry me. I still wish it I don t know what I wish" He clenched his hands and turned away. He suddenly faced her and demanded: "Tell me what you feel for Denham." "For Ralph Denham?" she asked. "Yes!" she exclaimed, as if she had found the answer to some momentarily perplexing question. "You re jealous of me, William; but you re not in love with me. I m jealous of you. Therefore, for both our sakes, I say, speak to Cassandra at once." He tried to compose himself. He walked up and down the room; he paused at the window and surveyed the flowers strewn upon the floor. Meanwhile his desire to have Katharine s assurance confirmed became so insistent that he could no longer deny the overmastering strength of his feeling for Cassandra. "You re right," he exclaimed, coming to a standstill and rapping his knuckles sharply upon a small table carrying one slender vase. "I love Cassandra." As he said this, the curtains hanging at the door of the little room parted, and Cassandra herself stepped forth. "I have overheard every word!" she exclaimed. A pause succeeded this announcement. Rodney made a step forward and said: "Then you know what I wish to ask you. Give me your answer" She put her hands before her face;
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"They have seen us?" he asked. "Everything we ve done for a fortnight has been seen." "I told you that would happen!" he exclaimed. He walked to the window in evident perturbation. Katharine was too indignant to attend to him. She was swept away by the force of her own anger. Clasping Rodney s flowers, she stood upright and motionless. Rodney turned away from the window. "It s all been a mistake," he said. "I blame myself for it. I should have known better. I let you persuade me in a moment of madness. I beg you to forget my insanity, Katharine." "She wished even to persecute Cassandra!" Katharine burst out, not listening to him. "She threatened to speak to her. She s capable of it she s capable of anything!" "Mrs. Milvain is not tactful, I know, but you exaggerate, Katharine. People are talking about us. She was right to tell us. It only confirms my own feeling the position is monstrous." At length Katharine realized some part of what he meant. "You don t mean that this influences you, William?" she asked in amazement. "It does," he said, flushing. "It s intensely disagreeable to me. I can t endure that people should gossip about us. And then there s your cousin Cassandra" He paused in embarrassment. "I came here this morning, Katharine," he resumed, with a change of voice, "to ask you to forget my folly, my bad temper, my inconceivable behavior. I came, Katharine, to ask whether we can t return to the position we were in before this this season of lunacy. Will you take me back, Katharine, once more and for ever?" No doubt her beauty, intensified by emotion and enhanced by the flowers of bright color and strange shape which she carried wrought upon Rodney, and had its share in bestowing upon her the old romance. But a less noble passion worked in him, too; he was inflamed by jealousy. His tentative offer of affection had been rudely and, as he thought, completely repulsed by Cassandra on the preceding day. Denham s confession was in his mind. And ultimately, Katharine s dominion over him was of the sort that the fevers of the night cannot exorcise. "I was as much to blame as you were yesterday," she said gently, disregarding his question. "I confess, William, the sight of you and Cassandra together made me jealous, and I couldn t control myself. I laughed at you, I know." "You jealous!" William exclaimed. "I assure you, Katharine, you ve not the slightest reason to be jealous. Cassandra dislikes me, so far as she feels about me at all. I was foolish enough to try to explain the nature of our relationship. I couldn t resist telling her what I supposed myself to feel for her. She refused to listen, very rightly. But she left me in no doubt of her scorn." Katharine hesitated. She was confused, agitated, physically tired, and had already to reckon with the violent feeling of dislike aroused by her aunt which still vibrated through all the rest of her feelings. She sank into a chair and dropped her flowers upon her lap. "She charmed me," Rodney continued. "I thought I loved her. But that s a thing of the past. It s all over, Katharine. It was a dream an hallucination. We were both equally to blame, but no harm s done if you believe how truly I care for you. Say you believe me!" He stood over her, as if in readiness to seize the first sign of her assent. Precisely at that moment, owing, perhaps, to her vicissitudes of feeling, all sense of love left her, as in a moment a mist lifts from the earth. And when the mist departed a skeleton world and blankness alone remained a terrible prospect for the eyes of the living to behold. He saw the look of terror in her face, and without understanding its origin, took her hand in his. With the sense of companionship returned a desire, like that of a child for shelter, to accept what he had to offer her and at that moment it seemed that he offered her the only thing that could make it tolerable to live. She let him press his lips to her cheek, and leant her head upon his arm. It was the moment of his triumph. It was the only moment in which she belonged to him and was dependent upon his protection. "Yes, yes, yes," he murmured, "you accept me, Katharine. You love me." For a moment she remained silent. He then heard her murmur: "Cassandra loves you more than I do." "Cassandra?" he whispered. "She loves you," Katharine repeated. She raised herself and repeated the sentence yet a third time.<|quote|>"She loves you."</|quote|>William slowly raised himself. He believed instinctively what Katharine said, but what it meant to him he was unable to understand. Could Cassandra love him? Could she have told Katharine that she loved him? The desire to know the truth of this was urgent, unknown though the consequences might be. The thrill of excitement associated with the thought of Cassandra once more took possession of him. No longer was it the excitement of anticipation and ignorance; it was the excitement of something greater than a possibility, for now he knew her and had measure of the sympathy between them. But who could give him certainty? Could Katharine, Katharine who had lately lain in his arms, Katharine herself the most admired of women? He looked at her, with doubt, and with anxiety, but said nothing. "Yes, yes," she said, interpreting his wish for assurance, "it s true. I know what she feels for you." "She loves me?" Katharine nodded. "Ah, but who knows what I feel? How can I be sure of my feeling myself? Ten minutes ago I asked you to marry me. I still wish it I don t know what I wish" He clenched his hands and turned away. He suddenly faced her and demanded: "Tell me what you feel for Denham." "For Ralph Denham?" she asked. "Yes!" she exclaimed, as if she had found the answer to some momentarily perplexing question. "You re jealous of me, William; but you re not in love with me. I m jealous of you. Therefore, for both our sakes, I say, speak to Cassandra at once." He tried to compose himself. He walked up and down the room; he paused at the window and surveyed the flowers strewn upon the floor. Meanwhile his desire to have Katharine s assurance confirmed became so insistent that he could no longer deny the overmastering strength of his feeling for Cassandra. "You re right," he exclaimed, coming to a standstill and rapping his knuckles sharply upon a small table carrying one slender vase. "I love Cassandra." As he said this, the curtains hanging at the door of the little room parted, and Cassandra herself stepped forth. "I have overheard every word!" she exclaimed. A pause succeeded this announcement. Rodney made a step forward and said: "Then you know what I wish to ask you. Give me your answer" She put her hands before her face; she turned away and seemed to shrink from both of them. "What Katharine said," she murmured. "But," she added, raising her head with a look of fear from the kiss with which he greeted her admission, "how frightfully difficult it all is! Our feelings, I mean yours and mine and Katharine s. Katharine, tell me, are we doing right?" "Right of course we re doing right," William answered her, "if, after what you ve heard, you can marry a man of such incomprehensible confusion, such deplorable" "Don t, William," Katharine interposed; "Cassandra has heard us; she can judge what we are; she knows better than we could tell her." But, still holding William s hand, questions and desires welled up in Cassandra s heart. Had she done wrong in listening? Why did Aunt Celia blame her? Did Katharine think her right? Above all, did William really love her, for ever and ever, better than any one? "I must be first with him, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "I can t share him even with you." "I shall never ask that," said Katharine. She moved a little away from where they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers. "But you ve shared with me," Cassandra said. "Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is," she added. "We understand each other, William and I. You ve never understood each other. You re too different." "I ve never admired anybody more," William interposed. "It s not that" Cassandra tried to enlighten him "it s understanding." "Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?" "Yes," Cassandra interposed. "You ve asked her for sympathy, and she s not sympathetic; you ve wanted her to be practical, and she s not practical. You ve been selfish; you ve been exacting and so has Katharine but it wasn t anybody s fault." Katharine had listened to this attempt at analysis with keen attention. Cassandra s words seemed to rub the old blurred image of life and freshen it so marvelously that it looked new again. She turned to William. "It s quite true," she said. "It was nobody s fault." "There are many things that he ll always come to you for," Cassandra continued, still reading from her invisible book. "I accept that, Katharine. I shall never dispute it. I want to be generous as you ve
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in bestowing upon her the old romance. But a less noble passion worked in him, too; he was inflamed by jealousy. His tentative offer of affection had been rudely and, as he thought, completely repulsed by Cassandra on the preceding day. Denham s confession was in his mind. And ultimately, Katharine s dominion over him was of the sort that the fevers of the night cannot exorcise. "I was as much to blame as you were yesterday," she said gently, disregarding his question. "I confess, William, the sight of you and Cassandra together made me jealous, and I couldn t control myself. I laughed at you, I know." "You jealous!" William exclaimed. "I assure you, Katharine, you ve not the slightest reason to be jealous. Cassandra dislikes me, so far as she feels about me at all. I was foolish enough to try to explain the nature of our relationship. I couldn t resist telling her what I supposed myself to feel for her. She refused to listen, very rightly. But she left me in no doubt of her scorn." Katharine hesitated. She was confused, agitated, physically tired, and had already to reckon with the violent feeling of dislike aroused by her aunt which still vibrated through all the rest of her feelings. She sank into a chair and dropped her flowers upon her lap. "She charmed me," Rodney continued. "I thought I loved her. But that s a thing of the past. It s all over, Katharine. It was a dream an hallucination. We were both equally to blame, but no harm s done if you believe how truly I care for you. Say you believe me!" He stood over her, as if in readiness to seize the first sign of her assent. Precisely at that moment, owing, perhaps, to her vicissitudes of feeling, all sense of love left her, as in a moment a mist lifts from the earth. And when the mist departed a skeleton world and blankness alone remained a terrible prospect for the eyes of the living to behold. He saw the look of terror in her face, and without understanding its origin, took her hand in his. With the sense of companionship returned a desire, like that of a child for shelter, to accept what he had to offer her and at that moment it seemed that he offered her the only thing that could make it tolerable to live. She let him press his lips to her cheek, and leant her head upon his arm. It was the moment of his triumph. It was the only moment in which she belonged to him and was dependent upon his protection. "Yes, yes, yes," he murmured, "you accept me, Katharine. You love me." For a moment she remained silent. He then heard her murmur: "Cassandra loves you more than I do." "Cassandra?" he whispered. "She loves you," Katharine repeated. She raised herself and repeated the sentence yet a third time.<|quote|>"She loves you."</|quote|>William slowly raised himself. He believed instinctively what Katharine said, but what it meant to him he was unable to understand. Could Cassandra love him? Could she have told Katharine that she loved him? The desire to know the truth of this was urgent, unknown though the consequences might be. The thrill of excitement associated with the thought of Cassandra once more took possession of him. No longer was it the excitement of anticipation and ignorance; it was the excitement of something greater than a possibility, for now he knew her and had measure of the sympathy between them. But who could give him certainty? Could Katharine, Katharine who had lately lain in his arms, Katharine herself the most admired of women? He looked at her, with doubt, and with anxiety, but said nothing. "Yes, yes," she said, interpreting his wish for assurance, "it s true. I know what she feels for you." "She loves me?" Katharine nodded. "Ah, but who knows what I feel? How can I be sure of my feeling myself? Ten minutes ago I asked you to marry me. I still wish it I don t know what I wish" He clenched his hands and turned away. He suddenly faced her and demanded: "Tell me what you feel for Denham." "For Ralph Denham?" she asked. "Yes!" she exclaimed, as if she had found the answer to some momentarily perplexing question. "You re jealous of me, William; but you re not in love with me. I m jealous of you. Therefore, for both our sakes, I say, speak to Cassandra at once." He tried to compose himself. He walked up and down the room; he paused at the window and surveyed the flowers strewn upon the floor. Meanwhile his desire to have Katharine s assurance confirmed became so insistent that he could no longer deny the overmastering strength of his feeling for Cassandra. "You re right," he exclaimed, coming to a standstill and rapping his knuckles sharply upon a small table carrying one slender vase. "I love Cassandra." As he said this, the curtains hanging at the door of the little room parted, and Cassandra herself stepped forth. "I have overheard every word!" she exclaimed. A pause succeeded this announcement. Rodney made a step forward and said: "Then you know what I wish to ask you. Give me your answer" She put her hands before her face; she turned away and seemed to shrink from both of them. "What Katharine said," she murmured. "But," she added, raising her head with a look of fear from the kiss with which he greeted her admission, "how frightfully difficult it all is! Our feelings, I mean yours and mine and Katharine s. Katharine, tell me, are we doing right?" "Right of course we re doing right," William answered her, "if, after what you ve heard, you can marry a man of such incomprehensible confusion, such deplorable" "Don t, William," Katharine interposed; "Cassandra has heard us; she can judge what we are; she knows better than we could tell her." But, still holding William s hand, questions and desires welled up
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Night And Day
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he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.
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No speaker
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me." "I nearly fainted myself,"<|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.</|quote|>"Well, I owe you a
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cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself,"<|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.</|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right."
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is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself,"<|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.</|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes,
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she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself,"<|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.</|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it
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He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself,"<|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.</|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on
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She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself,"<|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.</|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search
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"Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself,"<|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.</|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could
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assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself,"<|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.</|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again
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A Room With A View
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"Don't open the mouth, dear, or the soap goes in,"
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Kanga
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"Let me out! I'm Piglet!"<|quote|>"Don't open the mouth, dear, or the soap goes in,"</|quote|>said Kanga. "There! What did
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lathery flannel. "Ow!" cried Piglet. "Let me out! I'm Piglet!"<|quote|>"Don't open the mouth, dear, or the soap goes in,"</|quote|>said Kanga. "There! What did I tell you?" "You--you--you did
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you will be. Now then, into the bath, and don't let me have to speak to you about it again." Before he knew where he was, Piglet was in the bath, and Kanga was scrubbing him firmly with a large lathery flannel. "Ow!" cried Piglet. "Let me out! I'm Piglet!"<|quote|>"Don't open the mouth, dear, or the soap goes in,"</|quote|>said Kanga. "There! What did I tell you?" "You--you--you did it on purpose," spluttered Piglet, as soon as he could speak again ... and then accidentally had another mouthful of lathery flannel. "That's right, dear, don't say anything," said Kanga, and in another minute Piglet was out of the bath,
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_see_?" shouted Piglet. "Haven't you got _eyes_? _Look_ at me!" "I _am_ looking, Roo, dear," said Kanga rather severely. "And you know what I told you yesterday about making faces. If you go on making faces like Piglet's, you will grow up to _look_ like Piglet--and _then_ think how sorry you will be. Now then, into the bath, and don't let me have to speak to you about it again." Before he knew where he was, Piglet was in the bath, and Kanga was scrubbing him firmly with a large lathery flannel. "Ow!" cried Piglet. "Let me out! I'm Piglet!"<|quote|>"Don't open the mouth, dear, or the soap goes in,"</|quote|>said Kanga. "There! What did I tell you?" "You--you--you did it on purpose," spluttered Piglet, as soon as he could speak again ... and then accidentally had another mouthful of lathery flannel. "That's right, dear, don't say anything," said Kanga, and in another minute Piglet was out of the bath, and being rubbed dry with a towel. "Now," said Kanga, "there's your medicine, and then bed." "W-w-what medicine?" said Piglet. "To make you grow big and strong, dear. You don't want to grow up small and weak like Piglet, do you? Well, then!" At that moment there was a knock
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you like that, Roo, dear?" Piglet, who had never been really fond of baths, shuddered a long indignant shudder, and said in as brave a voice as he could: "Kanga, I see that the time has come to spleak painly." "Funny little Roo," said Kanga, as she got the bath-water ready. "I am _not_ Roo," said Piglet loudly. "I am Piglet!" "Yes, dear, yes," said Kanga soothingly. "And imitating Piglet's voice too! So clever of him," she went on, as she took a large bar of yellow soap out of the cupboard. "What _will_ he be doing next?" "Can't you _see_?" shouted Piglet. "Haven't you got _eyes_? _Look_ at me!" "I _am_ looking, Roo, dear," said Kanga rather severely. "And you know what I told you yesterday about making faces. If you go on making faces like Piglet's, you will grow up to _look_ like Piglet--and _then_ think how sorry you will be. Now then, into the bath, and don't let me have to speak to you about it again." Before he knew where he was, Piglet was in the bath, and Kanga was scrubbing him firmly with a large lathery flannel. "Ow!" cried Piglet. "Let me out! I'm Piglet!"<|quote|>"Don't open the mouth, dear, or the soap goes in,"</|quote|>said Kanga. "There! What did I tell you?" "You--you--you did it on purpose," spluttered Piglet, as soon as he could speak again ... and then accidentally had another mouthful of lathery flannel. "That's right, dear, don't say anything," said Kanga, and in another minute Piglet was out of the bath, and being rubbed dry with a towel. "Now," said Kanga, "there's your medicine, and then bed." "W-w-what medicine?" said Piglet. "To make you grow big and strong, dear. You don't want to grow up small and weak like Piglet, do you? Well, then!" At that moment there was a knock at the door. "Come in," said Kanga, and in came Christopher Robin. "Christopher Robin, Christopher Robin!" cried Piglet. "Tell Kanga who I am! She keeps saying I'm Roo. I'm _not_ Roo, am I?" Christopher Robin looked at him very carefully, and shook his head. "You can't be Roo," he said, "because I've just seen Roo playing in Rabbit's house." "Well!" said Kanga. "Fancy that! Fancy my making a mistake like that." "There you are!" said Piglet. "I told you so. I'm Piglet." Christopher Robin shook his head again. "Oh, you're not Piglet," he said. "I know Piglet well, and he's
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house. Of course as soon as Kanga unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened. Just for a moment, she thought she was frightened, and then she knew she wasn't; for she felt quite sure that Christopher Robin would never let any harm happen to Roo. So she said to herself, "If they are having a joke with me, I will have a joke with them." "Now then, Roo, dear," she said, as she took Piglet out of her pocket. "Bed-time." "_Aha!_" said Piglet, as well as he could after his Terrifying Journey. But it wasn't a very good "_Aha!_" and Kanga didn't seem to understand what it meant. "Bath first," said Kanga in a cheerful voice. "_Aha!_" said Piglet again, looking round anxiously for the others. But the others weren't there. Rabbit was playing with Baby Roo in his own house, and feeling more fond of him every minute, and Pooh, who had decided to be a Kanga, was still at the sandy place on the top of the Forest, practising jumps. "I am not at all sure," said Kanga in a thoughtful voice, "that it wouldn't be a good idea to have a _cold_ bath this evening. Would you like that, Roo, dear?" Piglet, who had never been really fond of baths, shuddered a long indignant shudder, and said in as brave a voice as he could: "Kanga, I see that the time has come to spleak painly." "Funny little Roo," said Kanga, as she got the bath-water ready. "I am _not_ Roo," said Piglet loudly. "I am Piglet!" "Yes, dear, yes," said Kanga soothingly. "And imitating Piglet's voice too! So clever of him," she went on, as she took a large bar of yellow soap out of the cupboard. "What _will_ he be doing next?" "Can't you _see_?" shouted Piglet. "Haven't you got _eyes_? _Look_ at me!" "I _am_ looking, Roo, dear," said Kanga rather severely. "And you know what I told you yesterday about making faces. If you go on making faces like Piglet's, you will grow up to _look_ like Piglet--and _then_ think how sorry you will be. Now then, into the bath, and don't let me have to speak to you about it again." Before he knew where he was, Piglet was in the bath, and Kanga was scrubbing him firmly with a large lathery flannel. "Ow!" cried Piglet. "Let me out! I'm Piglet!"<|quote|>"Don't open the mouth, dear, or the soap goes in,"</|quote|>said Kanga. "There! What did I tell you?" "You--you--you did it on purpose," spluttered Piglet, as soon as he could speak again ... and then accidentally had another mouthful of lathery flannel. "That's right, dear, don't say anything," said Kanga, and in another minute Piglet was out of the bath, and being rubbed dry with a towel. "Now," said Kanga, "there's your medicine, and then bed." "W-w-what medicine?" said Piglet. "To make you grow big and strong, dear. You don't want to grow up small and weak like Piglet, do you? Well, then!" At that moment there was a knock at the door. "Come in," said Kanga, and in came Christopher Robin. "Christopher Robin, Christopher Robin!" cried Piglet. "Tell Kanga who I am! She keeps saying I'm Roo. I'm _not_ Roo, am I?" Christopher Robin looked at him very carefully, and shook his head. "You can't be Roo," he said, "because I've just seen Roo playing in Rabbit's house." "Well!" said Kanga. "Fancy that! Fancy my making a mistake like that." "There you are!" said Piglet. "I told you so. I'm Piglet." Christopher Robin shook his head again. "Oh, you're not Piglet," he said. "I know Piglet well, and he's _quite_ a different colour." Piglet began to say that this was because he had just had a bath, and then he thought that perhaps he wouldn't say that, and as he opened his mouth to say something else, Kanga slipped the medicine spoon in, and then patted him on the back and told him that it was really quite a nice taste when you got used to it. "I knew it wasn't Piglet," said Kanga. "I wonder who it can be." "Perhaps it's some relation of Pooh's," said Christopher Robin. "What about a nephew or an uncle or something?" Kanga agreed that this was probably what it was, and said that they would have to call it by some name. "I shall call it Pootel," said Christopher Robin. "Henry Pootel for short." And just when it was decided, Henry Pootel wriggled out of Kanga's arms and jumped to the ground. To his great joy Christopher Robin had left the door open. Never had Henry Pootel Piglet run so fast as he ran then, and he didn't stop running until he had got quite close to his house. But when he was a hundred yards away he stopped running, and rolled
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Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is," said Rabbit. "Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh. "I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly." "And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought. "Some can and some can't. That's how it is." But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to flying I never it."" And as he went up in the air he said, "_Ooooooo!_" and as he came down he said, "_Ow!_" And he was saying, "_Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow_" all the way to Kanga's house. Of course as soon as Kanga unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened. Just for a moment, she thought she was frightened, and then she knew she wasn't; for she felt quite sure that Christopher Robin would never let any harm happen to Roo. So she said to herself, "If they are having a joke with me, I will have a joke with them." "Now then, Roo, dear," she said, as she took Piglet out of her pocket. "Bed-time." "_Aha!_" said Piglet, as well as he could after his Terrifying Journey. But it wasn't a very good "_Aha!_" and Kanga didn't seem to understand what it meant. "Bath first," said Kanga in a cheerful voice. "_Aha!_" said Piglet again, looking round anxiously for the others. But the others weren't there. Rabbit was playing with Baby Roo in his own house, and feeling more fond of him every minute, and Pooh, who had decided to be a Kanga, was still at the sandy place on the top of the Forest, practising jumps. "I am not at all sure," said Kanga in a thoughtful voice, "that it wouldn't be a good idea to have a _cold_ bath this evening. Would you like that, Roo, dear?" Piglet, who had never been really fond of baths, shuddered a long indignant shudder, and said in as brave a voice as he could: "Kanga, I see that the time has come to spleak painly." "Funny little Roo," said Kanga, as she got the bath-water ready. "I am _not_ Roo," said Piglet loudly. "I am Piglet!" "Yes, dear, yes," said Kanga soothingly. "And imitating Piglet's voice too! So clever of him," she went on, as she took a large bar of yellow soap out of the cupboard. "What _will_ he be doing next?" "Can't you _see_?" shouted Piglet. "Haven't you got _eyes_? _Look_ at me!" "I _am_ looking, Roo, dear," said Kanga rather severely. "And you know what I told you yesterday about making faces. If you go on making faces like Piglet's, you will grow up to _look_ like Piglet--and _then_ think how sorry you will be. Now then, into the bath, and don't let me have to speak to you about it again." Before he knew where he was, Piglet was in the bath, and Kanga was scrubbing him firmly with a large lathery flannel. "Ow!" cried Piglet. "Let me out! I'm Piglet!"<|quote|>"Don't open the mouth, dear, or the soap goes in,"</|quote|>said Kanga. "There! What did I tell you?" "You--you--you did it on purpose," spluttered Piglet, as soon as he could speak again ... and then accidentally had another mouthful of lathery flannel. "That's right, dear, don't say anything," said Kanga, and in another minute Piglet was out of the bath, and being rubbed dry with a towel. "Now," said Kanga, "there's your medicine, and then bed." "W-w-what medicine?" said Piglet. "To make you grow big and strong, dear. You don't want to grow up small and weak like Piglet, do you? Well, then!" At that moment there was a knock at the door. "Come in," said Kanga, and in came Christopher Robin. "Christopher Robin, Christopher Robin!" cried Piglet. "Tell Kanga who I am! She keeps saying I'm Roo. I'm _not_ Roo, am I?" Christopher Robin looked at him very carefully, and shook his head. "You can't be Roo," he said, "because I've just seen Roo playing in Rabbit's house." "Well!" said Kanga. "Fancy that! Fancy my making a mistake like that." "There you are!" said Piglet. "I told you so. I'm Piglet." Christopher Robin shook his head again. "Oh, you're not Piglet," he said. "I know Piglet well, and he's _quite_ a different colour." Piglet began to say that this was because he had just had a bath, and then he thought that perhaps he wouldn't say that, and as he opened his mouth to say something else, Kanga slipped the medicine spoon in, and then patted him on the back and told him that it was really quite a nice taste when you got used to it. "I knew it wasn't Piglet," said Kanga. "I wonder who it can be." "Perhaps it's some relation of Pooh's," said Christopher Robin. "What about a nephew or an uncle or something?" Kanga agreed that this was probably what it was, and said that they would have to call it by some name. "I shall call it Pootel," said Christopher Robin. "Henry Pootel for short." And just when it was decided, Henry Pootel wriggled out of Kanga's arms and jumped to the ground. To his great joy Christopher Robin had left the door open. Never had Henry Pootel Piglet run so fast as he ran then, and he didn't stop running until he had got quite close to his house. But when he was a hundred yards away he stopped running, and rolled the rest of the way home, so as to get his own nice comfortable colour again.... So Kanga and Roo stayed in the Forest. And every Tuesday Roo spent the day with his great friend Rabbit, and every Tuesday Kanga spent the day with her great friend Pooh, teaching him to jump, and every Tuesday Piglet spent the day with his great friend Christopher Robin. So they were all happy again. CHAPTER VIII IN WHICH CHRISTOPHER ROBIN LEADS AN EXPOTITION TO THE NORTH POLE One fine day Pooh had stumped up to the top of the Forest to see if his friend Christopher Robin was interested in Bears at all. At breakfast that morning (a simple meal of marmalade spread lightly over a honeycomb or two) he had suddenly thought of a new song. It began like this: "_Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear._" When he had got as far as this, he scratched his head, and thought to himself "That's a very good start for a song, but what about the second line?" He tried singing "Ho," two or three times, but it didn't seem to help. "Perhaps it would be better," he thought, "if I sang Hi for the life of a Bear." So he sang it ... but it wasn't. "Very well, then," he said, "I shall sing that first line twice, and perhaps if I sing it very quickly, I shall find myself singing the third and fourth lines before I have time to think of them, and that will be a Good Song. Now then:" "Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear! Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear! I don't much mind if it rains or snows, 'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice new nose, I don't much care if it snows or thaws, 'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice clean paws! Sing Ho! for a Bear! Sing Ho! for a Pooh! And I'll have a little something in an hour or two!" He was so pleased with this song that he sang it all the way to the top of the Forest, "and if I go on singing it much longer," he thought, "it will be time for the little something, and then the last line won't be true." So he turned it into a hum instead. Christopher Robin was sitting
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couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to flying I never it."" And as he went up in the air he said, "_Ooooooo!_" and as he came down he said, "_Ow!_" And he was saying, "_Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow_" all the way to Kanga's house. Of course as soon as Kanga unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened. Just for a moment, she thought she was frightened, and then she knew she wasn't; for she felt quite sure that Christopher Robin would never let any harm happen to Roo. So she said to herself, "If they are having a joke with me, I will have a joke with them." "Now then, Roo, dear," she said, as she took Piglet out of her pocket. "Bed-time." "_Aha!_" said Piglet, as well as he could after his Terrifying Journey. But it wasn't a very good "_Aha!_" and Kanga didn't seem to understand what it meant. "Bath first," said Kanga in a cheerful voice. "_Aha!_" said Piglet again, looking round anxiously for the others. But the others weren't there. Rabbit was playing with Baby Roo in his own house, and feeling more fond of him every minute, and Pooh, who had decided to be a Kanga, was still at the sandy place on the top of the Forest, practising jumps. "I am not at all sure," said Kanga in a thoughtful voice, "that it wouldn't be a good idea to have a _cold_ bath this evening. Would you like that, Roo, dear?" Piglet, who had never been really fond of baths, shuddered a long indignant shudder, and said in as brave a voice as he could: "Kanga, I see that the time has come to spleak painly." "Funny little Roo," said Kanga, as she got the bath-water ready. "I am _not_ Roo," said Piglet loudly. "I am Piglet!" "Yes, dear, yes," said Kanga soothingly. "And imitating Piglet's voice too! So clever of him," she went on, as she took a large bar of yellow soap out of the cupboard. "What _will_ he be doing next?" "Can't you _see_?" shouted Piglet. "Haven't you got _eyes_? _Look_ at me!" "I _am_ looking, Roo, dear," said Kanga rather severely. "And you know what I told you yesterday about making faces. If you go on making faces like Piglet's, you will grow up to _look_ like Piglet--and _then_ think how sorry you will be. Now then, into the bath, and don't let me have to speak to you about it again." Before he knew where he was, Piglet was in the bath, and Kanga was scrubbing him firmly with a large lathery flannel. "Ow!" cried Piglet. "Let me out! I'm Piglet!"<|quote|>"Don't open the mouth, dear, or the soap goes in,"</|quote|>said Kanga. "There! What did I tell you?" "You--you--you did it on purpose," spluttered Piglet, as soon as he could speak again ... and then accidentally had another mouthful of lathery flannel. "That's right, dear, don't say anything," said Kanga, and in another minute Piglet was out of the bath, and being rubbed dry with a towel. "Now," said Kanga, "there's your medicine, and then bed." "W-w-what medicine?" said Piglet. "To make you grow big and strong, dear. You don't want to grow up small and weak like Piglet, do you? Well, then!" At that moment there was a knock at the door. "Come in," said Kanga, and in came Christopher Robin. "Christopher Robin, Christopher Robin!" cried Piglet. "Tell Kanga who I am! She keeps saying I'm Roo. I'm _not_ Roo, am I?" Christopher Robin looked at him very carefully, and shook his head. "You can't be Roo," he said, "because I've just seen Roo playing in Rabbit's house." "Well!" said Kanga. "Fancy that! Fancy my making a mistake like that." "There you are!" said Piglet. "I told you so. I'm Piglet." Christopher Robin shook his head again. "Oh, you're not Piglet," he said. "I know Piglet well, and he's _quite_ a different colour." Piglet began to say that this was because he had just had a bath, and then he thought that perhaps he wouldn't say that, and as he opened his mouth to say something else, Kanga slipped the medicine spoon in, and then patted him on the back and told him that it was really quite a nice taste when you got used to it. "I knew it wasn't Piglet," said Kanga. "I wonder who it can be." "Perhaps it's some relation of Pooh's," said Christopher Robin. "What about a nephew or an uncle or something?" Kanga agreed that this was probably what it was, and said that they would have to call it by some name. "I shall call it Pootel," said Christopher Robin. "Henry Pootel for short." And just when it was decided, Henry Pootel wriggled out of Kanga's arms and jumped to the ground. To his great joy Christopher Robin had left the door open. Never had Henry Pootel Piglet run so fast as he ran then, and he didn't stop running until he had got quite close to his house. But when he was a hundred yards away he stopped running, and rolled the rest of the way home, so as to get his own nice comfortable colour again.... So Kanga and Roo stayed in the Forest. And every Tuesday Roo spent the day with his great friend Rabbit, and every Tuesday Kanga spent the day with her great friend Pooh, teaching him to jump, and every Tuesday Piglet spent the day with
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Winnie The Pooh
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"Sure you don't mind? It _is_ miles out of the way and it's late."
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John Beaver
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bother to see me home."<|quote|>"Sure you don't mind? It _is_ miles out of the way and it's late."</|quote|>"There's no knowing what I
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we go?" "Yes. You needn't bother to see me home."<|quote|>"Sure you don't mind? It _is_ miles out of the way and it's late."</|quote|>"There's no knowing what I mind." "Brenda, darling, for heaven's
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I've said to-night makes any difference?" "Darling, don't go on. We've been through all that. You know it's the only thing that _can_ happen. Why spoil the last week?" "You _have_ enjoyed the summer, haven't you?" "Of course... well, shall we go?" "Yes. You needn't bother to see me home."<|quote|>"Sure you don't mind? It _is_ miles out of the way and it's late."</|quote|>"There's no knowing what I mind." "Brenda, darling, for heaven's sake... It isn't like you to go on like this." "I never was one for making myself expensive." * * * * * The Indians returned during the night, while Tony and Dr Messinger were asleep; without a word spoken
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had opened. Beaver paid for the kippers and tea. "Eight shillings," he said. "How does Daisy expect to make a success of the place when she charges prices like that?" "It does seem a lot.... So you really _are_ going to America?" "I must. Mother has taken the tickets." "Nothing I've said to-night makes any difference?" "Darling, don't go on. We've been through all that. You know it's the only thing that _can_ happen. Why spoil the last week?" "You _have_ enjoyed the summer, haven't you?" "Of course... well, shall we go?" "Yes. You needn't bother to see me home."<|quote|>"Sure you don't mind? It _is_ miles out of the way and it's late."</|quote|>"There's no knowing what I mind." "Brenda, darling, for heaven's sake... It isn't like you to go on like this." "I never was one for making myself expensive." * * * * * The Indians returned during the night, while Tony and Dr Messinger were asleep; without a word spoken the little people crept out of hiding; the women had removed their clothes and left them at a distance so that no twig should betray their movements; their naked bodies moved soundlessly through the undergrowth; the glowing embers of the fire and the storm lantern twenty yards away were their
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hydrants; the men in overalls swung the nozzles of their hoses from side to side and the water jetted and cascaded in a sparkle of light. "Let's have the window open," said Brenda. "It's stuffy in here." The waiter drew back the curtains, opened the windows. "It's quite light," she added. "After five. Oughtn't we to go to bed?" "Yes." "Only another week and then all the parties will be over," said Beaver. "Yes." "Well, let's go." "All right. Can you pay? I just haven't any money." They had come on after the party, for breakfast at a club Daisy had opened. Beaver paid for the kippers and tea. "Eight shillings," he said. "How does Daisy expect to make a success of the place when she charges prices like that?" "It does seem a lot.... So you really _are_ going to America?" "I must. Mother has taken the tickets." "Nothing I've said to-night makes any difference?" "Darling, don't go on. We've been through all that. You know it's the only thing that _can_ happen. Why spoil the last week?" "You _have_ enjoyed the summer, haven't you?" "Of course... well, shall we go?" "Yes. You needn't bother to see me home."<|quote|>"Sure you don't mind? It _is_ miles out of the way and it's late."</|quote|>"There's no knowing what I mind." "Brenda, darling, for heaven's sake... It isn't like you to go on like this." "I never was one for making myself expensive." * * * * * The Indians returned during the night, while Tony and Dr Messinger were asleep; without a word spoken the little people crept out of hiding; the women had removed their clothes and left them at a distance so that no twig should betray their movements; their naked bodies moved soundlessly through the undergrowth; the glowing embers of the fire and the storm lantern twenty yards away were their only light; there was no moon. They collected their wicker baskets and their rations of farine, their bows and arrows, the gun and their broad-bladed knives; they rolled up their hammocks into compact cylinders. They took nothing with them that was not theirs. Then they crept back through the shadows, into the darkness. When Tony and Dr Messinger awoke it was clear to them what had happened. "The situation is grave," said Dr Messinger. "But not desperate." [IV] For four days Tony and Dr Messinger paddled downstream. They sat, balancing themselves precariously, at the two ends of the canoe; between
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from cabouri fly, sprawled in their hammocks. The empty canoes lay in the river; the mechanical mouse had been put away. At sundown Dr Messinger said, "We'd better make a fire. They'll come back when it is dark." They brushed the earth away from the old embers, brought new wood and made a fire; they lit the storm lantern. "We'd better get some supper," said Tony. They boiled water and made some cocoa, opened a tin of salmon and finished the peaches that were left over from mid-day. They lit their pipes and drew the sheaths of mosquito netting across their hammocks. Most of this time they were silent. Presently they decided to go to sleep. "We shall find them all here in the morning," said Dr Messinger. "They're an odd bunch." All round them the voices of the bush whistled and croaked, changing with the hours as the night wore on to morning. * * * * * Dawn broke in London, clear and sweet, dove grey and honey, with promise of good weather; the lamps in the streets paled and disappeared; the empty streets ran with water, and the rising sun caught it as it bubbled round the hydrants; the men in overalls swung the nozzles of their hoses from side to side and the water jetted and cascaded in a sparkle of light. "Let's have the window open," said Brenda. "It's stuffy in here." The waiter drew back the curtains, opened the windows. "It's quite light," she added. "After five. Oughtn't we to go to bed?" "Yes." "Only another week and then all the parties will be over," said Beaver. "Yes." "Well, let's go." "All right. Can you pay? I just haven't any money." They had come on after the party, for breakfast at a club Daisy had opened. Beaver paid for the kippers and tea. "Eight shillings," he said. "How does Daisy expect to make a success of the place when she charges prices like that?" "It does seem a lot.... So you really _are_ going to America?" "I must. Mother has taken the tickets." "Nothing I've said to-night makes any difference?" "Darling, don't go on. We've been through all that. You know it's the only thing that _can_ happen. Why spoil the last week?" "You _have_ enjoyed the summer, haven't you?" "Of course... well, shall we go?" "Yes. You needn't bother to see me home."<|quote|>"Sure you don't mind? It _is_ miles out of the way and it's late."</|quote|>"There's no knowing what I mind." "Brenda, darling, for heaven's sake... It isn't like you to go on like this." "I never was one for making myself expensive." * * * * * The Indians returned during the night, while Tony and Dr Messinger were asleep; without a word spoken the little people crept out of hiding; the women had removed their clothes and left them at a distance so that no twig should betray their movements; their naked bodies moved soundlessly through the undergrowth; the glowing embers of the fire and the storm lantern twenty yards away were their only light; there was no moon. They collected their wicker baskets and their rations of farine, their bows and arrows, the gun and their broad-bladed knives; they rolled up their hammocks into compact cylinders. They took nothing with them that was not theirs. Then they crept back through the shadows, into the darkness. When Tony and Dr Messinger awoke it was clear to them what had happened. "The situation is grave," said Dr Messinger. "But not desperate." [IV] For four days Tony and Dr Messinger paddled downstream. They sat, balancing themselves precariously, at the two ends of the canoe; between them they had piled the most essential of their stores; the remainder, with the other canoes, had been left at the camp, to be called for when they had recruited help from the Pie-wies. Even the minimum which Dr Messinger had selected over-weighted the craft so that it was dangerously low; any movement brought the water to the lip of the gunwale and threatened disaster; it was heavy to steer and they made slow progress, contenting themselves, for the most part, with keeping end on, and drifting with the current. Twice they came to stretches of cataract, and here they drew in to the bank, unloaded and waded beside the boat, sometimes plunging waist-deep, sometimes clambering over the rocks, guiding it by hand until they reached clear water again. Then they tied up to the bank and carried their cargo down to it through the bush. For the rest of the way the river was broad and smooth; a dark surface which reflected in fine detail the walls of forest on either side, towering up from the undergrowth to their blossoming crown a hundred or more feet above them. Sometimes they came to a stretch of water scattered with fallen
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of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply. "Each man can choose three things from this box if he comes in the boats." But Rosa replied monotonously, "Macushi peoples dig cassava field just now." "It's no good," said Dr Messinger after half an hour's fruitless negotiation. "We shall have to try with the mice. I wanted to keep them till we reached the Pie-wies. It's a pity. But they'll fall for the mice, you see. I _know_ the Indian mind." These mice were comparatively expensive articles; they had cost three and sixpence each, and Tony remembered vividly the embarrassment with which he had witnessed their demonstration on the floor of the toy department. They were of German manufacture; the size of large rats, but conspicuously painted in spots of green and white; they had large glass eyes, stiff whiskers and green-and-white-ringed tails; they ran on hidden wheels, and inside them were little bells that jingled as they moved. Dr Messinger took one out of their box, unwrapped the tissue-paper and held it up to general scrutiny. There was no doubt that he had captured his audience's interest. Then he wound it up. The Indians stirred apprehensively at the sound. The ground where they were camping was hard mud, inundated at flood time. Dr Messinger put the toy down at his feet and set it going; tinkling merrily it ran towards the group of Indians. For a moment, Tony was afraid that it would turn over or become stuck against a root, but the mechanism was unimpaired and by good chance there was a clear course. The effect exceeded anything that he had expected. There was a loud intake of breath, a series of horrified, small grunts, a high wail of terror from the women, and a sudden stampede; a faint patter of bare brown feet among the fallen leaves, bare limbs, quiet as bats, pushed through the undergrowth, ragged cotton gowns caught and tore in the thorn bushes. Before the toy had run down, before it had jingled its way to the place where the nearest Indian had been squatting, the camp was empty. "Well, I'm damned," said Dr Messinger, "that's better than I expected." "More than you expected, anyway." "Oh, it's all right. They'll come back. I know them." But by sundown there was still no sign. Throughout the hot afternoon Tony and Dr Messinger, shrouded from cabouri fly, sprawled in their hammocks. The empty canoes lay in the river; the mechanical mouse had been put away. At sundown Dr Messinger said, "We'd better make a fire. They'll come back when it is dark." They brushed the earth away from the old embers, brought new wood and made a fire; they lit the storm lantern. "We'd better get some supper," said Tony. They boiled water and made some cocoa, opened a tin of salmon and finished the peaches that were left over from mid-day. They lit their pipes and drew the sheaths of mosquito netting across their hammocks. Most of this time they were silent. Presently they decided to go to sleep. "We shall find them all here in the morning," said Dr Messinger. "They're an odd bunch." All round them the voices of the bush whistled and croaked, changing with the hours as the night wore on to morning. * * * * * Dawn broke in London, clear and sweet, dove grey and honey, with promise of good weather; the lamps in the streets paled and disappeared; the empty streets ran with water, and the rising sun caught it as it bubbled round the hydrants; the men in overalls swung the nozzles of their hoses from side to side and the water jetted and cascaded in a sparkle of light. "Let's have the window open," said Brenda. "It's stuffy in here." The waiter drew back the curtains, opened the windows. "It's quite light," she added. "After five. Oughtn't we to go to bed?" "Yes." "Only another week and then all the parties will be over," said Beaver. "Yes." "Well, let's go." "All right. Can you pay? I just haven't any money." They had come on after the party, for breakfast at a club Daisy had opened. Beaver paid for the kippers and tea. "Eight shillings," he said. "How does Daisy expect to make a success of the place when she charges prices like that?" "It does seem a lot.... So you really _are_ going to America?" "I must. Mother has taken the tickets." "Nothing I've said to-night makes any difference?" "Darling, don't go on. We've been through all that. You know it's the only thing that _can_ happen. Why spoil the last week?" "You _have_ enjoyed the summer, haven't you?" "Of course... well, shall we go?" "Yes. You needn't bother to see me home."<|quote|>"Sure you don't mind? It _is_ miles out of the way and it's late."</|quote|>"There's no knowing what I mind." "Brenda, darling, for heaven's sake... It isn't like you to go on like this." "I never was one for making myself expensive." * * * * * The Indians returned during the night, while Tony and Dr Messinger were asleep; without a word spoken the little people crept out of hiding; the women had removed their clothes and left them at a distance so that no twig should betray their movements; their naked bodies moved soundlessly through the undergrowth; the glowing embers of the fire and the storm lantern twenty yards away were their only light; there was no moon. They collected their wicker baskets and their rations of farine, their bows and arrows, the gun and their broad-bladed knives; they rolled up their hammocks into compact cylinders. They took nothing with them that was not theirs. Then they crept back through the shadows, into the darkness. When Tony and Dr Messinger awoke it was clear to them what had happened. "The situation is grave," said Dr Messinger. "But not desperate." [IV] For four days Tony and Dr Messinger paddled downstream. They sat, balancing themselves precariously, at the two ends of the canoe; between them they had piled the most essential of their stores; the remainder, with the other canoes, had been left at the camp, to be called for when they had recruited help from the Pie-wies. Even the minimum which Dr Messinger had selected over-weighted the craft so that it was dangerously low; any movement brought the water to the lip of the gunwale and threatened disaster; it was heavy to steer and they made slow progress, contenting themselves, for the most part, with keeping end on, and drifting with the current. Twice they came to stretches of cataract, and here they drew in to the bank, unloaded and waded beside the boat, sometimes plunging waist-deep, sometimes clambering over the rocks, guiding it by hand until they reached clear water again. Then they tied up to the bank and carried their cargo down to it through the bush. For the rest of the way the river was broad and smooth; a dark surface which reflected in fine detail the walls of forest on either side, towering up from the undergrowth to their blossoming crown a hundred or more feet above them. Sometimes they came to a stretch of water scattered with fallen petals and floated among them, moving scarcely less slowly than they, as though resting in a flowering meadow. At night they spread their tarpaulin on stretches of dry beach, or hung their hammocks in the bush. Only the cabouri fly and rare, immobile alligators menaced the peace of their days. They kept a constant scrutiny of the banks but saw no sign of human life. Then Tony developed fever. It came on him quite suddenly, during the fourth afternoon. At their mid-day halt he was in complete health and shot a small deer that came down to drink on the opposite bank; an hour later he was shivering so violently that he had to lay down his paddle; his head was flaming with heat, his body and limbs were frigid; by sunset he was slightly delirious. Dr Messinger took his temperature and found that it was a hundred and four degrees, Fahrenheit. He gave him twenty-five grains of quinine and lit a fire so close to his hammock that by morning it was singed and blacked with smoke. He told Tony to keep wrapped up in his blanket, but at intervals throughout that night he woke from sleep to find himself running with sweat; he was consumed with thirst and drank mug after mug of river water. Neither that evening nor next morning was he able to eat anything. But next morning his temperature was down again. He felt weak and exhausted but he was able to keep steady in his place and paddle a little. "It was just a passing attack, wasn't it?" he said. "I shall be perfectly fit to-morrow, shan't I?" "I hope so," said Dr Messinger. At mid-day Tony drank some cocoa and ate a cupful of rice. "I feel grand," he said. "Good." That night the fever came on again. They were camping on a sand bank. Dr Messinger heated stones and put them under Tony's feet and in the small of his back. He was awake most of the night fuelling the fire and refilling Tony's mug with water. At dawn Tony slept for an hour and woke feeling slightly better; he was taking frequent doses of quinine and his ears were filled with a muffled sound as though he were holding those shells to them in which, he had been told in childhood, one could hear the beat of the sea. "We've got
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back when it is dark." They brushed the earth away from the old embers, brought new wood and made a fire; they lit the storm lantern. "We'd better get some supper," said Tony. They boiled water and made some cocoa, opened a tin of salmon and finished the peaches that were left over from mid-day. They lit their pipes and drew the sheaths of mosquito netting across their hammocks. Most of this time they were silent. Presently they decided to go to sleep. "We shall find them all here in the morning," said Dr Messinger. "They're an odd bunch." All round them the voices of the bush whistled and croaked, changing with the hours as the night wore on to morning. * * * * * Dawn broke in London, clear and sweet, dove grey and honey, with promise of good weather; the lamps in the streets paled and disappeared; the empty streets ran with water, and the rising sun caught it as it bubbled round the hydrants; the men in overalls swung the nozzles of their hoses from side to side and the water jetted and cascaded in a sparkle of light. "Let's have the window open," said Brenda. "It's stuffy in here." The waiter drew back the curtains, opened the windows. "It's quite light," she added. "After five. Oughtn't we to go to bed?" "Yes." "Only another week and then all the parties will be over," said Beaver. "Yes." "Well, let's go." "All right. Can you pay? I just haven't any money." They had come on after the party, for breakfast at a club Daisy had opened. Beaver paid for the kippers and tea. "Eight shillings," he said. "How does Daisy expect to make a success of the place when she charges prices like that?" "It does seem a lot.... So you really _are_ going to America?" "I must. Mother has taken the tickets." "Nothing I've said to-night makes any difference?" "Darling, don't go on. We've been through all that. You know it's the only thing that _can_ happen. Why spoil the last week?" "You _have_ enjoyed the summer, haven't you?" "Of course... well, shall we go?" "Yes. You needn't bother to see me home."<|quote|>"Sure you don't mind? It _is_ miles out of the way and it's late."</|quote|>"There's no knowing what I mind." "Brenda, darling, for heaven's sake... It isn't like you to go on like this." "I never was one for making myself expensive." * * * * * The Indians returned during the night, while Tony and Dr Messinger were asleep; without a word spoken the little people crept out of hiding; the women had removed their clothes and left them at a distance so that no twig should betray their movements; their naked bodies moved soundlessly through the undergrowth; the glowing embers of the fire and the storm lantern twenty yards away were their only light; there was no moon. They collected their wicker baskets and their rations of farine, their bows and arrows, the gun and their broad-bladed knives; they rolled up their hammocks into compact cylinders. They took nothing with them that was not theirs. Then they crept back through the shadows, into the darkness. When Tony and Dr Messinger awoke it was clear to them what had happened. "The situation is grave," said Dr Messinger. "But not desperate." [IV] For four days Tony and Dr Messinger paddled downstream. They sat, balancing themselves precariously, at the two ends of the canoe; between them they had piled the most essential of their stores; the remainder, with the other canoes, had been left at the camp, to be called for when they had recruited help from the Pie-wies. Even the minimum which Dr Messinger had selected over-weighted the craft so that it was dangerously low; any movement brought the water to the lip of the gunwale and threatened disaster; it was heavy to steer and they made slow progress, contenting themselves, for the most part, with keeping end on, and drifting with the current. Twice they came to stretches of cataract, and here they drew in to the bank, unloaded and waded beside the boat, sometimes plunging waist-deep, sometimes clambering over the rocks, guiding it by hand until they reached clear water again. Then they tied up to the bank and carried their cargo down to it through the bush. For the rest of the way the river was broad and smooth; a dark surface which reflected in fine detail the walls of forest on either side, towering up from the undergrowth to their blossoming crown a hundred or more feet above them. Sometimes they came to a stretch of water scattered with fallen petals and floated among them, moving scarcely less slowly than they, as though resting in a flowering meadow. At night they spread their tarpaulin on stretches of dry beach, or hung their hammocks in the bush. Only the cabouri fly and rare, immobile alligators menaced the peace of their days. They kept a constant scrutiny of the banks but saw no sign of human life. Then Tony developed fever. It came on him quite suddenly, during the fourth afternoon. At their mid-day halt he was in complete health and shot a small deer that came down to drink on the opposite bank; an hour later he was shivering so violently that he had to lay down his paddle; his head was flaming with heat, his body and limbs were frigid; by sunset he was slightly delirious. Dr Messinger took his temperature and found that it was a hundred and four degrees,
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A Handful Of Dust
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"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their colour and shape, and the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied."
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Mr. Darcy
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justice to those beautiful eyes?"<|quote|>"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their colour and shape, and the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied."</|quote|>At that moment they were
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for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?"<|quote|>"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their colour and shape, and the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied."</|quote|>At that moment they were met from another walk, by
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placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know; only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?"<|quote|>"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their colour and shape, and the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied."</|quote|>At that moment they were met from another walk, by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself. "I did not know that you intended to walk," said Miss Bingley, in some confusion, lest they had been overheard. "You used us abominably ill," answered Mrs. Hurst, "in running away without telling us that
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running after the officers.--And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses." "Have you any thing else to propose for my domestic felicity?" "Oh! yes.--Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know; only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?"<|quote|>"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their colour and shape, and the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied."</|quote|>At that moment they were met from another walk, by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself. "I did not know that you intended to walk," said Miss Bingley, in some confusion, lest they had been overheard. "You used us abominably ill," answered Mrs. Hurst, "in running away without telling us that you were coming out." Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness and immediately said,-- "This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue." But Elizabeth,
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enough to be jealous; and her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane, received some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth. She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance. "I hope," said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the next day, "you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after the officers.--And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses." "Have you any thing else to propose for my domestic felicity?" "Oh! yes.--Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know; only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?"<|quote|>"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their colour and shape, and the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied."</|quote|>At that moment they were met from another walk, by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself. "I did not know that you intended to walk," said Miss Bingley, in some confusion, lest they had been overheard. "You used us abominably ill," answered Mrs. Hurst, "in running away without telling us that you were coming out." Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness and immediately said,-- "This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue." But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, laughingly answered, "No, no; stay where you are.--You are charmingly group'd, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good bye." She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening. CHAPTER XI. When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold,
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Mr. Darcy, drawing near Elizabeth, said to her-- "Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?" She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some surprise at her silence. "Oh!" said she, "I heard you before; but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,' that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have therefore made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all--and now despise me if you dare." "Indeed I do not dare." Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some danger. Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane, received some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth. She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance. "I hope," said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the next day, "you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after the officers.--And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses." "Have you any thing else to propose for my domestic felicity?" "Oh! yes.--Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know; only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?"<|quote|>"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their colour and shape, and the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied."</|quote|>At that moment they were met from another walk, by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself. "I did not know that you intended to walk," said Miss Bingley, in some confusion, lest they had been overheard. "You used us abominably ill," answered Mrs. Hurst, "in running away without telling us that you were coming out." Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness and immediately said,-- "This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue." But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, laughingly answered, "No, no; stay where you are.--You are charmingly group'd, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good bye." She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening. CHAPTER XI. When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the drawing-room; where she was welcomed by her two friends with many professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared. Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance with spirit. But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object. Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned towards Darcy, and she had something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed himself directly to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he was "very glad;" but diffuseness and warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The first half hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to the other side of the fire-place, that she might be farther from the door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to any one else. Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it
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not forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure you that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not know a more aweful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening when he has nothing to do." Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was rather offended; and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her brother for talking such nonsense. "I see your design, Bingley," said his friend.--" "You dislike an argument, and want to silence this." "Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me." "What you ask," said Elizabeth, "is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter." Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter. When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth for the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to the piano-forte, and after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead the way, which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she seated herself. Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed Elizabeth could not help observing as she turned over some music books that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her because he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine however at last, that she drew his notice because there was a something about her more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him too little to care for his approbation. After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near Elizabeth, said to her-- "Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?" She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some surprise at her silence. "Oh!" said she, "I heard you before; but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,' that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have therefore made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all--and now despise me if you dare." "Indeed I do not dare." Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some danger. Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane, received some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth. She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance. "I hope," said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the next day, "you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after the officers.--And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses." "Have you any thing else to propose for my domestic felicity?" "Oh! yes.--Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know; only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?"<|quote|>"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their colour and shape, and the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied."</|quote|>At that moment they were met from another walk, by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself. "I did not know that you intended to walk," said Miss Bingley, in some confusion, lest they had been overheard. "You used us abominably ill," answered Mrs. Hurst, "in running away without telling us that you were coming out." Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness and immediately said,-- "This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue." But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, laughingly answered, "No, no; stay where you are.--You are charmingly group'd, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good bye." She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening. CHAPTER XI. When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the drawing-room; where she was welcomed by her two friends with many professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared. Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance with spirit. But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object. Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned towards Darcy, and she had something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed himself directly to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he was "very glad;" but diffuseness and warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The first half hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to the other side of the fire-place, that she might be farther from the door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to any one else. Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great delight. When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the card-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the subject, seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the sophas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and rings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss Bennet. Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy's progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, "How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book!--When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library." No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said, "By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield?--I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure." "If you mean Darcy," cried her brother, "he may go to bed, if he chuses, before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my cards." "I should like balls infinitely better," she replied,
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lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her because he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine however at last, that she drew his notice because there was a something about her more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him too little to care for his approbation. After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near Elizabeth, said to her-- "Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?" She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some surprise at her silence. "Oh!" said she, "I heard you before; but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,' that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have therefore made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all--and now despise me if you dare." "Indeed I do not dare." Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some danger. Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane, received some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth. She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance. "I hope," said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the next day, "you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after the officers.--And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses." "Have you any thing else to propose for my domestic felicity?" "Oh! yes.--Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know; only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?"<|quote|>"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their colour and shape, and the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied."</|quote|>At that moment they were met from another walk, by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself. "I did not know that you intended to walk," said Miss Bingley, in some confusion, lest they had been overheard. "You used us abominably ill," answered Mrs. Hurst, "in running away without telling us that you were coming out." Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness and immediately said,-- "This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue." But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, laughingly answered, "No, no; stay where you are.--You are charmingly group'd, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good bye." She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening. CHAPTER XI. When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the drawing-room; where she was welcomed by her two friends with many professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared. Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance with spirit. But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object. Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned towards Darcy, and she had something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed himself directly to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and
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Pride And Prejudice
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“Well, he may when he sees her!”
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Lady Sandgate
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“Will _he_ want your great-grandmother?”<|quote|>“Well, he may when he sees her!”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign,
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but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_ want your great-grandmother?”<|quote|>“Well, he may when he sees her!”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign, when he comes, will give
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Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?” “The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_ want your great-grandmother?”<|quote|>“Well, he may when he sees her!”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign, when he comes, will give you on his own question, I feel sure, every information. Shall I fish it out for you?” she encouragingly asked, beside him by her secretary-desk, at which he had arrived under her persuasive guidance and where she sought solidly to
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which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?” “The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_ want your great-grandmother?”<|quote|>“Well, he may when he sees her!”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign, when he comes, will give you on his own question, I feel sure, every information. Shall I fish it out for you?” she encouragingly asked, beside him by her secretary-desk, at which he had arrived under her persuasive guidance and where she sought solidly to establish him, opening out the gilded crimson case for his employ, so that he had but to help himself. “What enormous cheques! _You_ can never draw one for two-pound-ten!” “That’s exactly what you deserve I _should_ do!” He remained after this solemnly still, however, like some high-priest circled with ceremonies;
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h---- then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?” His hostess faced it not otherwise than if she had resolved not to recognise the subject of his curiosity--for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on _me_, my dear man--but I haven’t the least idea.” He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?” Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way. “Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!” In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?” “The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_ want your great-grandmother?”<|quote|>“Well, he may when he sees her!”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign, when he comes, will give you on his own question, I feel sure, every information. Shall I fish it out for you?” she encouragingly asked, beside him by her secretary-desk, at which he had arrived under her persuasive guidance and where she sought solidly to establish him, opening out the gilded crimson case for his employ, so that he had but to help himself. “What enormous cheques! _You_ can never draw one for two-pound-ten!” “That’s exactly what you deserve I _should_ do!” He remained after this solemnly still, however, like some high-priest circled with ceremonies; in consonance with which, the next moment, both her hands held out to him the open and immaculate page of the oblong series much as they might have presented a royal infant at the christening-font. He failed, in his preoccupation, to receive it; so she placed it before him on the table, coming away with a brave gay “Well, I leave it to you!” She had not, restlessly revolving, kept her discreet distance for many minutes before she found herself almost face to face with the recurrent Gotch, upright at the door with a fresh announcement. “Mr. Crimble, please--for Lady
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wants to ‘congratulate’?” “On Theign’s decision, as I’ve told you--which I announced to Mackintosh, by Theign’s extraordinary order, under his Highness’s nose, and which his Highness, by the same token, took up like a shot.” Her face, as she bethought herself, was convulsed as by some quick perception of what her informant must have done and what therefore the Prince’s interest rested on; all, however, to the effect, given their actual company, of her at once dodging and covering that issue. “The decision to remove the picture?” Lord John also observed a discretion. “He wouldn’t hear of such a thing--says it must stay stock still. So there you are!” This determined in Mr. Bender a not unnatural, in fact quite a clamorous, series of questions. “But _where_ are we, and what has the Prince to do with Lord Theign’s decision when that’s all _I’m_ here for? What in thunder _is_ Lord Theign’s decision--what was his ‘extraordinary order’?” Lord John, too long detained and his hand now on the door, put off this solicitor as he had already been put off. “Lady Sandgate, _you_ tell him! I rush!” Mr. Bender saw him vanish, but all to a greater bewilderment. “What the h---- then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?” His hostess faced it not otherwise than if she had resolved not to recognise the subject of his curiosity--for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on _me_, my dear man--but I haven’t the least idea.” He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?” Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way. “Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!” In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?” “The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_ want your great-grandmother?”<|quote|>“Well, he may when he sees her!”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign, when he comes, will give you on his own question, I feel sure, every information. Shall I fish it out for you?” she encouragingly asked, beside him by her secretary-desk, at which he had arrived under her persuasive guidance and where she sought solidly to establish him, opening out the gilded crimson case for his employ, so that he had but to help himself. “What enormous cheques! _You_ can never draw one for two-pound-ten!” “That’s exactly what you deserve I _should_ do!” He remained after this solemnly still, however, like some high-priest circled with ceremonies; in consonance with which, the next moment, both her hands held out to him the open and immaculate page of the oblong series much as they might have presented a royal infant at the christening-font. He failed, in his preoccupation, to receive it; so she placed it before him on the table, coming away with a brave gay “Well, I leave it to you!” She had not, restlessly revolving, kept her discreet distance for many minutes before she found herself almost face to face with the recurrent Gotch, upright at the door with a fresh announcement. “Mr. Crimble, please--for Lady Grace.” “Mr. Crimble _again?_” --she took it discomposedly. It reached Mr. Bender at the secretary, but to a different effect. “Mr. Crimble? Why he’s just the man I want to see!” Gotch, turning to the lobby, had only to make way for him. “Here he is, my lady.” “Then tell her ladyship.” “She has come down,” said Gotch while Hugh arrived and his companion withdrew, and while Lady Grace, reaching the scene from the other quarter, emerged in bright equipment--in her hat, scarf and gloves. IV These young persons were thus at once confronted across the room, and the girl explained her preparation. “I was listening hard--for your knock and your voice.” “Then know that, thank God, it’s all right!” --Hugh was breathless, jubilant, radiant. “A Mantovano?” she delightedly cried. “A Mantovano!” he proudly gave back. “A Mantovano!” --it carried even Lady Sandgate away. “A Mantovano--a sure thing?” Mr. Bender jumped up from his business, all gaping attention to Hugh. “I’ve just left our blest Bardi,” said that young man-- “who hasn’t the shadow of a doubt and is delighted to publish it everywhere.” “Will he publish it right here to _me?_” Mr. Bender hungrily asked. “Well,” Hugh smiled, “you
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strikingly different from the backward messenger she had lately seen despatched. “But Theign should be here!” --he addressed her excitedly. “I announce you a call from the Prince.” “The Prince?” --she gasped as for the burden of the honour. “He follows you?” Mr. Bender, with an eagerness and a candour there was no mistaking, recognised on behalf of his ampler action a world of associational advantage and auspicious possibility. “Is the Prince _after_ the thing?” Lord John remained, in spite of this challenge, conscious of nothing but his message. “He was there with Mackintosh--to see and admire the picture; which he thinks, by the way, a Mantovano pure and simple!--and did me the honour to remember me. When he heard me report to Mackintosh in his presence the sentiments expressed to me here by our noble friend and of which, embarrassed though I doubtless was,” the young man pursued to Lady Sandgate, “I gave as clear an account as I could, he was so delighted with it that he declared they mustn’t think then of taking the thing off, but must on the contrary keep putting it forward for all it’s worth, and he would come round and congratulate and thank Theign and explain him his reasons.” Their hostess cast about for a sign. “Why Theign is at Kitty’s, worse luck! The Prince calls on him _here?_” “He calls, you see, on _you_, my lady--at five-forty-five; and graciously desired me so to put it you.” “He’s very kind, but” --she took in her condition-- “I’m not even _dressed!_” “You’ll have time” --the young man was a comfort-- “while I rush to Berkeley Square. And pardon me, Bender--though it’s so near--if I just bag your car.” “That’s, that’s it, take his car!” --Lady Sandgate almost swept him away. “You may use my car all right,” Mr. Bender contributed-- “but what I want to know is what the man’s _after_.” “The man? what man?” his friend scarce paused to ask. “The Prince then--if you allow he _is_ a man! Is he after my picture?” Lord John vividly disclaimed authority. “If you’ll wait, my dear fellow, you’ll see.” “Oh why should he ‘wait’?” burst from their cautious companion--only to be caught up, however, in the next breath, so swift her gracious revolution. “Wait, wait indeed, Mr. Bender--I won’t give you up for any Prince!” With which she appealed again to Lord John. “He wants to ‘congratulate’?” “On Theign’s decision, as I’ve told you--which I announced to Mackintosh, by Theign’s extraordinary order, under his Highness’s nose, and which his Highness, by the same token, took up like a shot.” Her face, as she bethought herself, was convulsed as by some quick perception of what her informant must have done and what therefore the Prince’s interest rested on; all, however, to the effect, given their actual company, of her at once dodging and covering that issue. “The decision to remove the picture?” Lord John also observed a discretion. “He wouldn’t hear of such a thing--says it must stay stock still. So there you are!” This determined in Mr. Bender a not unnatural, in fact quite a clamorous, series of questions. “But _where_ are we, and what has the Prince to do with Lord Theign’s decision when that’s all _I’m_ here for? What in thunder _is_ Lord Theign’s decision--what was his ‘extraordinary order’?” Lord John, too long detained and his hand now on the door, put off this solicitor as he had already been put off. “Lady Sandgate, _you_ tell him! I rush!” Mr. Bender saw him vanish, but all to a greater bewilderment. “What the h---- then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?” His hostess faced it not otherwise than if she had resolved not to recognise the subject of his curiosity--for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on _me_, my dear man--but I haven’t the least idea.” He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?” Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way. “Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!” In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?” “The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_ want your great-grandmother?”<|quote|>“Well, he may when he sees her!”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign, when he comes, will give you on his own question, I feel sure, every information. Shall I fish it out for you?” she encouragingly asked, beside him by her secretary-desk, at which he had arrived under her persuasive guidance and where she sought solidly to establish him, opening out the gilded crimson case for his employ, so that he had but to help himself. “What enormous cheques! _You_ can never draw one for two-pound-ten!” “That’s exactly what you deserve I _should_ do!” He remained after this solemnly still, however, like some high-priest circled with ceremonies; in consonance with which, the next moment, both her hands held out to him the open and immaculate page of the oblong series much as they might have presented a royal infant at the christening-font. He failed, in his preoccupation, to receive it; so she placed it before him on the table, coming away with a brave gay “Well, I leave it to you!” She had not, restlessly revolving, kept her discreet distance for many minutes before she found herself almost face to face with the recurrent Gotch, upright at the door with a fresh announcement. “Mr. Crimble, please--for Lady Grace.” “Mr. Crimble _again?_” --she took it discomposedly. It reached Mr. Bender at the secretary, but to a different effect. “Mr. Crimble? Why he’s just the man I want to see!” Gotch, turning to the lobby, had only to make way for him. “Here he is, my lady.” “Then tell her ladyship.” “She has come down,” said Gotch while Hugh arrived and his companion withdrew, and while Lady Grace, reaching the scene from the other quarter, emerged in bright equipment--in her hat, scarf and gloves. IV These young persons were thus at once confronted across the room, and the girl explained her preparation. “I was listening hard--for your knock and your voice.” “Then know that, thank God, it’s all right!” --Hugh was breathless, jubilant, radiant. “A Mantovano?” she delightedly cried. “A Mantovano!” he proudly gave back. “A Mantovano!” --it carried even Lady Sandgate away. “A Mantovano--a sure thing?” Mr. Bender jumped up from his business, all gaping attention to Hugh. “I’ve just left our blest Bardi,” said that young man-- “who hasn’t the shadow of a doubt and is delighted to publish it everywhere.” “Will he publish it right here to _me?_” Mr. Bender hungrily asked. “Well,” Hugh smiled, “you can try him.” “But try him how, where?” The great collector, straining to instant action, cast about for his hat “Where _is_ he, hey?” “Don’t you wish I’d tell you?” Hugh, in his personal elation, almost cynically answered. “Won’t you wait for the Prince?” Lady Sandgate had meanwhile asked of her friend; but had turned more inspectingly to Lady Grace before he could reply. “My dear child--though you’re lovely!--are you sure you’re ready for him?” “For the Prince!” --the girl was vague. “Is he coming?” “At five-forty-five.” With which she consulted her bracelet watch, but only at once to wail for alarm. “Ah, it _is_ that, and I’m not dressed!” She hurried off through the other room. Mr. Bender, quite accepting her retreat, addressed himself again unabashed to Hugh: “It’s your blest Bardi I want first--I’ll take the Prince after.” The young man clearly could afford indulgence now. “Then I left him at Long’s Hotel.” “Why, right near! I’ll come back.” And Mr. Bender’s flight was on the wings of optimism. But it all gave Hugh a quick question for Lady Grace. “Why does the Prince come, and what in the world’s happening?” “My father has suddenly returned--it may have to do with that.” The shadow of his surprise darkened visibly to that of his fear. “Mayn’t it be more than anything else to give you and me his final curse?” “I don’t know--and I think I don’t care. I don’t care,” she said, “so long as you’re right and as the greatest light of all declares you are.” “He _is_ the greatest” --Hugh was vividly of that opinion now: “I could see it as soon as I got there with him, the charming creature! There, _before_ the holy thing, and with the place, by good luck, for those great moments, practically to ourselves--without Macintosh to take in what was happening or any one else at all to speak of--it was but a matter of ten minutes: he had come, he had seen, and _I_ had conquered.” “Naturally you had!” --the girl hung on him for it; “and what was happening beyond everything else was that for your original dear divination, one of the divinations of genius--with every creature all these ages so stupid--you were being baptized on the spot a great man.” “Well, he did let poor Pappendick have it at least-he doesn’t think _he’s_ one: that that eminent
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the next breath, so swift her gracious revolution. “Wait, wait indeed, Mr. Bender--I won’t give you up for any Prince!” With which she appealed again to Lord John. “He wants to ‘congratulate’?” “On Theign’s decision, as I’ve told you--which I announced to Mackintosh, by Theign’s extraordinary order, under his Highness’s nose, and which his Highness, by the same token, took up like a shot.” Her face, as she bethought herself, was convulsed as by some quick perception of what her informant must have done and what therefore the Prince’s interest rested on; all, however, to the effect, given their actual company, of her at once dodging and covering that issue. “The decision to remove the picture?” Lord John also observed a discretion. “He wouldn’t hear of such a thing--says it must stay stock still. So there you are!” This determined in Mr. Bender a not unnatural, in fact quite a clamorous, series of questions. “But _where_ are we, and what has the Prince to do with Lord Theign’s decision when that’s all _I’m_ here for? What in thunder _is_ Lord Theign’s decision--what was his ‘extraordinary order’?” Lord John, too long detained and his hand now on the door, put off this solicitor as he had already been put off. “Lady Sandgate, _you_ tell him! I rush!” Mr. Bender saw him vanish, but all to a greater bewilderment. “What the h---- then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?” His hostess faced it not otherwise than if she had resolved not to recognise the subject of his curiosity--for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on _me_, my dear man--but I haven’t the least idea.” He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?” Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way. “Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!” In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?” “The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_ want your great-grandmother?”<|quote|>“Well, he may when he sees her!”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign, when he comes, will give you on his own question, I feel sure, every information. Shall I fish it out for you?” she encouragingly asked, beside him by her secretary-desk, at which he had arrived under her persuasive guidance and where she sought solidly to establish him, opening out the gilded crimson case for his employ, so that he had but to help himself. “What enormous cheques! _You_ can never draw one for two-pound-ten!” “That’s exactly what you deserve I _should_ do!” He remained after this solemnly still, however, like some high-priest circled with ceremonies; in consonance with which, the next moment, both her hands held out to him the open and immaculate page of the oblong series much as they might have presented a royal infant at the christening-font. He failed, in his preoccupation, to receive it; so she placed it before him on the table, coming away with a brave gay “Well, I leave it to you!” She had not, restlessly revolving, kept her discreet distance for many minutes before she found herself almost face to face with the recurrent Gotch, upright at the door with a fresh announcement. “Mr. Crimble, please--for Lady Grace.” “Mr. Crimble _again?_” --she took it discomposedly. It reached Mr. Bender at the secretary, but to a different effect. “Mr. Crimble? Why he’s just the man I want to see!” Gotch, turning to the lobby, had only to make way for him. “Here he is, my lady.” “Then tell her ladyship.” “She has come down,” said Gotch while Hugh arrived and his companion withdrew, and while Lady Grace, reaching the scene from the other quarter, emerged in bright equipment--in her hat, scarf and gloves. IV These young persons were thus at once confronted across the room, and the girl explained her preparation. “I was listening hard--for your knock and your voice.” “Then know that, thank God, it’s all right!” --Hugh was breathless, jubilant, radiant. “A Mantovano?” she delightedly cried. “A Mantovano!” he proudly gave back. “A Mantovano!” --it carried even Lady Sandgate away. “A Mantovano--a sure thing?” Mr. Bender jumped up from his business, all gaping attention to Hugh. “I’ve just left our blest Bardi,” said that young man-- “who hasn’t the shadow of a doubt and is delighted to publish it everywhere.” “Will he publish it right here to _me?_” Mr. Bender hungrily asked. “Well,” Hugh smiled, “you can try him.” “But try him how, where?” The great collector, straining to instant action, cast about for his hat “Where _is_ he, hey?” “Don’t you wish I’d tell you?” Hugh, in his personal elation, almost cynically answered. “Won’t you wait for the Prince?” Lady Sandgate had meanwhile asked of her friend; but had turned more inspectingly to Lady Grace before he could reply. “My dear child--though you’re lovely!--are you sure you’re ready for him?” “For the Prince!” --the girl was vague. “Is he coming?” “At five-forty-five.” With which she consulted her bracelet watch, but only at once to wail for alarm. “Ah, it _is_ that, and I’m not dressed!” She hurried off through the other room. Mr. Bender, quite accepting her retreat, addressed himself again unabashed to Hugh:
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The Outcry
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“Do you know, Ántonia, since I’ve been away, I think of you more often than of any one else in this part of the world. I’d have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my sister—anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of times when I don’t realize it. You really are a part of me.”
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Jim
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her I knew she would.<|quote|>“Do you know, Ántonia, since I’ve been away, I think of you more often than of any one else in this part of the world. I’d have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my sister—anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of times when I don’t realize it. You really are a part of me.”</|quote|>She turned her bright, believing
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that girl, Jim.” I told her I knew she would.<|quote|>“Do you know, Ántonia, since I’ve been away, I think of you more often than of any one else in this part of the world. I’d have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my sister—anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of times when I don’t realize it. You really are a part of me.”</|quote|>She turned her bright, believing eyes to me, and the
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Father Kelly says everybody’s put into this world for something, and I know what I’ve got to do. I’m going to see that my little girl has a better chance than ever I had. I’m going to take care of that girl, Jim.” I told her I knew she would.<|quote|>“Do you know, Ántonia, since I’ve been away, I think of you more often than of any one else in this part of the world. I’d have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my sister—anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of times when I don’t realize it. You really are a part of me.”</|quote|>She turned her bright, believing eyes to me, and the tears came up in them slowly. “How can it be like that, when you know so many people, and when I’ve disappointed you so? Ain’t it wonderful, Jim, how much people can mean to each other? I’m so glad we
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I understand him.” She asked me whether I had learned to like big cities. “I’d always be miserable in a city. I’d die of lonesomeness. I like to be where I know every stack and tree, and where all the ground is friendly. I want to live and die here. Father Kelly says everybody’s put into this world for something, and I know what I’ve got to do. I’m going to see that my little girl has a better chance than ever I had. I’m going to take care of that girl, Jim.” I told her I knew she would.<|quote|>“Do you know, Ántonia, since I’ve been away, I think of you more often than of any one else in this part of the world. I’d have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my sister—anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of times when I don’t realize it. You really are a part of me.”</|quote|>She turned her bright, believing eyes to me, and the tears came up in them slowly. “How can it be like that, when you know so many people, and when I’ve disappointed you so? Ain’t it wonderful, Jim, how much people can mean to each other? I’m so glad we had each other when we were little. I can’t wait till my little girl’s old enough to tell her about all the things we used to do. You’ll always remember me when you think about old times, won’t you? And I guess everybody thinks about old times, even the happiest
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the difference it had made in my life. She wanted to know about my friends and my way of living, and my dearest hopes. “Of course it means you are going away from us for good,” she said with a sigh. “But that don’t mean I’ll lose you. Look at my papa here; he’s been dead all these years, and yet he is more real to me than almost anybody else. He never goes out of my life. I talk to him and consult him all the time. The older I grow, the better I know him and the more I understand him.” She asked me whether I had learned to like big cities. “I’d always be miserable in a city. I’d die of lonesomeness. I like to be where I know every stack and tree, and where all the ground is friendly. I want to live and die here. Father Kelly says everybody’s put into this world for something, and I know what I’ve got to do. I’m going to see that my little girl has a better chance than ever I had. I’m going to take care of that girl, Jim.” I told her I knew she would.<|quote|>“Do you know, Ántonia, since I’ve been away, I think of you more often than of any one else in this part of the world. I’d have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my sister—anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of times when I don’t realize it. You really are a part of me.”</|quote|>She turned her bright, believing eyes to me, and the tears came up in them slowly. “How can it be like that, when you know so many people, and when I’ve disappointed you so? Ain’t it wonderful, Jim, how much people can mean to each other? I’m so glad we had each other when we were little. I can’t wait till my little girl’s old enough to tell her about all the things we used to do. You’ll always remember me when you think about old times, won’t you? And I guess everybody thinks about old times, even the happiest people.” As we walked homeward across the fields, the sun dropped and lay like a great golden globe in the low west. While it hung there, the moon rose in the east, as big as a cartwheel, pale silver and streaked with rose color, thin as a bubble or a ghost-moon. For five, perhaps ten minutes, the two luminaries confronted each other across the level land, resting on opposite edges of the world. In that singular light every little tree and shock of wheat, every sunflower stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, drew itself up high and pointed; the very clods
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Steavens’s last night. I’ve been looking for you all day.” She was thinner than I had ever seen her, and looked, as Mrs. Steavens said, “worked down,” but there was a new kind of strength in the gravity of her face, and her color still gave her that look of deep-seated health and ardor. Still? Why, it flashed across me that though so much had happened in her life and in mine, she was barely twenty-four years old. Ántonia stuck her fork in the ground, and instinctively we walked toward that unploughed patch at the crossing of the roads as the fittest place to talk to each other. We sat down outside the sagging wire fence that shut Mr. Shimerda’s plot off from the rest of the world. The tall red grass had never been cut there. It had died down in winter and come up again in the spring until it was as thick and shrubby as some tropical garden-grass. I found myself telling her everything: why I had decided to study law and to go into the law office of one of my mother’s relatives in New York City; about Gaston Cleric’s death from pneumonia last winter, and the difference it had made in my life. She wanted to know about my friends and my way of living, and my dearest hopes. “Of course it means you are going away from us for good,” she said with a sigh. “But that don’t mean I’ll lose you. Look at my papa here; he’s been dead all these years, and yet he is more real to me than almost anybody else. He never goes out of my life. I talk to him and consult him all the time. The older I grow, the better I know him and the more I understand him.” She asked me whether I had learned to like big cities. “I’d always be miserable in a city. I’d die of lonesomeness. I like to be where I know every stack and tree, and where all the ground is friendly. I want to live and die here. Father Kelly says everybody’s put into this world for something, and I know what I’ve got to do. I’m going to see that my little girl has a better chance than ever I had. I’m going to take care of that girl, Jim.” I told her I knew she would.<|quote|>“Do you know, Ántonia, since I’ve been away, I think of you more often than of any one else in this part of the world. I’d have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my sister—anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of times when I don’t realize it. You really are a part of me.”</|quote|>She turned her bright, believing eyes to me, and the tears came up in them slowly. “How can it be like that, when you know so many people, and when I’ve disappointed you so? Ain’t it wonderful, Jim, how much people can mean to each other? I’m so glad we had each other when we were little. I can’t wait till my little girl’s old enough to tell her about all the things we used to do. You’ll always remember me when you think about old times, won’t you? And I guess everybody thinks about old times, even the happiest people.” As we walked homeward across the fields, the sun dropped and lay like a great golden globe in the low west. While it hung there, the moon rose in the east, as big as a cartwheel, pale silver and streaked with rose color, thin as a bubble or a ghost-moon. For five, perhaps ten minutes, the two luminaries confronted each other across the level land, resting on opposite edges of the world. In that singular light every little tree and shock of wheat, every sunflower stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, drew itself up high and pointed; the very clods and furrows in the fields seemed to stand up sharply. I felt the old pull of the earth, the solemn magic that comes out of those fields at nightfall. I wished I could be a little boy again, and that my way could end there. We reached the edge of the field, where our ways parted. I took her hands and held them against my breast, feeling once more how strong and warm and good they were, those brown hands, and remembering how many kind things they had done for me. I held them now a long while, over my heart. About us it was growing darker and darker, and I had to look hard to see her face, which I meant always to carry with me; the closest, realest face, under all the shadows of women’s faces, at the very bottom of my memory. “I’ll come back,” I said earnestly, through the soft, intrusive darkness. “Perhaps you will” —I felt rather than saw her smile. “But even if you don’t, you’re here, like my father. So I won’t be lonesome.” As I went back alone over that familiar road, I could almost believe that a boy and girl ran
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there with her eyes shut and took no account of me. The old woman got a tubful of warm water to wash the baby. I overlooked what she was doing and I said out loud:— “‘Mrs. Shimerda, don’t you put that strong yellow soap near that baby. You’ll blister its little skin.’ I was indignant. [Illustration: Ántonia driving her cattle home] “‘Mrs. Steavens,’ Ántonia said from the bed, ‘if you’ll look in the top tray of my trunk, you’ll see some fine soap.’ That was the first word she spoke. “After I’d dressed the baby, I took it out to show it to Ambrosch. He was muttering behind the stove and would n’t look at it. “‘You’d better put it out in the rain barrel,’ he says. “‘Now, see here, Ambrosch,’ says I, ‘there’s a law in this land, don’t forget that. I stand here a witness that this baby has come into the world sound and strong, and I intend to keep an eye on what befalls it.’ I pride myself I cowed him. “Well, I expect you’re not much interested in babies, but Ántonia’s got on fine. She loved it from the first as dearly as if she’d had a ring on her finger, and was never ashamed of it. It’s a year and eight months old now, and no baby was ever better cared-for. Ántonia is a natural-born mother. I wish she could marry and raise a family, but I don’t know as there’s much chance now.” I slept that night in the room I used to have when I was a little boy, with the summer wind blowing in at the windows, bringing the smell of the ripe fields. I lay awake and watched the moonlight shining over the barn and the stacks and the pond, and the windmill making its old dark shadow against the blue sky. IV THE next afternoon I walked over to the Shimerdas’. Yulka showed me the baby and told me that Ántonia was shocking wheat on the southwest quarter. I went down across the fields, and Tony saw me from a long way off. She stood still by her shocks, leaning on her pitchfork, watching me as I came. We met like the people in the old song, in silence, if not in tears. Her warm hand clasped mine. “I thought you’d come, Jim. I heard you were at Mrs. Steavens’s last night. I’ve been looking for you all day.” She was thinner than I had ever seen her, and looked, as Mrs. Steavens said, “worked down,” but there was a new kind of strength in the gravity of her face, and her color still gave her that look of deep-seated health and ardor. Still? Why, it flashed across me that though so much had happened in her life and in mine, she was barely twenty-four years old. Ántonia stuck her fork in the ground, and instinctively we walked toward that unploughed patch at the crossing of the roads as the fittest place to talk to each other. We sat down outside the sagging wire fence that shut Mr. Shimerda’s plot off from the rest of the world. The tall red grass had never been cut there. It had died down in winter and come up again in the spring until it was as thick and shrubby as some tropical garden-grass. I found myself telling her everything: why I had decided to study law and to go into the law office of one of my mother’s relatives in New York City; about Gaston Cleric’s death from pneumonia last winter, and the difference it had made in my life. She wanted to know about my friends and my way of living, and my dearest hopes. “Of course it means you are going away from us for good,” she said with a sigh. “But that don’t mean I’ll lose you. Look at my papa here; he’s been dead all these years, and yet he is more real to me than almost anybody else. He never goes out of my life. I talk to him and consult him all the time. The older I grow, the better I know him and the more I understand him.” She asked me whether I had learned to like big cities. “I’d always be miserable in a city. I’d die of lonesomeness. I like to be where I know every stack and tree, and where all the ground is friendly. I want to live and die here. Father Kelly says everybody’s put into this world for something, and I know what I’ve got to do. I’m going to see that my little girl has a better chance than ever I had. I’m going to take care of that girl, Jim.” I told her I knew she would.<|quote|>“Do you know, Ántonia, since I’ve been away, I think of you more often than of any one else in this part of the world. I’d have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my sister—anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of times when I don’t realize it. You really are a part of me.”</|quote|>She turned her bright, believing eyes to me, and the tears came up in them slowly. “How can it be like that, when you know so many people, and when I’ve disappointed you so? Ain’t it wonderful, Jim, how much people can mean to each other? I’m so glad we had each other when we were little. I can’t wait till my little girl’s old enough to tell her about all the things we used to do. You’ll always remember me when you think about old times, won’t you? And I guess everybody thinks about old times, even the happiest people.” As we walked homeward across the fields, the sun dropped and lay like a great golden globe in the low west. While it hung there, the moon rose in the east, as big as a cartwheel, pale silver and streaked with rose color, thin as a bubble or a ghost-moon. For five, perhaps ten minutes, the two luminaries confronted each other across the level land, resting on opposite edges of the world. In that singular light every little tree and shock of wheat, every sunflower stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, drew itself up high and pointed; the very clods and furrows in the fields seemed to stand up sharply. I felt the old pull of the earth, the solemn magic that comes out of those fields at nightfall. I wished I could be a little boy again, and that my way could end there. We reached the edge of the field, where our ways parted. I took her hands and held them against my breast, feeling once more how strong and warm and good they were, those brown hands, and remembering how many kind things they had done for me. I held them now a long while, over my heart. About us it was growing darker and darker, and I had to look hard to see her face, which I meant always to carry with me; the closest, realest face, under all the shadows of women’s faces, at the very bottom of my memory. “I’ll come back,” I said earnestly, through the soft, intrusive darkness. “Perhaps you will” —I felt rather than saw her smile. “But even if you don’t, you’re here, like my father. So I won’t be lonesome.” As I went back alone over that familiar road, I could almost believe that a boy and girl ran along beside me, as our shadows used to do, laughing and whispering to each other in the grass. BOOK V—CUZAK’S BOYS I I TOLD Ántonia I would come back, but life intervened, and it was twenty years before I kept my promise. I heard of her from time to time; that she married, very soon after I last saw her, a young Bohemian, a cousin of Anton Jelinek; that they were poor, and had a large family. Once when I was abroad I went into Bohemia, and from Prague I sent Ántonia some photographs of her native village. Months afterward came a letter from her, telling me the names and ages of her many children, but little else; signed, “Your old friend, Ántonia Cuzak.” When I met Tiny Soderball in Salt Lake, she told me that Ántonia had not “done very well” ; that her husband was not a man of much force, and she had had a hard life. Perhaps it was cowardice that kept me away so long. My business took me West several times every year, and it was always in the back of my mind that I would stop in Nebraska some day and go to see Ántonia. But I kept putting it off until the next trip. I did not want to find her aged and broken; I really dreaded it. In the course of twenty crowded years one parts with many illusions. I did not wish to lose the early ones. Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again. I owe it to Lena Lingard that I went to see Ántonia at last. I was in San Francisco two summers ago when both Lena and Tiny Soderball were in town. Tiny lives in a house of her own, and Lena’s shop is in an apartment house just around the corner. It interested me, after so many years, to see the two women together. Tiny audits Lena’s accounts occasionally, and invests her money for her; and Lena, apparently, takes care that Tiny does n’t grow too miserly. “If there’s anything I can’t stand,” she said to me in Tiny’s presence, “it’s a shabby rich woman.” Tiny smiled grimly and assured me that Lena would never be either shabby or rich. “And I don’t want to be,” the other agreed complacently. Lena gave me a cheerful account of
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down across the fields, and Tony saw me from a long way off. She stood still by her shocks, leaning on her pitchfork, watching me as I came. We met like the people in the old song, in silence, if not in tears. Her warm hand clasped mine. “I thought you’d come, Jim. I heard you were at Mrs. Steavens’s last night. I’ve been looking for you all day.” She was thinner than I had ever seen her, and looked, as Mrs. Steavens said, “worked down,” but there was a new kind of strength in the gravity of her face, and her color still gave her that look of deep-seated health and ardor. Still? Why, it flashed across me that though so much had happened in her life and in mine, she was barely twenty-four years old. Ántonia stuck her fork in the ground, and instinctively we walked toward that unploughed patch at the crossing of the roads as the fittest place to talk to each other. We sat down outside the sagging wire fence that shut Mr. Shimerda’s plot off from the rest of the world. The tall red grass had never been cut there. It had died down in winter and come up again in the spring until it was as thick and shrubby as some tropical garden-grass. I found myself telling her everything: why I had decided to study law and to go into the law office of one of my mother’s relatives in New York City; about Gaston Cleric’s death from pneumonia last winter, and the difference it had made in my life. She wanted to know about my friends and my way of living, and my dearest hopes. “Of course it means you are going away from us for good,” she said with a sigh. “But that don’t mean I’ll lose you. Look at my papa here; he’s been dead all these years, and yet he is more real to me than almost anybody else. He never goes out of my life. I talk to him and consult him all the time. The older I grow, the better I know him and the more I understand him.” She asked me whether I had learned to like big cities. “I’d always be miserable in a city. I’d die of lonesomeness. I like to be where I know every stack and tree, and where all the ground is friendly. I want to live and die here. Father Kelly says everybody’s put into this world for something, and I know what I’ve got to do. I’m going to see that my little girl has a better chance than ever I had. I’m going to take care of that girl, Jim.” I told her I knew she would.<|quote|>“Do you know, Ántonia, since I’ve been away, I think of you more often than of any one else in this part of the world. I’d have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my sister—anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of times when I don’t realize it. You really are a part of me.”</|quote|>She turned her bright, believing eyes to me, and the tears came up in them slowly. “How can it be like that, when you know so many people, and when I’ve disappointed you so? Ain’t it wonderful, Jim, how much people can mean to each other? I’m so glad we had each other when we were little. I can’t wait till my little girl’s old enough to tell her about all the things we used to do. You’ll always remember me when you think about old times, won’t you? And I guess everybody thinks about old times, even the happiest people.” As we walked homeward across the fields, the sun dropped and lay like a great golden globe in the low west. While it hung there, the moon rose in the east, as big as a cartwheel, pale silver and streaked with rose color, thin as a bubble or a ghost-moon. For five, perhaps ten minutes, the two luminaries confronted each other across the level land, resting on opposite edges of the world. In that singular light every little tree and shock of wheat, every sunflower stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, drew itself up high and pointed; the very clods and furrows in the fields seemed to stand up sharply. I felt the old pull of the earth, the solemn magic that comes out of those fields at nightfall. I wished I could be a little boy again, and that my way could end there. We reached the edge of the field, where our ways parted. I took
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My Antonia
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"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."
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Jenny Abdul Akbar
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bad man," she said gravely,<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"What's a canopy?" "Like a
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"A beautiful and a very bad man," she said gravely,<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"What's a canopy?" "Like a tent," she said more sharply,
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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,<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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
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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,<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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
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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,<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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
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"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,<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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
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is." "I'm afraid it's been restored a great deal," said Tony. "Ah, but its _atmosphere_. I always think that's what counts in a house. Such dignity, and repose. But of course you're used to it. When you've been very unhappy as I have, you appreciate these things." Tony said, "I'm afraid Brenda hasn't arrived yet. She's coming by car with Lady Cockpurse." "Brenda's been _such_ a friend to me." The Princess took off her furs and sat down on the stool before the fire, looking up at Tony. "D'you mind if I take off my hat?" "No, no... of course." She threw it on to the sofa and shook out her hair, which was dead black and curled. "D'you know, Mr Last, I'm going to call you Teddy right away. You don't think that very fresh of me? And you must call me Jenny. "Princess" is so formal, isn't it, and suggests tight trousers and gold braid... Of course" ," she went on, stretching out her hands to the fire and letting her hair fall forwards a little across her face, "my husband was not called "Prince" in Morocco; his title was Moulay--but there's no proper equivalent for a woman, so I've always called myself Princess in Europe... Moulay is _far_ higher really... my husband was a descendant of the Prophet. Are you interested in the East?" "No... yes. I mean I know very little about it." "It has an uncanny fascination for me. You must go there, Teddy. I know you'd like it. I've been saying the same to Brenda." "I expect you'd like to see your room," said Tony. "They'll bring tea soon." "No, I'll stay here. I like just to curl up like a cat in front 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,<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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. "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
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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,<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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
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A Handful Of Dust
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"They ll be linking us with the moon next but who was that?"
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Mrs. Hilbery
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Hilbery exclaimed on her return.<|quote|>"They ll be linking us with the moon next but who was that?"</|quote|>"William," Katharine replied yet more
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triumphs of science are!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed on her return.<|quote|>"They ll be linking us with the moon next but who was that?"</|quote|>"William," Katharine replied yet more briefly. "I ll forgive William
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But it s spring; it s the daffodils; it s the green fields; it s the birds." She was cut short in her quotation by another imperative telephone-bell. Once more Katharine left the room. "My dear child, how odious the triumphs of science are!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed on her return.<|quote|>"They ll be linking us with the moon next but who was that?"</|quote|>"William," Katharine replied yet more briefly. "I ll forgive William anything, for I m certain that there aren t any Williams in the moon. I hope he s coming to luncheon?" "He s coming to tea." "Well, that s better than nothing, and I promise to leave you alone." "There
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ask Katharine who that was? "Mary Datchet," Katharine replied briefly. "Ah I half wish I d called you Mary, but it wouldn t have gone with Hilbery, and it wouldn t have gone with Rodney. Now this isn t the passage I wanted. (I never can find what I want.) But it s spring; it s the daffodils; it s the green fields; it s the birds." She was cut short in her quotation by another imperative telephone-bell. Once more Katharine left the room. "My dear child, how odious the triumphs of science are!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed on her return.<|quote|>"They ll be linking us with the moon next but who was that?"</|quote|>"William," Katharine replied yet more briefly. "I ll forgive William anything, for I m certain that there aren t any Williams in the moon. I hope he s coming to luncheon?" "He s coming to tea." "Well, that s better than nothing, and I promise to leave you alone." "There s no need for you to do that," said Katharine. She swept her hand over the faded sheet, and drew herself up squarely to the table as if she refused to waste time any longer. The gesture was not lost upon her mother. It hinted at the existence of something
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sometimes. But, while she hesitated and sought for words not too direct, her mother had recourse to Shakespeare, and turned page after page, set upon finding some quotation which said all this about love far, far better than she could. Accordingly, Katharine did nothing but scrub one of her circles an intense black with her pencil, in the midst of which process the telephone-bell rang, and she left the room to answer it. When she returned, Mrs. Hilbery had found not the passage she wanted, but another of exquisite beauty as she justly observed, looking up for a second to ask Katharine who that was? "Mary Datchet," Katharine replied briefly. "Ah I half wish I d called you Mary, but it wouldn t have gone with Hilbery, and it wouldn t have gone with Rodney. Now this isn t the passage I wanted. (I never can find what I want.) But it s spring; it s the daffodils; it s the green fields; it s the birds." She was cut short in her quotation by another imperative telephone-bell. Once more Katharine left the room. "My dear child, how odious the triumphs of science are!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed on her return.<|quote|>"They ll be linking us with the moon next but who was that?"</|quote|>"William," Katharine replied yet more briefly. "I ll forgive William anything, for I m certain that there aren t any Williams in the moon. I hope he s coming to luncheon?" "He s coming to tea." "Well, that s better than nothing, and I promise to leave you alone." "There s no need for you to do that," said Katharine. She swept her hand over the faded sheet, and drew herself up squarely to the table as if she refused to waste time any longer. The gesture was not lost upon her mother. It hinted at the existence of something stern and unapproachable in her daughter s character, which struck chill upon her, as the sight of poverty, or drunkenness, or the logic with which Mr. Hilbery sometimes thought good to demolish her certainty of an approaching millennium struck chill upon her. She went back to her own table, and putting on her spectacles with a curious expression of quiet humility, addressed herself for the first time that morning to the task before her. The shock with an unsympathetic world had a sobering effect on her. For once, her industry surpassed her daughter s. Katharine could not reduce the world
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Now who shall William be? A hero? Hotspur? Henry the Fifth? No, William s got a touch of Hamlet in him, too. I can fancy that William talks to himself when he s alone. Ah, Katharine, you must say very beautiful things when you re together!" she added wistfully, with a glance at her daughter, who had told her nothing about the dinner the night before. "Oh, we talk a lot of nonsense," said Katharine, hiding her slip of paper as her mother stood by her, and spreading the old letter about Shelley in front of her. "It won t seem to you nonsense in ten years time," said Mrs. Hilbery. "Believe me, Katharine, you ll look back on these days afterwards; you ll remember all the silly things you ve said; and you ll find that your life has been built on them. The best of life is built on what we say when we re in love. It isn t nonsense, Katharine," she urged, "it s the truth, it s the only truth." Katharine was on the point of interrupting her mother, and then she was on the point of confiding in her. They came strangely close together sometimes. But, while she hesitated and sought for words not too direct, her mother had recourse to Shakespeare, and turned page after page, set upon finding some quotation which said all this about love far, far better than she could. Accordingly, Katharine did nothing but scrub one of her circles an intense black with her pencil, in the midst of which process the telephone-bell rang, and she left the room to answer it. When she returned, Mrs. Hilbery had found not the passage she wanted, but another of exquisite beauty as she justly observed, looking up for a second to ask Katharine who that was? "Mary Datchet," Katharine replied briefly. "Ah I half wish I d called you Mary, but it wouldn t have gone with Hilbery, and it wouldn t have gone with Rodney. Now this isn t the passage I wanted. (I never can find what I want.) But it s spring; it s the daffodils; it s the green fields; it s the birds." She was cut short in her quotation by another imperative telephone-bell. Once more Katharine left the room. "My dear child, how odious the triumphs of science are!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed on her return.<|quote|>"They ll be linking us with the moon next but who was that?"</|quote|>"William," Katharine replied yet more briefly. "I ll forgive William anything, for I m certain that there aren t any Williams in the moon. I hope he s coming to luncheon?" "He s coming to tea." "Well, that s better than nothing, and I promise to leave you alone." "There s no need for you to do that," said Katharine. She swept her hand over the faded sheet, and drew herself up squarely to the table as if she refused to waste time any longer. The gesture was not lost upon her mother. It hinted at the existence of something stern and unapproachable in her daughter s character, which struck chill upon her, as the sight of poverty, or drunkenness, or the logic with which Mr. Hilbery sometimes thought good to demolish her certainty of an approaching millennium struck chill upon her. She went back to her own table, and putting on her spectacles with a curious expression of quiet humility, addressed herself for the first time that morning to the task before her. The shock with an unsympathetic world had a sobering effect on her. For once, her industry surpassed her daughter s. Katharine could not reduce the world to that particular perspective in which Harriet Martineau, for instance, was a figure of solid importance, and possessed of a genuine relationship to this figure or to that date. Singularly enough, the sharp call of the telephone-bell still echoed in her ear, and her body and mind were in a state of tension, as if, at any moment, she might hear another summons of greater interest to her than the whole of the nineteenth century. She did not clearly realize what this call was to be; but when the ears have got into the habit of listening, they go on listening involuntarily, and thus Katharine spent the greater part of the morning in listening to a variety of sounds in the back streets of Chelsea. For the first time in her life, probably, she wished that Mrs. Hilbery would not keep so closely to her work. A quotation from Shakespeare would not have come amiss. Now and again she heard a sigh from her mother s table, but that was the only proof she gave of her existence, and Katharine did not think of connecting it with the square aspect of her own position at the table, or, perhaps, she
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as poor as they ve sometimes said. I should like to think that he had enough, though I don t in the least want him to be rich." Then, perceiving her daughter s expression of perplexity, Mrs. Hilbery burst out laughing. "My dear, I m not talking about _your_ William, though that s another reason for liking him. I m talking, I m thinking, I m dreaming of _my_ William William Shakespeare, of course. Isn t it odd," she mused, standing at the window and tapping gently upon the pane, "that for all one can see, that dear old thing in the blue bonnet, crossing the road with her basket on her arm, has never heard that there was such a person? Yet it all goes on: lawyers hurrying to their work, cabmen squabbling for their fares, little boys rolling their hoops, little girls throwing bread to the gulls, as if there weren t a Shakespeare in the world. I should like to stand at that crossing all day long and say: People, read Shakespeare!" Katharine sat down at her table and opened a long dusty envelope. As Shelley was mentioned in the course of the letter as if he were alive, it had, of course, considerable value. Her immediate task was to decide whether the whole letter should be printed, or only the paragraph which mentioned Shelley s name, and she reached out for a pen and held it in readiness to do justice upon the sheet. Her pen, however, remained in the air. Almost surreptitiously she slipped a clean sheet in front of her, and her hand, descending, began drawing square boxes halved and quartered by straight lines, and then circles which underwent the same process of dissection. "Katharine! I ve hit upon a brilliant idea!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed "to lay out, say, a hundred pounds or so on copies of Shakespeare, and give them to working men. Some of your clever friends who get up meetings might help us, Katharine. And that might lead to a playhouse, where we could all take parts. You d be Rosalind but you ve a dash of the old nurse in you. Your father s Hamlet, come to years of discretion; and I m well, I m a bit of them all; I m quite a large bit of the fool, but the fools in Shakespeare say all the clever things. Now who shall William be? A hero? Hotspur? Henry the Fifth? No, William s got a touch of Hamlet in him, too. I can fancy that William talks to himself when he s alone. Ah, Katharine, you must say very beautiful things when you re together!" she added wistfully, with a glance at her daughter, who had told her nothing about the dinner the night before. "Oh, we talk a lot of nonsense," said Katharine, hiding her slip of paper as her mother stood by her, and spreading the old letter about Shelley in front of her. "It won t seem to you nonsense in ten years time," said Mrs. Hilbery. "Believe me, Katharine, you ll look back on these days afterwards; you ll remember all the silly things you ve said; and you ll find that your life has been built on them. The best of life is built on what we say when we re in love. It isn t nonsense, Katharine," she urged, "it s the truth, it s the only truth." Katharine was on the point of interrupting her mother, and then she was on the point of confiding in her. They came strangely close together sometimes. But, while she hesitated and sought for words not too direct, her mother had recourse to Shakespeare, and turned page after page, set upon finding some quotation which said all this about love far, far better than she could. Accordingly, Katharine did nothing but scrub one of her circles an intense black with her pencil, in the midst of which process the telephone-bell rang, and she left the room to answer it. When she returned, Mrs. Hilbery had found not the passage she wanted, but another of exquisite beauty as she justly observed, looking up for a second to ask Katharine who that was? "Mary Datchet," Katharine replied briefly. "Ah I half wish I d called you Mary, but it wouldn t have gone with Hilbery, and it wouldn t have gone with Rodney. Now this isn t the passage I wanted. (I never can find what I want.) But it s spring; it s the daffodils; it s the green fields; it s the birds." She was cut short in her quotation by another imperative telephone-bell. Once more Katharine left the room. "My dear child, how odious the triumphs of science are!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed on her return.<|quote|>"They ll be linking us with the moon next but who was that?"</|quote|>"William," Katharine replied yet more briefly. "I ll forgive William anything, for I m certain that there aren t any Williams in the moon. I hope he s coming to luncheon?" "He s coming to tea." "Well, that s better than nothing, and I promise to leave you alone." "There s no need for you to do that," said Katharine. She swept her hand over the faded sheet, and drew herself up squarely to the table as if she refused to waste time any longer. The gesture was not lost upon her mother. It hinted at the existence of something stern and unapproachable in her daughter s character, which struck chill upon her, as the sight of poverty, or drunkenness, or the logic with which Mr. Hilbery sometimes thought good to demolish her certainty of an approaching millennium struck chill upon her. She went back to her own table, and putting on her spectacles with a curious expression of quiet humility, addressed herself for the first time that morning to the task before her. The shock with an unsympathetic world had a sobering effect on her. For once, her industry surpassed her daughter s. Katharine could not reduce the world to that particular perspective in which Harriet Martineau, for instance, was a figure of solid importance, and possessed of a genuine relationship to this figure or to that date. Singularly enough, the sharp call of the telephone-bell still echoed in her ear, and her body and mind were in a state of tension, as if, at any moment, she might hear another summons of greater interest to her than the whole of the nineteenth century. She did not clearly realize what this call was to be; but when the ears have got into the habit of listening, they go on listening involuntarily, and thus Katharine spent the greater part of the morning in listening to a variety of sounds in the back streets of Chelsea. For the first time in her life, probably, she wished that Mrs. Hilbery would not keep so closely to her work. A quotation from Shakespeare would not have come amiss. Now and again she heard a sigh from her mother s table, but that was the only proof she gave of her existence, and Katharine did not think of connecting it with the square aspect of her own position at the table, or, perhaps, she would have thrown her pen down and told her mother the reason of her restlessness. The only writing she managed to accomplish in the course of the morning was one letter, addressed to her cousin, Cassandra Otway a rambling letter, long, affectionate, playful and commanding all at once. She bade Cassandra put her creatures in the charge of a groom, and come to them for a week or so. They would go and hear some music together. Cassandra s dislike of rational society, she said, was an affectation fast hardening into a prejudice, which would, in the long run, isolate her from all interesting people and pursuits. She was finishing the sheet when the sound she was anticipating all the time actually struck upon her ears. She jumped up hastily, and slammed the door with a sharpness which made Mrs. Hilbery start. Where was Katharine off to? In her preoccupied state she had not heard the bell. The alcove on the stairs, in which the telephone was placed, was screened for privacy by a curtain of purple velvet. It was a pocket for superfluous possessions, such as exist in most houses which harbor the wreckage of three generations. Prints of great-uncles, famed for their prowess in the East, hung above Chinese teapots, whose sides were riveted by little gold stitches, and the precious teapots, again, stood upon bookcases containing the complete works of William Cowper and Sir Walter Scott. The thread of sound, issuing from the telephone, was always colored by the surroundings which received it, so it seemed to Katharine. Whose voice was now going to combine with them, or to strike a discord? "Whose voice?" she asked herself, hearing a man inquire, with great determination, for her number. The unfamiliar voice now asked for Miss Hilbery. Out of all the welter of voices which crowd round the far end of the telephone, out of the enormous range of possibilities, whose voice, what possibility, was this? A pause gave her time to ask herself this question. It was solved next moment. "I ve looked out the train.... Early on Saturday afternoon would suit me best.... I m Ralph Denham.... But I ll write it down...." With more than the usual sense of being impinged upon the point of a bayonet, Katharine replied: "I think I could come. I ll look at my engagements.... Hold on." She dropped the machine,
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them. The best of life is built on what we say when we re in love. It isn t nonsense, Katharine," she urged, "it s the truth, it s the only truth." Katharine was on the point of interrupting her mother, and then she was on the point of confiding in her. They came strangely close together sometimes. But, while she hesitated and sought for words not too direct, her mother had recourse to Shakespeare, and turned page after page, set upon finding some quotation which said all this about love far, far better than she could. Accordingly, Katharine did nothing but scrub one of her circles an intense black with her pencil, in the midst of which process the telephone-bell rang, and she left the room to answer it. When she returned, Mrs. Hilbery had found not the passage she wanted, but another of exquisite beauty as she justly observed, looking up for a second to ask Katharine who that was? "Mary Datchet," Katharine replied briefly. "Ah I half wish I d called you Mary, but it wouldn t have gone with Hilbery, and it wouldn t have gone with Rodney. Now this isn t the passage I wanted. (I never can find what I want.) But it s spring; it s the daffodils; it s the green fields; it s the birds." She was cut short in her quotation by another imperative telephone-bell. Once more Katharine left the room. "My dear child, how odious the triumphs of science are!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed on her return.<|quote|>"They ll be linking us with the moon next but who was that?"</|quote|>"William," Katharine replied yet more briefly. "I ll forgive William anything, for I m certain that there aren t any Williams in the moon. I hope he s coming to luncheon?" "He s coming to tea." "Well, that s better than nothing, and I promise to leave you alone." "There s no need for you to do that," said Katharine. She swept her hand over the faded sheet, and drew herself up squarely to the table as if she refused to waste time any longer. The gesture was not lost upon her mother. It hinted at the existence of something stern and unapproachable in her daughter s character, which struck chill upon her, as the sight of poverty, or drunkenness, or the logic with which Mr. Hilbery sometimes thought good to demolish her certainty of an approaching millennium struck chill upon her. She went back to her own table, and putting on her spectacles with a curious expression of quiet humility, addressed herself for the first time that morning to the task before her. The shock with an unsympathetic world had a sobering effect on her. For once, her industry surpassed her daughter s. Katharine could not reduce the world to that particular perspective in which Harriet Martineau, for instance, was a figure of solid importance, and possessed of a genuine relationship to this figure or to that date. Singularly enough, the sharp call of the telephone-bell still echoed in her ear, and her body and mind were in a state of tension, as if, at any moment, she might hear another summons of greater interest to her than the whole of the nineteenth century. She did not clearly realize what this call was to be; but when the ears have got into the habit of listening, they go on listening involuntarily, and thus Katharine spent the greater part of the morning in listening to a variety of sounds in the back streets of Chelsea. For the first time in her life, probably, she wished that Mrs. Hilbery would not keep so closely to her work. A quotation from Shakespeare would not have come amiss. Now and again she heard a sigh from her mother s table, but that was the only proof she gave of her existence, and Katharine did not think of connecting it with the square aspect of
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Night And Day
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"Half a minute,"
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Adela Quested
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pealed from the next room.<|quote|>"Half a minute,"</|quote|>she murmured. The Turtons had
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you ready, young lady?" it pealed from the next room.<|quote|>"Half a minute,"</|quote|>she murmured. The Turtons had received her after Mrs. Moore
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of her hands on her face started prickly heat, and she seemed to swallow and expectorate the same insipid clot of air that had weighed on her lungs all the night. Also the voice of Mrs. Turton disturbed her. "Are you ready, young lady?" it pealed from the next room.<|quote|>"Half a minute,"</|quote|>she murmured. The Turtons had received her after Mrs. Moore left. Their kindness was incredible, but it was her position not her character that moved them; she was the English girl who had had the terrible experience, and for whom too much could not be done. No one, except Ronny,
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unseen, and she could tack her troubles on to it. Just as the Hindu clerks asked Lakshmi for an increase in pay, so did she implore Jehovah for a favourable verdict. God who saves the King will surely support the police. Her deity returned a consoling reply, but the touch of her hands on her face started prickly heat, and she seemed to swallow and expectorate the same insipid clot of air that had weighed on her lungs all the night. Also the voice of Mrs. Turton disturbed her. "Are you ready, young lady?" it pealed from the next room.<|quote|>"Half a minute,"</|quote|>she murmured. The Turtons had received her after Mrs. Moore left. Their kindness was incredible, but it was her position not her character that moved them; she was the English girl who had had the terrible experience, and for whom too much could not be done. No one, except Ronny, had any idea of what passed in her mind, and he only dimly, for where there is officialism every human relationship suffers. In her sadness she said to him, "I bring you nothing but trouble; I was right on the Maidan, we had better just be friends," but he protested,
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to uncake them. But men try to be harmonious all the year round, and the results are occasionally disastrous. The triumphant machine of civilization may suddenly hitch and be immobilized into a car of stone, and at such moments the destiny of the English seems to resemble their predecessors', who also entered the country with intent to refashion it, but were in the end worked into its pattern and covered with its dust. Adela, after years of intellectualism, had resumed her morning kneel to Christianity. There seemed no harm in it, it was the shortest and easiest cut to the unseen, and she could tack her troubles on to it. Just as the Hindu clerks asked Lakshmi for an increase in pay, so did she implore Jehovah for a favourable verdict. God who saves the King will surely support the police. Her deity returned a consoling reply, but the touch of her hands on her face started prickly heat, and she seemed to swallow and expectorate the same insipid clot of air that had weighed on her lungs all the night. Also the voice of Mrs. Turton disturbed her. "Are you ready, young lady?" it pealed from the next room.<|quote|>"Half a minute,"</|quote|>she murmured. The Turtons had received her after Mrs. Moore left. Their kindness was incredible, but it was her position not her character that moved them; she was the English girl who had had the terrible experience, and for whom too much could not be done. No one, except Ronny, had any idea of what passed in her mind, and he only dimly, for where there is officialism every human relationship suffers. In her sadness she said to him, "I bring you nothing but trouble; I was right on the Maidan, we had better just be friends," but he protested, for the more she suffered the more highly he valued her. Did she love him? This question was somehow draggled up with the Marabar, it had been in her mind as she entered the fatal cave. Was she capable of loving anyone? "Miss Quested, Adela, what d'ye call yourself, it's half-past seven; we ought to think of starting for that Court when you feel inclined." "She's saying her prayers," came the Collector's voice. "Sorry, my dear; take your time. . . . Was your chhota hazri all right?" "I can't eat; might I have a little brandy?" she asked, deserting
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advised her not to stand in the heat: "We are safely out of the frying-pan," said Lady Mellanby, "it will never do to fall into the fire." CHAPTER XXIV Making sudden changes of gear, the heat accelerated its advance after Mrs. Moore's departure until existence had to be endured and crime punished with the thermometer at a hundred and twelve. Electric fans hummed and spat, water splashed on to screens, ice clinked, and outside these defences, between a greyish sky and a yellowish earth, clouds of dust moved hesitatingly. In Europe life retreats out of the cold, and exquisite fireside myths have resulted Balder, Persephone but here the retreat is from the source of life, the treacherous sun, and no poetry adorns it because disillusionment cannot be beautiful. Men yearn for poetry though they may not confess it; they desire that joy shall be graceful and sorrow august and infinity have a form, and India fails to accommodate them. The annual helter-skelter of April, when irritability and lust spread like a canker, is one of her comments on the orderly hopes of humanity. Fish manage better; fish, as the tanks dry, wriggle into the mud and wait for the rains to uncake them. But men try to be harmonious all the year round, and the results are occasionally disastrous. The triumphant machine of civilization may suddenly hitch and be immobilized into a car of stone, and at such moments the destiny of the English seems to resemble their predecessors', who also entered the country with intent to refashion it, but were in the end worked into its pattern and covered with its dust. Adela, after years of intellectualism, had resumed her morning kneel to Christianity. There seemed no harm in it, it was the shortest and easiest cut to the unseen, and she could tack her troubles on to it. Just as the Hindu clerks asked Lakshmi for an increase in pay, so did she implore Jehovah for a favourable verdict. God who saves the King will surely support the police. Her deity returned a consoling reply, but the touch of her hands on her face started prickly heat, and she seemed to swallow and expectorate the same insipid clot of air that had weighed on her lungs all the night. Also the voice of Mrs. Turton disturbed her. "Are you ready, young lady?" it pealed from the next room.<|quote|>"Half a minute,"</|quote|>she murmured. The Turtons had received her after Mrs. Moore left. Their kindness was incredible, but it was her position not her character that moved them; she was the English girl who had had the terrible experience, and for whom too much could not be done. No one, except Ronny, had any idea of what passed in her mind, and he only dimly, for where there is officialism every human relationship suffers. In her sadness she said to him, "I bring you nothing but trouble; I was right on the Maidan, we had better just be friends," but he protested, for the more she suffered the more highly he valued her. Did she love him? This question was somehow draggled up with the Marabar, it had been in her mind as she entered the fatal cave. Was she capable of loving anyone? "Miss Quested, Adela, what d'ye call yourself, it's half-past seven; we ought to think of starting for that Court when you feel inclined." "She's saying her prayers," came the Collector's voice. "Sorry, my dear; take your time. . . . Was your chhota hazri all right?" "I can't eat; might I have a little brandy?" she asked, deserting Jehovah. When it was brought, she shuddered, and said she was ready to go. "Drink it up; not a bad notion, a peg." "I don't think it'll really help me, Burra Sahib." "You sent brandy down to the Court, didn't you, Mary?" "I should think I did, champagne too." "I'll thank you this evening, I'm all to pieces now," said the girl, forming each syllable carefully as if her trouble would diminish if it were accurately defined. She was afraid of reticence, in case something that she herself did not perceive took shape beneath it, and she had rehearsed with Mr. McBryde in an odd, mincing way her terrible adventure in the cave, how the man had never actually touched her but dragged her about, and so on. Her aim this morning was to announce, meticulously, that the strain was appalling, and she would probably break down under Mr. Amritrao's cross-examination and disgrace her friends. "My echo has come back again badly," she told them. "How about aspirin?" "It is not a headache, it is an echo." Unable to dispel the buzzing in her ears, Major Callendar had diagnosed it as a fancy, which must not be encouraged. So the
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has built for himself and God, and they appeared to her not in terms of her own trouble but as things to see. There was, for instance, a place called Asirgarh which she passed at sunset and identified on a map an enormous fortress among wooded hills. No one had ever mentioned Asirgarh to her, but it had huge and noble bastions and to the right of them was a mosque. She forgot it. Ten minutes later, Asirgarh reappeared. The mosque was to the left of the bastions now. The train in its descent through the Vindyas had described a semicircle round Asirgarh. What could she connect it with except its own name? Nothing; she knew no one who lived there. But it had looked at her twice and seemed to say: "I do not vanish." She woke in the middle of the night with a start, for the train was falling over the western cliff. Moonlit pinnacles rushed up at her like the fringes of a sea; then a brief episode of plain, the real sea, and the soupy dawn of Bombay. "I have not seen the right places," she thought, as she saw embayed in the platforms of the Victoria Terminus the end of the rails that had carried her over a continent and could never carry her back. She would never visit Asirgarh or the other untouched places; neither Delhi nor Agra nor the Rajputana cities nor Kashmir, nor the obscurer marvels that had sometimes shone through men's speech: the bilingual rock of Girnar, the statue of Shri Belgola, the ruins of Mandu and Hampi, temples of Khajraha, gardens of Shalimar. As she drove through the huge city which the West has built and abandoned with a gesture of despair, she longed to stop, though it was only Bombay, and disentangle the hundred Indias that passed each other in its streets. The feet of the horses moved her on, and presently the boat sailed and thousands of coco-nut palms appeared all round the anchorage and climbed the hills to wave her farewell. "So you thought an echo was India; you took the Marabar caves as final?" they laughed. "What have we in common with them, or they with Asirgarh? Good-bye!" Then the steamer rounded Colaba, the continent swung about, the cliff of the Ghats melted into the haze of a tropic sea. Lady Mellanby turned up and advised her not to stand in the heat: "We are safely out of the frying-pan," said Lady Mellanby, "it will never do to fall into the fire." CHAPTER XXIV Making sudden changes of gear, the heat accelerated its advance after Mrs. Moore's departure until existence had to be endured and crime punished with the thermometer at a hundred and twelve. Electric fans hummed and spat, water splashed on to screens, ice clinked, and outside these defences, between a greyish sky and a yellowish earth, clouds of dust moved hesitatingly. In Europe life retreats out of the cold, and exquisite fireside myths have resulted Balder, Persephone but here the retreat is from the source of life, the treacherous sun, and no poetry adorns it because disillusionment cannot be beautiful. Men yearn for poetry though they may not confess it; they desire that joy shall be graceful and sorrow august and infinity have a form, and India fails to accommodate them. The annual helter-skelter of April, when irritability and lust spread like a canker, is one of her comments on the orderly hopes of humanity. Fish manage better; fish, as the tanks dry, wriggle into the mud and wait for the rains to uncake them. But men try to be harmonious all the year round, and the results are occasionally disastrous. The triumphant machine of civilization may suddenly hitch and be immobilized into a car of stone, and at such moments the destiny of the English seems to resemble their predecessors', who also entered the country with intent to refashion it, but were in the end worked into its pattern and covered with its dust. Adela, after years of intellectualism, had resumed her morning kneel to Christianity. There seemed no harm in it, it was the shortest and easiest cut to the unseen, and she could tack her troubles on to it. Just as the Hindu clerks asked Lakshmi for an increase in pay, so did she implore Jehovah for a favourable verdict. God who saves the King will surely support the police. Her deity returned a consoling reply, but the touch of her hands on her face started prickly heat, and she seemed to swallow and expectorate the same insipid clot of air that had weighed on her lungs all the night. Also the voice of Mrs. Turton disturbed her. "Are you ready, young lady?" it pealed from the next room.<|quote|>"Half a minute,"</|quote|>she murmured. The Turtons had received her after Mrs. Moore left. Their kindness was incredible, but it was her position not her character that moved them; she was the English girl who had had the terrible experience, and for whom too much could not be done. No one, except Ronny, had any idea of what passed in her mind, and he only dimly, for where there is officialism every human relationship suffers. In her sadness she said to him, "I bring you nothing but trouble; I was right on the Maidan, we had better just be friends," but he protested, for the more she suffered the more highly he valued her. Did she love him? This question was somehow draggled up with the Marabar, it had been in her mind as she entered the fatal cave. Was she capable of loving anyone? "Miss Quested, Adela, what d'ye call yourself, it's half-past seven; we ought to think of starting for that Court when you feel inclined." "She's saying her prayers," came the Collector's voice. "Sorry, my dear; take your time. . . . Was your chhota hazri all right?" "I can't eat; might I have a little brandy?" she asked, deserting Jehovah. When it was brought, she shuddered, and said she was ready to go. "Drink it up; not a bad notion, a peg." "I don't think it'll really help me, Burra Sahib." "You sent brandy down to the Court, didn't you, Mary?" "I should think I did, champagne too." "I'll thank you this evening, I'm all to pieces now," said the girl, forming each syllable carefully as if her trouble would diminish if it were accurately defined. She was afraid of reticence, in case something that she herself did not perceive took shape beneath it, and she had rehearsed with Mr. McBryde in an odd, mincing way her terrible adventure in the cave, how the man had never actually touched her but dragged her about, and so on. Her aim this morning was to announce, meticulously, that the strain was appalling, and she would probably break down under Mr. Amritrao's cross-examination and disgrace her friends. "My echo has come back again badly," she told them. "How about aspirin?" "It is not a headache, it is an echo." Unable to dispel the buzzing in her ears, Major Callendar had diagnosed it as a fancy, which must not be encouraged. So the Turtons changed the subject. The cool little lick of the breeze was passing over the earth, dividing night from day; it would fail in ten minutes, but they might profit by it for their drive down into the city. "I am sure to break down," she repeated. "You won't," said the Collector, his voice full of tenderness. "Of course she won't, she's a real sport." "But Mrs. Turton . . ." "Yes, my dear child?" "If I do break down, it is of no consequence. It would matter in some trials, not in this. I put it to myself in the following way: I can really behave as I like, cry, be absurd, I am sure to get my verdict, unless Mr. Das is most frightfully unjust." "You're bound to win," he said calmly, and did not remind her that there was bound to be an appeal. The Nawab Bahadur had financed the defence, and would ruin himself sooner than let an "innocent Moslem perish," and other interests, less reputable, were in the background too. The case might go up from court to court, with consequences that no official could foresee. Under his very eyes, the temper of Chandrapore was altering. As his car turned out of the compound, there was a tap of silly anger on its paint a pebble thrown by a child. Some larger stones were dropped near the mosque. In the Maidan, a squad of native police on motor cycles waited to escort them through the bazaars. The Collector was irritated and muttered, "McBryde's an old woman" "; but Mrs. Turton said, "Really, after Mohurram a show of force will do no harm; it's ridiculous to pretend they don't hate us, do give up that farce." He replied in an odd, sad voice, "I don't hate them, I don't know why," and he didn't hate them; for if he did, he would have had to condemn his own career as a bad investment. He retained a contemptuous affection for the pawns he had moved about for so many years, they must be worth his pains. "After all, it's our women who make everything more difficult out here," was his inmost thought, as he caught sight of some obscenities upon a long blank wall, and beneath his chivalry to Miss Quested resentment lurked, waiting its day perhaps there is a grain of resentment in all chivalry. Some
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fireside myths have resulted Balder, Persephone but here the retreat is from the source of life, the treacherous sun, and no poetry adorns it because disillusionment cannot be beautiful. Men yearn for poetry though they may not confess it; they desire that joy shall be graceful and sorrow august and infinity have a form, and India fails to accommodate them. The annual helter-skelter of April, when irritability and lust spread like a canker, is one of her comments on the orderly hopes of humanity. Fish manage better; fish, as the tanks dry, wriggle into the mud and wait for the rains to uncake them. But men try to be harmonious all the year round, and the results are occasionally disastrous. The triumphant machine of civilization may suddenly hitch and be immobilized into a car of stone, and at such moments the destiny of the English seems to resemble their predecessors', who also entered the country with intent to refashion it, but were in the end worked into its pattern and covered with its dust. Adela, after years of intellectualism, had resumed her morning kneel to Christianity. There seemed no harm in it, it was the shortest and easiest cut to the unseen, and she could tack her troubles on to it. Just as the Hindu clerks asked Lakshmi for an increase in pay, so did she implore Jehovah for a favourable verdict. God who saves the King will surely support the police. Her deity returned a consoling reply, but the touch of her hands on her face started prickly heat, and she seemed to swallow and expectorate the same insipid clot of air that had weighed on her lungs all the night. Also the voice of Mrs. Turton disturbed her. "Are you ready, young lady?" it pealed from the next room.<|quote|>"Half a minute,"</|quote|>she murmured. The Turtons had received her after Mrs. Moore left. Their kindness was incredible, but it was her position not her character that moved them; she was the English girl who had had the terrible experience, and for whom too much could not be done. No one, except Ronny, had any idea of what passed in her mind, and he only dimly, for where there is officialism every human relationship suffers. In her sadness she said to him, "I bring you nothing but trouble; I was right on the Maidan, we had better just be friends," but he protested, for the more she suffered the more highly he valued her. Did she love him? This question was somehow draggled up with the Marabar, it had been in her mind as she entered the fatal cave. Was she capable of loving anyone? "Miss Quested, Adela, what d'ye call yourself, it's half-past seven; we ought to think of starting for that Court when you feel inclined." "She's saying her prayers," came the Collector's voice. "Sorry, my dear; take your time. . . . Was your chhota hazri all right?" "I can't eat; might I have a little brandy?" she asked, deserting Jehovah. When it was brought, she shuddered, and said she was ready to go. "Drink it up; not a bad notion, a peg." "I don't think it'll really help me, Burra Sahib." "You sent brandy down to the Court, didn't you, Mary?" "I should think I did, champagne too." "I'll thank you this evening, I'm all to pieces now," said the girl, forming each syllable carefully as if her trouble would diminish if it were accurately defined. She was afraid of reticence, in case something that she herself did not perceive took shape beneath it, and she had rehearsed with Mr. McBryde in an odd, mincing way her terrible adventure in the cave, how the man had never actually touched her but dragged her about, and so on. Her aim this morning was to announce, meticulously, that the strain was appalling, and she would probably break down under Mr. Amritrao's cross-examination and disgrace her friends. "My echo has come back again badly," she told them. "How about aspirin?" "It is not a headache, it is an echo." Unable to dispel the buzzing in her ears, Major Callendar had diagnosed it as a fancy, which must not be encouraged. So the Turtons changed the subject. The cool little lick of the breeze was passing over the earth, dividing night from day; it would fail in ten minutes, but they might profit by it for their drive down into the city. "I
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A Passage To India
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"Oh!"
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Winnie-the-pooh
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got an 'x' in it."<|quote|>"Oh!"</|quote|>said Pooh. "I know." But
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"Expedition, silly old Bear. It's got an 'x' in it."<|quote|>"Oh!"</|quote|>said Pooh. "I know." But he didn't really. "We're going
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an Expedition," said Christopher Robin, as he got up and brushed himself. "Thank you, Pooh." "Going on an Expotition?" said Pooh eagerly. "I don't think I've ever been on one of those. Where are we going to on this Expotition?" "Expedition, silly old Bear. It's got an 'x' in it."<|quote|>"Oh!"</|quote|>said Pooh. "I know." But he didn't really. "We're going to discover the North Pole." "Oh!" said Pooh again. "What _is_ the North Pole?" he asked. "It's just a thing you discover," said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself. "Oh! I see," said Pooh. "Are bears any good
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sat down, dug his feet into the ground, and pushed hard against Christopher Robin's back, and Christopher Robin pushed hard against his, and pulled and pulled at his boot until he had got it on. "And that's that," said Pooh. "What do we do next?" "We are all going on an Expedition," said Christopher Robin, as he got up and brushed himself. "Thank you, Pooh." "Going on an Expotition?" said Pooh eagerly. "I don't think I've ever been on one of those. Where are we going to on this Expotition?" "Expedition, silly old Bear. It's got an 'x' in it."<|quote|>"Oh!"</|quote|>said Pooh. "I know." But he didn't really. "We're going to discover the North Pole." "Oh!" said Pooh again. "What _is_ the North Pole?" he asked. "It's just a thing you discover," said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself. "Oh! I see," said Pooh. "Are bears any good at discovering it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions."
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Christopher Robin was sitting outside his door, putting on his Big Boots. As soon as he saw the Big Boots, Pooh knew that an Adventure was going to happen, and he brushed the honey off his nose with the back of his paw, and spruced himself up as well as he could, so as to look Ready for Anything. "Good-morning, Christopher Robin," he called out. "Hallo, Pooh Bear. I can't get this boot on." "That's bad," said Pooh. "Do you think you could very kindly lean against me, 'cos I keep pulling so hard that I fall over backwards." Pooh sat down, dug his feet into the ground, and pushed hard against Christopher Robin's back, and Christopher Robin pushed hard against his, and pulled and pulled at his boot until he had got it on. "And that's that," said Pooh. "What do we do next?" "We are all going on an Expedition," said Christopher Robin, as he got up and brushed himself. "Thank you, Pooh." "Going on an Expotition?" said Pooh eagerly. "I don't think I've ever been on one of those. Where are we going to on this Expotition?" "Expedition, silly old Bear. It's got an 'x' in it."<|quote|>"Oh!"</|quote|>said Pooh. "I know." But he didn't really. "We're going to discover the North Pole." "Oh!" said Pooh again. "What _is_ the North Pole?" he asked. "It's just a thing you discover," said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself. "Oh! I see," said Pooh. "Are bears any good at discovering it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?" "Things to eat." "Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole?
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thought, "if I sang Hi for the life of a Bear." So he sang it ... but it wasn't. "Very well, then," he said, "I shall sing that first line twice, and perhaps if I sing it very quickly, I shall find myself singing the third and fourth lines before I have time to think of them, and that will be a Good Song. Now then:" "Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear! Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear! I don't much mind if it rains or snows, 'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice new nose, I don't much care if it snows or thaws, 'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice clean paws! Sing Ho! for a Bear! Sing Ho! for a Pooh! And I'll have a little something in an hour or two!" He was so pleased with this song that he sang it all the way to the top of the Forest, "and if I go on singing it much longer," he thought, "it will be time for the little something, and then the last line won't be true." So he turned it into a hum instead. Christopher Robin was sitting outside his door, putting on his Big Boots. As soon as he saw the Big Boots, Pooh knew that an Adventure was going to happen, and he brushed the honey off his nose with the back of his paw, and spruced himself up as well as he could, so as to look Ready for Anything. "Good-morning, Christopher Robin," he called out. "Hallo, Pooh Bear. I can't get this boot on." "That's bad," said Pooh. "Do you think you could very kindly lean against me, 'cos I keep pulling so hard that I fall over backwards." Pooh sat down, dug his feet into the ground, and pushed hard against Christopher Robin's back, and Christopher Robin pushed hard against his, and pulled and pulled at his boot until he had got it on. "And that's that," said Pooh. "What do we do next?" "We are all going on an Expedition," said Christopher Robin, as he got up and brushed himself. "Thank you, Pooh." "Going on an Expotition?" said Pooh eagerly. "I don't think I've ever been on one of those. Where are we going to on this Expotition?" "Expedition, silly old Bear. It's got an 'x' in it."<|quote|>"Oh!"</|quote|>said Pooh. "I know." But he didn't really. "We're going to discover the North Pole." "Oh!" said Pooh again. "What _is_ the North Pole?" he asked. "It's just a thing you discover," said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself. "Oh! I see," said Pooh. "Are bears any good at discovering it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?" "Things to eat." "Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover it." "We are, are we?" said Rabbit. "Yes. And we've got to bring Pro--things to eat with us. In case we want to eat them. Now I'm going down to Piglet's. Tell Kanga, will you?" He left Rabbit and hurried down to Piglet's house. The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that it would be never, and was trying to remember what "_it_" was, and hoping it wasn't anything nice, when Pooh came up. "Oh! Piglet," said Pooh excitedly, "we're going on an Expotition, all of us, with things to eat. To discover something." "To discover what?" said Piglet anxiously. "Oh! just something." "Nothing fierce?" "Christopher Robin didn't say anything about fierce. He just said it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet
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Piglet well, and he's _quite_ a different colour." Piglet began to say that this was because he had just had a bath, and then he thought that perhaps he wouldn't say that, and as he opened his mouth to say something else, Kanga slipped the medicine spoon in, and then patted him on the back and told him that it was really quite a nice taste when you got used to it. "I knew it wasn't Piglet," said Kanga. "I wonder who it can be." "Perhaps it's some relation of Pooh's," said Christopher Robin. "What about a nephew or an uncle or something?" Kanga agreed that this was probably what it was, and said that they would have to call it by some name. "I shall call it Pootel," said Christopher Robin. "Henry Pootel for short." And just when it was decided, Henry Pootel wriggled out of Kanga's arms and jumped to the ground. To his great joy Christopher Robin had left the door open. Never had Henry Pootel Piglet run so fast as he ran then, and he didn't stop running until he had got quite close to his house. But when he was a hundred yards away he stopped running, and rolled the rest of the way home, so as to get his own nice comfortable colour again.... So Kanga and Roo stayed in the Forest. And every Tuesday Roo spent the day with his great friend Rabbit, and every Tuesday Kanga spent the day with her great friend Pooh, teaching him to jump, and every Tuesday Piglet spent the day with his great friend Christopher Robin. So they were all happy again. CHAPTER VIII IN WHICH CHRISTOPHER ROBIN LEADS AN EXPOTITION TO THE NORTH POLE One fine day Pooh had stumped up to the top of the Forest to see if his friend Christopher Robin was interested in Bears at all. At breakfast that morning (a simple meal of marmalade spread lightly over a honeycomb or two) he had suddenly thought of a new song. It began like this: "_Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear._" When he had got as far as this, he scratched his head, and thought to himself "That's a very good start for a song, but what about the second line?" He tried singing "Ho," two or three times, but it didn't seem to help. "Perhaps it would be better," he thought, "if I sang Hi for the life of a Bear." So he sang it ... but it wasn't. "Very well, then," he said, "I shall sing that first line twice, and perhaps if I sing it very quickly, I shall find myself singing the third and fourth lines before I have time to think of them, and that will be a Good Song. Now then:" "Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear! Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear! I don't much mind if it rains or snows, 'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice new nose, I don't much care if it snows or thaws, 'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice clean paws! Sing Ho! for a Bear! Sing Ho! for a Pooh! And I'll have a little something in an hour or two!" He was so pleased with this song that he sang it all the way to the top of the Forest, "and if I go on singing it much longer," he thought, "it will be time for the little something, and then the last line won't be true." So he turned it into a hum instead. Christopher Robin was sitting outside his door, putting on his Big Boots. As soon as he saw the Big Boots, Pooh knew that an Adventure was going to happen, and he brushed the honey off his nose with the back of his paw, and spruced himself up as well as he could, so as to look Ready for Anything. "Good-morning, Christopher Robin," he called out. "Hallo, Pooh Bear. I can't get this boot on." "That's bad," said Pooh. "Do you think you could very kindly lean against me, 'cos I keep pulling so hard that I fall over backwards." Pooh sat down, dug his feet into the ground, and pushed hard against Christopher Robin's back, and Christopher Robin pushed hard against his, and pulled and pulled at his boot until he had got it on. "And that's that," said Pooh. "What do we do next?" "We are all going on an Expedition," said Christopher Robin, as he got up and brushed himself. "Thank you, Pooh." "Going on an Expotition?" said Pooh eagerly. "I don't think I've ever been on one of those. Where are we going to on this Expotition?" "Expedition, silly old Bear. It's got an 'x' in it."<|quote|>"Oh!"</|quote|>said Pooh. "I know." But he didn't really. "We're going to discover the North Pole." "Oh!" said Pooh again. "What _is_ the North Pole?" he asked. "It's just a thing you discover," said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself. "Oh! I see," said Pooh. "Are bears any good at discovering it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?" "Things to eat." "Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover it." "We are, are we?" said Rabbit. "Yes. And we've got to bring Pro--things to eat with us. In case we want to eat them. Now I'm going down to Piglet's. Tell Kanga, will you?" He left Rabbit and hurried down to Piglet's house. The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that it would be never, and was trying to remember what "_it_" was, and hoping it wasn't anything nice, when Pooh came up. "Oh! Piglet," said Pooh excitedly, "we're going on an Expotition, all of us, with things to eat. To discover something." "To discover what?" said Piglet anxiously. "Oh! just something." "Nothing fierce?" "Christopher Robin didn't say anything about fierce. He just said it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore." "What I say," said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody," said Eeyore. "I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole. And as they walked, they chattered to each other of this and that, all except Pooh, who was making up a song. "This is the first verse," he said to Piglet, when he was ready with it. "First verse of what?" "My song." "What song?" "This one." "Which one?" "Well, if you listen, Piglet, you'll hear it." "How do you know I'm not listening?" Pooh couldn't answer that one, so he began to sing. "They all went off to discover the Pole, Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all; It's a Thing you Discover, as I've been tole By Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all. Eeyore, Christopher Robin and Pooh And Rabbit's relations all went too-- And where the Pole was none of them knew.... Sing Hey! for Owl and Rabbit and all!" "Hush!" said Christopher Robin turning round to Pooh, "we're just coming to a Dangerous Place." "Hush!"
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Ho! for the life of a Bear! Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear! I don't much mind if it rains or snows, 'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice new nose, I don't much care if it snows or thaws, 'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice clean paws! Sing Ho! for a Bear! Sing Ho! for a Pooh! And I'll have a little something in an hour or two!" He was so pleased with this song that he sang it all the way to the top of the Forest, "and if I go on singing it much longer," he thought, "it will be time for the little something, and then the last line won't be true." So he turned it into a hum instead. Christopher Robin was sitting outside his door, putting on his Big Boots. As soon as he saw the Big Boots, Pooh knew that an Adventure was going to happen, and he brushed the honey off his nose with the back of his paw, and spruced himself up as well as he could, so as to look Ready for Anything. "Good-morning, Christopher Robin," he called out. "Hallo, Pooh Bear. I can't get this boot on." "That's bad," said Pooh. "Do you think you could very kindly lean against me, 'cos I keep pulling so hard that I fall over backwards." Pooh sat down, dug his feet into the ground, and pushed hard against Christopher Robin's back, and Christopher Robin pushed hard against his, and pulled and pulled at his boot until he had got it on. "And that's that," said Pooh. "What do we do next?" "We are all going on an Expedition," said Christopher Robin, as he got up and brushed himself. "Thank you, Pooh." "Going on an Expotition?" said Pooh eagerly. "I don't think I've ever been on one of those. Where are we going to on this Expotition?" "Expedition, silly old Bear. It's got an 'x' in it."<|quote|>"Oh!"</|quote|>said Pooh. "I know." But he didn't really. "We're going to discover the North Pole." "Oh!" said Pooh again. "What _is_ the North Pole?" he asked. "It's just a thing you discover," said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself. "Oh! I see," said Pooh. "Are bears any good at discovering it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?" "Things to eat." "Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover it." "We are, are we?" said Rabbit. "Yes. And we've got to bring Pro--things to eat with us.
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Winnie The Pooh
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he began, and stopped short. "Doctor Kemp s a hero," he said, as his companion looked over his shoulder. The dining-room window was wide open, and neither housemaid nor Kemp was to be seen. The second policeman s opinion of Kemp was terse and vivid. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HUNTER HUNTED Mr. Heelas, Mr. Kemp s nearest neighbour among the villa holders, was asleep in his summer house when the siege of Kemp s house began. Mr. Heelas was one of the sturdy minority who refused to believe "in all this nonsense" about an Invisible Man. His wife, however, as he was subsequently to be reminded, did. He insisted upon walking about his garden just as if nothing was the matter, and he went to sleep in the afternoon in accordance with the custom of years. He slept through the smashing of the windows, and then woke up suddenly with a curious persuasion of something wrong. He looked across at Kemp s house, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Then he put his feet to the ground, and sat listening. He said he was damned, but still the strange thing was visible. The house looked as though it had been deserted for weeks after a violent riot. Every window was broken, and every window, save those of the belvedere study, was blinded by the internal shutters.
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No speaker
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into the dining-room. "Doctor Kemp"<|quote|>he began, and stopped short. "Doctor Kemp s a hero," he said, as his companion looked over his shoulder. The dining-room window was wide open, and neither housemaid nor Kemp was to be seen. The second policeman s opinion of Kemp was terse and vivid. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HUNTER HUNTED Mr. Heelas, Mr. Kemp s nearest neighbour among the villa holders, was asleep in his summer house when the siege of Kemp s house began. Mr. Heelas was one of the sturdy minority who refused to believe "in all this nonsense" about an Invisible Man. His wife, however, as he was subsequently to be reminded, did. He insisted upon walking about his garden just as if nothing was the matter, and he went to sleep in the afternoon in accordance with the custom of years. He slept through the smashing of the windows, and then woke up suddenly with a curious persuasion of something wrong. He looked across at Kemp s house, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Then he put his feet to the ground, and sat listening. He said he was damned, but still the strange thing was visible. The house looked as though it had been deserted for weeks after a violent riot. Every window was broken, and every window, save those of the belvedere study, was blinded by the internal shutters.</|quote|>"I could have sworn it
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better of it and stepped into the dining-room. "Doctor Kemp"<|quote|>he began, and stopped short. "Doctor Kemp s a hero," he said, as his companion looked over his shoulder. The dining-room window was wide open, and neither housemaid nor Kemp was to be seen. The second policeman s opinion of Kemp was terse and vivid. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HUNTER HUNTED Mr. Heelas, Mr. Kemp s nearest neighbour among the villa holders, was asleep in his summer house when the siege of Kemp s house began. Mr. Heelas was one of the sturdy minority who refused to believe "in all this nonsense" about an Invisible Man. His wife, however, as he was subsequently to be reminded, did. He insisted upon walking about his garden just as if nothing was the matter, and he went to sleep in the afternoon in accordance with the custom of years. He slept through the smashing of the windows, and then woke up suddenly with a curious persuasion of something wrong. He looked across at Kemp s house, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Then he put his feet to the ground, and sat listening. He said he was damned, but still the strange thing was visible. The house looked as though it had been deserted for weeks after a violent riot. Every window was broken, and every window, save those of the belvedere study, was blinded by the internal shutters.</|quote|>"I could have sworn it was all right" he looked
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of bare feet on the kitchen stairs could be heard. "Yap!" cried the first policeman, and incontinently flung his poker. It smashed a little gas bracket. He made as if he would pursue the Invisible Man downstairs. Then he thought better of it and stepped into the dining-room. "Doctor Kemp"<|quote|>he began, and stopped short. "Doctor Kemp s a hero," he said, as his companion looked over his shoulder. The dining-room window was wide open, and neither housemaid nor Kemp was to be seen. The second policeman s opinion of Kemp was terse and vivid. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HUNTER HUNTED Mr. Heelas, Mr. Kemp s nearest neighbour among the villa holders, was asleep in his summer house when the siege of Kemp s house began. Mr. Heelas was one of the sturdy minority who refused to believe "in all this nonsense" about an Invisible Man. His wife, however, as he was subsequently to be reminded, did. He insisted upon walking about his garden just as if nothing was the matter, and he went to sleep in the afternoon in accordance with the custom of years. He slept through the smashing of the windows, and then woke up suddenly with a curious persuasion of something wrong. He looked across at Kemp s house, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Then he put his feet to the ground, and sat listening. He said he was damned, but still the strange thing was visible. The house looked as though it had been deserted for weeks after a violent riot. Every window was broken, and every window, save those of the belvedere study, was blinded by the internal shutters.</|quote|>"I could have sworn it was all right" he looked at his watch "twenty minutes ago." He became aware of a measured concussion and the clash of glass, far away in the distance. And then, as he sat open-mouthed, came a still more wonderful thing. The shutters of the drawing-room
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the man on the floor. "Don t know. I ve hit him. He s standing somewhere in the hall. Unless he s slipped past you. Doctor Kemp sir." Pause. "Doctor Kemp," cried the policeman again. The second policeman began struggling to his feet. He stood up. Suddenly the faint pad of bare feet on the kitchen stairs could be heard. "Yap!" cried the first policeman, and incontinently flung his poker. It smashed a little gas bracket. He made as if he would pursue the Invisible Man downstairs. Then he thought better of it and stepped into the dining-room. "Doctor Kemp"<|quote|>he began, and stopped short. "Doctor Kemp s a hero," he said, as his companion looked over his shoulder. The dining-room window was wide open, and neither housemaid nor Kemp was to be seen. The second policeman s opinion of Kemp was terse and vivid. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HUNTER HUNTED Mr. Heelas, Mr. Kemp s nearest neighbour among the villa holders, was asleep in his summer house when the siege of Kemp s house began. Mr. Heelas was one of the sturdy minority who refused to believe "in all this nonsense" about an Invisible Man. His wife, however, as he was subsequently to be reminded, did. He insisted upon walking about his garden just as if nothing was the matter, and he went to sleep in the afternoon in accordance with the custom of years. He slept through the smashing of the windows, and then woke up suddenly with a curious persuasion of something wrong. He looked across at Kemp s house, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Then he put his feet to the ground, and sat listening. He said he was damned, but still the strange thing was visible. The house looked as though it had been deserted for weeks after a violent riot. Every window was broken, and every window, save those of the belvedere study, was blinded by the internal shutters.</|quote|>"I could have sworn it was all right" he looked at his watch "twenty minutes ago." He became aware of a measured concussion and the clash of glass, far away in the distance. And then, as he sat open-mouthed, came a still more wonderful thing. The shutters of the drawing-room window were flung open violently, and the housemaid in her outdoor hat and garments, appeared struggling in a frantic manner to throw up the sash. Suddenly a man appeared beside her, helping her Dr. Kemp! In another moment the window was open, and the housemaid was struggling out; she pitched
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head of the kitchen stairs. But the second policeman, aiming behind the axe with his poker, hit something soft that snapped. There was a sharp exclamation of pain and then the axe fell to the ground. The policeman wiped again at vacancy and hit nothing; he put his foot on the axe, and struck again. Then he stood, poker clubbed, listening intent for the slightest movement. He heard the dining-room window open, and a quick rush of feet within. His companion rolled over and sat up, with the blood running down between his eye and ear. "Where is he?" asked the man on the floor. "Don t know. I ve hit him. He s standing somewhere in the hall. Unless he s slipped past you. Doctor Kemp sir." Pause. "Doctor Kemp," cried the policeman again. The second policeman began struggling to his feet. He stood up. Suddenly the faint pad of bare feet on the kitchen stairs could be heard. "Yap!" cried the first policeman, and incontinently flung his poker. It smashed a little gas bracket. He made as if he would pursue the Invisible Man downstairs. Then he thought better of it and stepped into the dining-room. "Doctor Kemp"<|quote|>he began, and stopped short. "Doctor Kemp s a hero," he said, as his companion looked over his shoulder. The dining-room window was wide open, and neither housemaid nor Kemp was to be seen. The second policeman s opinion of Kemp was terse and vivid. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HUNTER HUNTED Mr. Heelas, Mr. Kemp s nearest neighbour among the villa holders, was asleep in his summer house when the siege of Kemp s house began. Mr. Heelas was one of the sturdy minority who refused to believe "in all this nonsense" about an Invisible Man. His wife, however, as he was subsequently to be reminded, did. He insisted upon walking about his garden just as if nothing was the matter, and he went to sleep in the afternoon in accordance with the custom of years. He slept through the smashing of the windows, and then woke up suddenly with a curious persuasion of something wrong. He looked across at Kemp s house, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Then he put his feet to the ground, and sat listening. He said he was damned, but still the strange thing was visible. The house looked as though it had been deserted for weeks after a violent riot. Every window was broken, and every window, save those of the belvedere study, was blinded by the internal shutters.</|quote|>"I could have sworn it was all right" he looked at his watch "twenty minutes ago." He became aware of a measured concussion and the clash of glass, far away in the distance. And then, as he sat open-mouthed, came a still more wonderful thing. The shutters of the drawing-room window were flung open violently, and the housemaid in her outdoor hat and garments, appeared struggling in a frantic manner to throw up the sash. Suddenly a man appeared beside her, helping her Dr. Kemp! In another moment the window was open, and the housemaid was struggling out; she pitched forward and vanished among the shrubs. Mr. Heelas stood up, exclaiming vaguely and vehemently at all these wonderful things. He saw Kemp stand on the sill, spring from the window, and reappear almost instantaneously running along a path in the shrubbery and stooping as he ran, like a man who evades observation. He vanished behind a laburnum, and appeared again clambering over a fence that abutted on the open down. In a second he had tumbled over and was running at a tremendous pace down the slope towards Mr. Heelas. "Lord!" cried Mr. Heelas, struck with an idea; "it s
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and the dining-room one to the other. He suddenly flung himself backward. "Whup!" said one policeman, ducked, and caught the axe on his poker. The pistol snapped its penultimate shot and ripped a valuable Sidney Cooper. The second policeman brought his poker down on the little weapon, as one might knock down a wasp, and sent it rattling to the floor. At the first clash the girl screamed, stood screaming for a moment by the fireplace, and then ran to open the shutters possibly with an idea of escaping by the shattered window. The axe receded into the passage, and fell to a position about two feet from the ground. They could hear the Invisible Man breathing. "Stand away, you two," he said. "I want that man Kemp." "We want you," said the first policeman, making a quick step forward and wiping with his poker at the Voice. The Invisible Man must have started back, and he blundered into the umbrella stand. Then, as the policeman staggered with the swing of the blow he had aimed, the Invisible Man countered with the axe, the helmet crumpled like paper, and the blow sent the man spinning to the floor at the head of the kitchen stairs. But the second policeman, aiming behind the axe with his poker, hit something soft that snapped. There was a sharp exclamation of pain and then the axe fell to the ground. The policeman wiped again at vacancy and hit nothing; he put his foot on the axe, and struck again. Then he stood, poker clubbed, listening intent for the slightest movement. He heard the dining-room window open, and a quick rush of feet within. His companion rolled over and sat up, with the blood running down between his eye and ear. "Where is he?" asked the man on the floor. "Don t know. I ve hit him. He s standing somewhere in the hall. Unless he s slipped past you. Doctor Kemp sir." Pause. "Doctor Kemp," cried the policeman again. The second policeman began struggling to his feet. He stood up. Suddenly the faint pad of bare feet on the kitchen stairs could be heard. "Yap!" cried the first policeman, and incontinently flung his poker. It smashed a little gas bracket. He made as if he would pursue the Invisible Man downstairs. Then he thought better of it and stepped into the dining-room. "Doctor Kemp"<|quote|>he began, and stopped short. "Doctor Kemp s a hero," he said, as his companion looked over his shoulder. The dining-room window was wide open, and neither housemaid nor Kemp was to be seen. The second policeman s opinion of Kemp was terse and vivid. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HUNTER HUNTED Mr. Heelas, Mr. Kemp s nearest neighbour among the villa holders, was asleep in his summer house when the siege of Kemp s house began. Mr. Heelas was one of the sturdy minority who refused to believe "in all this nonsense" about an Invisible Man. His wife, however, as he was subsequently to be reminded, did. He insisted upon walking about his garden just as if nothing was the matter, and he went to sleep in the afternoon in accordance with the custom of years. He slept through the smashing of the windows, and then woke up suddenly with a curious persuasion of something wrong. He looked across at Kemp s house, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Then he put his feet to the ground, and sat listening. He said he was damned, but still the strange thing was visible. The house looked as though it had been deserted for weeks after a violent riot. Every window was broken, and every window, save those of the belvedere study, was blinded by the internal shutters.</|quote|>"I could have sworn it was all right" he looked at his watch "twenty minutes ago." He became aware of a measured concussion and the clash of glass, far away in the distance. And then, as he sat open-mouthed, came a still more wonderful thing. The shutters of the drawing-room window were flung open violently, and the housemaid in her outdoor hat and garments, appeared struggling in a frantic manner to throw up the sash. Suddenly a man appeared beside her, helping her Dr. Kemp! In another moment the window was open, and the housemaid was struggling out; she pitched forward and vanished among the shrubs. Mr. Heelas stood up, exclaiming vaguely and vehemently at all these wonderful things. He saw Kemp stand on the sill, spring from the window, and reappear almost instantaneously running along a path in the shrubbery and stooping as he ran, like a man who evades observation. He vanished behind a laburnum, and appeared again clambering over a fence that abutted on the open down. In a second he had tumbled over and was running at a tremendous pace down the slope towards Mr. Heelas. "Lord!" cried Mr. Heelas, struck with an idea; "it s that Invisible Man brute! It s right, after all!" With Mr. Heelas to think things like that was to act, and his cook watching him from the top window was amazed to see him come pelting towards the house at a good nine miles an hour. There was a slamming of doors, a ringing of bells, and the voice of Mr. Heelas bellowing like a bull. "Shut the doors, shut the windows, shut everything! the Invisible Man is coming!" Instantly the house was full of screams and directions, and scurrying feet. He ran himself to shut the French windows that opened on the veranda; as he did so Kemp s head and shoulders and knee appeared over the edge of the garden fence. In another moment Kemp had ploughed through the asparagus, and was running across the tennis lawn to the house. "You can t come in," said Mr. Heelas, shutting the bolts. "I m very sorry if he s after you, but you can t come in!" Kemp appeared with a face of terror close to the glass, rapping and then shaking frantically at the French window. Then, seeing his efforts were useless, he ran along the veranda, vaulted
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blows and the splintering of wood. He heard a smash and the destructive clang of the iron fastenings of the shutters. He turned the key and opened the kitchen door. As he did so, the shutters, split and splintering, came flying inward. He stood aghast. The window frame, save for one crossbar, was still intact, but only little teeth of glass remained in the frame. The shutters had been driven in with an axe, and now the axe was descending in sweeping blows upon the window frame and the iron bars defending it. Then suddenly it leapt aside and vanished. He saw the revolver lying on the path outside, and then the little weapon sprang into the air. He dodged back. The revolver cracked just too late, and a splinter from the edge of the closing door flashed over his head. He slammed and locked the door, and as he stood outside he heard Griffin shouting and laughing. Then the blows of the axe with its splitting and smashing consequences, were resumed. Kemp stood in the passage trying to think. In a moment the Invisible Man would be in the kitchen. This door would not keep him a moment, and then A ringing came at the front door again. It would be the policemen. He ran into the hall, put up the chain, and drew the bolts. He made the girl speak before he dropped the chain, and the three people blundered into the house in a heap, and Kemp slammed the door again. "The Invisible Man!" said Kemp. "He has a revolver, with two shots left. He s killed Adye. Shot him anyhow. Didn t you see him on the lawn? He s lying there." "Who?" said one of the policemen. "Adye," said Kemp. "We came in the back way," said the girl. "What s that smashing?" asked one of the policemen. "He s in the kitchen or will be. He has found an axe" Suddenly the house was full of the Invisible Man s resounding blows on the kitchen door. The girl stared towards the kitchen, shuddered, and retreated into the dining-room. Kemp tried to explain in broken sentences. They heard the kitchen door give. "This way," said Kemp, starting into activity, and bundled the policemen into the dining-room doorway. "Poker," said Kemp, and rushed to the fender. He handed the poker he had carried to the policeman and the dining-room one to the other. He suddenly flung himself backward. "Whup!" said one policeman, ducked, and caught the axe on his poker. The pistol snapped its penultimate shot and ripped a valuable Sidney Cooper. The second policeman brought his poker down on the little weapon, as one might knock down a wasp, and sent it rattling to the floor. At the first clash the girl screamed, stood screaming for a moment by the fireplace, and then ran to open the shutters possibly with an idea of escaping by the shattered window. The axe receded into the passage, and fell to a position about two feet from the ground. They could hear the Invisible Man breathing. "Stand away, you two," he said. "I want that man Kemp." "We want you," said the first policeman, making a quick step forward and wiping with his poker at the Voice. The Invisible Man must have started back, and he blundered into the umbrella stand. Then, as the policeman staggered with the swing of the blow he had aimed, the Invisible Man countered with the axe, the helmet crumpled like paper, and the blow sent the man spinning to the floor at the head of the kitchen stairs. But the second policeman, aiming behind the axe with his poker, hit something soft that snapped. There was a sharp exclamation of pain and then the axe fell to the ground. The policeman wiped again at vacancy and hit nothing; he put his foot on the axe, and struck again. Then he stood, poker clubbed, listening intent for the slightest movement. He heard the dining-room window open, and a quick rush of feet within. His companion rolled over and sat up, with the blood running down between his eye and ear. "Where is he?" asked the man on the floor. "Don t know. I ve hit him. He s standing somewhere in the hall. Unless he s slipped past you. Doctor Kemp sir." Pause. "Doctor Kemp," cried the policeman again. The second policeman began struggling to his feet. He stood up. Suddenly the faint pad of bare feet on the kitchen stairs could be heard. "Yap!" cried the first policeman, and incontinently flung his poker. It smashed a little gas bracket. He made as if he would pursue the Invisible Man downstairs. Then he thought better of it and stepped into the dining-room. "Doctor Kemp"<|quote|>he began, and stopped short. "Doctor Kemp s a hero," he said, as his companion looked over his shoulder. The dining-room window was wide open, and neither housemaid nor Kemp was to be seen. The second policeman s opinion of Kemp was terse and vivid. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HUNTER HUNTED Mr. Heelas, Mr. Kemp s nearest neighbour among the villa holders, was asleep in his summer house when the siege of Kemp s house began. Mr. Heelas was one of the sturdy minority who refused to believe "in all this nonsense" about an Invisible Man. His wife, however, as he was subsequently to be reminded, did. He insisted upon walking about his garden just as if nothing was the matter, and he went to sleep in the afternoon in accordance with the custom of years. He slept through the smashing of the windows, and then woke up suddenly with a curious persuasion of something wrong. He looked across at Kemp s house, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Then he put his feet to the ground, and sat listening. He said he was damned, but still the strange thing was visible. The house looked as though it had been deserted for weeks after a violent riot. Every window was broken, and every window, save those of the belvedere study, was blinded by the internal shutters.</|quote|>"I could have sworn it was all right" he looked at his watch "twenty minutes ago." He became aware of a measured concussion and the clash of glass, far away in the distance. And then, as he sat open-mouthed, came a still more wonderful thing. The shutters of the drawing-room window were flung open violently, and the housemaid in her outdoor hat and garments, appeared struggling in a frantic manner to throw up the sash. Suddenly a man appeared beside her, helping her Dr. Kemp! In another moment the window was open, and the housemaid was struggling out; she pitched forward and vanished among the shrubs. Mr. Heelas stood up, exclaiming vaguely and vehemently at all these wonderful things. He saw Kemp stand on the sill, spring from the window, and reappear almost instantaneously running along a path in the shrubbery and stooping as he ran, like a man who evades observation. He vanished behind a laburnum, and appeared again clambering over a fence that abutted on the open down. In a second he had tumbled over and was running at a tremendous pace down the slope towards Mr. Heelas. "Lord!" cried Mr. Heelas, struck with an idea; "it s that Invisible Man brute! It s right, after all!" With Mr. Heelas to think things like that was to act, and his cook watching him from the top window was amazed to see him come pelting towards the house at a good nine miles an hour. There was a slamming of doors, a ringing of bells, and the voice of Mr. Heelas bellowing like a bull. "Shut the doors, shut the windows, shut everything! the Invisible Man is coming!" Instantly the house was full of screams and directions, and scurrying feet. He ran himself to shut the French windows that opened on the veranda; as he did so Kemp s head and shoulders and knee appeared over the edge of the garden fence. In another moment Kemp had ploughed through the asparagus, and was running across the tennis lawn to the house. "You can t come in," said Mr. Heelas, shutting the bolts. "I m very sorry if he s after you, but you can t come in!" Kemp appeared with a face of terror close to the glass, rapping and then shaking frantically at the French window. Then, seeing his efforts were useless, he ran along the veranda, vaulted the end, and went to hammer at the side door. Then he ran round by the side gate to the front of the house, and so into the hill-road. And Mr. Heelas staring from his window a face of horror had scarcely witnessed Kemp vanish, ere the asparagus was being trampled this way and that by feet unseen. At that Mr. Heelas fled precipitately upstairs, and the rest of the chase is beyond his purview. But as he passed the staircase window, he heard the side gate slam. Emerging into the hill-road, Kemp naturally took the downward direction, and so it was he came to run in his own person the very race he had watched with such a critical eye from the belvedere study only four days ago. He ran it well, for a man out of training, and though his face was white and wet, his wits were cool to the last. He ran with wide strides, and wherever a patch of rough ground intervened, wherever there came a patch of raw flints, or a bit of broken glass shone dazzling, he crossed it and left the bare invisible feet that followed to take what line they would. For the first time in his life Kemp discovered that the hill-road was indescribably vast and desolate, and that the beginnings of the town far below at the hill foot were strangely remote. Never had there been a slower or more painful method of progression than running. All the gaunt villas, sleeping in the afternoon sun, looked locked and barred; no doubt they were locked and barred by his own orders. But at any rate they might have kept a lookout for an eventuality like this! The town was rising up now, the sea had dropped out of sight behind it, and people down below were stirring. A tram was just arriving at the hill foot. Beyond that was the police station. Was that footsteps he heard behind him? Spurt. The people below were staring at him, one or two were running, and his breath was beginning to saw in his throat. The tram was quite near now, and the "Jolly Cricketers" was noisily barring its doors. Beyond the tram were posts and heaps of gravel the drainage works. He had a transitory idea of jumping into the tram and slamming the doors, and then he resolved to go for
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"The Invisible Man!" said Kemp. "He has a revolver, with two shots left. He s killed Adye. Shot him anyhow. Didn t you see him on the lawn? He s lying there." "Who?" said one of the policemen. "Adye," said Kemp. "We came in the back way," said the girl. "What s that smashing?" asked one of the policemen. "He s in the kitchen or will be. He has found an axe" Suddenly the house was full of the Invisible Man s resounding blows on the kitchen door. The girl stared towards the kitchen, shuddered, and retreated into the dining-room. Kemp tried to explain in broken sentences. They heard the kitchen door give. "This way," said Kemp, starting into activity, and bundled the policemen into the dining-room doorway. "Poker," said Kemp, and rushed to the fender. He handed the poker he had carried to the policeman and the dining-room one to the other. He suddenly flung himself backward. "Whup!" said one policeman, ducked, and caught the axe on his poker. The pistol snapped its penultimate shot and ripped a valuable Sidney Cooper. The second policeman brought his poker down on the little weapon, as one might knock down a wasp, and sent it rattling to the floor. At the first clash the girl screamed, stood screaming for a moment by the fireplace, and then ran to open the shutters possibly with an idea of escaping by the shattered window. The axe receded into the passage, and fell to a position about two feet from the ground. They could hear the Invisible Man breathing. "Stand away, you two," he said. "I want that man Kemp." "We want you," said the first policeman, making a quick step forward and wiping with his poker at the Voice. The Invisible Man must have started back, and he blundered into the umbrella stand. Then, as the policeman staggered with the swing of the blow he had aimed, the Invisible Man countered with the axe, the helmet crumpled like paper, and the blow sent the man spinning to the floor at the head of the kitchen stairs. But the second policeman, aiming behind the axe with his poker, hit something soft that snapped. There was a sharp exclamation of pain and then the axe fell to the ground. The policeman wiped again at vacancy and hit nothing; he put his foot on the axe, and struck again. Then he stood, poker clubbed, listening intent for the slightest movement. He heard the dining-room window open, and a quick rush of feet within. His companion rolled over and sat up, with the blood running down between his eye and ear. "Where is he?" asked the man on the floor. "Don t know. I ve hit him. He s standing somewhere in the hall. Unless he s slipped past you. Doctor Kemp sir." Pause. "Doctor Kemp," cried the policeman again. The second policeman began struggling to his feet. He stood up. Suddenly the faint pad of bare feet on the kitchen stairs could be heard. "Yap!" cried the first policeman, and incontinently flung his poker. It smashed a little gas bracket. He made as if he would pursue the Invisible Man downstairs. Then he thought better of it and stepped into the dining-room. "Doctor Kemp"<|quote|>he began, and stopped short. "Doctor Kemp s a hero," he said, as his companion looked over his shoulder. The dining-room window was wide open, and neither housemaid nor Kemp was to be seen. The second policeman s opinion of Kemp was terse and vivid. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HUNTER HUNTED Mr. Heelas, Mr. Kemp s nearest neighbour among the villa holders, was asleep in his summer house when the siege of Kemp s house began. Mr. Heelas was one of the sturdy minority who refused to believe "in all this nonsense" about an Invisible Man. His wife, however, as he was subsequently to be reminded, did. He insisted upon walking about his garden just as if nothing was the matter, and he went to sleep in the afternoon in accordance with the custom of years. He slept through the smashing of the windows, and then woke up suddenly with a curious persuasion of something wrong. He looked across at Kemp s house, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Then he put his feet to the ground, and sat listening. He said he was damned, but still the strange thing was visible. The house looked as though it had been deserted for weeks after a violent riot. Every window was broken, and every window, save those of the belvedere study, was blinded by the internal shutters.</|quote|>"I could have sworn it was all right" he looked at his watch "twenty minutes ago." He became aware of a measured concussion and the clash of glass, far away in the distance. And then, as he sat open-mouthed, came a still more wonderful thing. The shutters of the drawing-room window were flung open violently, and the housemaid in her outdoor hat and garments, appeared struggling in a frantic manner to throw up the sash. Suddenly a man appeared beside her, helping her Dr. Kemp! In another moment the window was open, and the housemaid was struggling out; she pitched forward and vanished among the shrubs. Mr. Heelas stood up, exclaiming vaguely and vehemently at all these wonderful things. He saw Kemp stand on the sill, spring from the window, and reappear almost instantaneously running along a path in the shrubbery and stooping as he ran, like a man who evades observation. He vanished behind a laburnum, and appeared again clambering over a fence that abutted on the open down. In a second he had tumbled over and was running at a tremendous pace down the slope towards Mr. Heelas. "Lord!" cried Mr. Heelas, struck with an idea; "it s that Invisible Man brute! It s right, after all!" With Mr. Heelas to think things like that was to act, and his cook watching him from the top window was amazed to see him come pelting towards the house at a good nine miles an hour. There was a slamming of doors, a ringing of bells, and the voice of Mr. Heelas bellowing like a bull. "Shut the doors, shut the windows, shut everything! the Invisible Man is coming!" Instantly the house was full of screams and directions, and scurrying feet. He ran himself to shut the French windows that opened on the veranda; as he did so Kemp s head and shoulders and knee appeared over the edge of the garden fence. In another moment Kemp had ploughed through the asparagus, and was running across the tennis lawn to the house. "You can t come in," said Mr. Heelas, shutting the bolts. "I m very sorry if he s after you, but you can t come in!" Kemp appeared with a face of terror close to the glass, rapping and then shaking frantically at the French window. Then, seeing his efforts were useless, he ran along the veranda, vaulted the end, and went to hammer at the side door. Then he ran round by the side gate to the front of the house, and so into the hill-road. And Mr. Heelas staring from his window a face of horror had scarcely witnessed Kemp vanish, ere the asparagus was being trampled this way and that by feet unseen. At that Mr. Heelas fled precipitately upstairs, and the rest of the chase is beyond his purview. But as he passed the staircase window, he heard the side gate slam. Emerging into the hill-road, Kemp naturally took the downward direction, and so it was he came to run in his own person the very race he had watched with such a critical eye from the belvedere study only four days ago. He ran it well, for a man out of training, and though his face was white and wet, his wits were cool to the last. He ran with wide strides, and wherever a patch of rough ground intervened, wherever there came a patch of raw flints, or a bit of broken glass shone dazzling, he
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The Invisible Man
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"What height?"
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Lucy
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She flushed again and said:<|quote|>"What height?"</|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from
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her knee with his own. She flushed again and said:<|quote|>"What height?"</|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure
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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:<|quote|>"What height?"</|quote|>"'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
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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:<|quote|>"What height?"</|quote|>"'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.
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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:<|quote|>"What height?"</|quote|>"'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
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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:<|quote|>"What height?"</|quote|>"'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. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil
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the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. 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:<|quote|>"What height?"</|quote|>"'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. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "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
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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:<|quote|>"What height?"</|quote|>"'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. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "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
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A Room With A View
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“Was it because you knew why he had arrived?”
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Lady Sandgate
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young friend appeared to hesitate.<|quote|>“Was it because you knew why he had arrived?”</|quote|>The young friend hesitated still.
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followed it up as her young friend appeared to hesitate.<|quote|>“Was it because you knew why he had arrived?”</|quote|>The young friend hesitated still. “‘Why ‘?” “So particularly to
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with serenity. “Very good--though he sounds most detrimental! But will you first just tell me _this_--whether when you sent in ten minutes ago for Lord John to come out to you it was wholly of your own movement?” And she followed it up as her young friend appeared to hesitate.<|quote|>“Was it because you knew why he had arrived?”</|quote|>The young friend hesitated still. “‘Why ‘?” “So particularly to speak to you.” “Since he was expected and mightn’t know where I was,” Lady Grace said after an instant, “I wanted naturally to be civil to him.” “And had he time there to tell you,” Lady Sand-gate asked, “how very
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day to come over and make acquaintance with our things. I told him,” Lady Grace wound up, “that nothing would be easier; a note from him arrived before dinner----” Lady Sandgate jumped the rest “And it’s for him you’ve come in.” “It’s for him I’ve come in,” the girl assented with serenity. “Very good--though he sounds most detrimental! But will you first just tell me _this_--whether when you sent in ten minutes ago for Lord John to come out to you it was wholly of your own movement?” And she followed it up as her young friend appeared to hesitate.<|quote|>“Was it because you knew why he had arrived?”</|quote|>The young friend hesitated still. “‘Why ‘?” “So particularly to speak to you.” “Since he was expected and mightn’t know where I was,” Lady Grace said after an instant, “I wanted naturally to be civil to him.” “And had he time there to tell you,” Lady Sand-gate asked, “how very civil he wants to be to you?” “No, only to tell me that his friend--who’s off there--was coming; for Kitty at once appropriated him and was still in possession when I came away.” Then, as deciding at last on perfect frankness, Lady Grace went on: “If you want to know,
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Bender.” This appeared to move in the elder woman some deeper thought “May I ask then--if one’s to meet him--who he is?” “Oh, father knows--or ought to--that I sat next him, in London, a month ago, at dinner, and that he then told me he was working, tooth and nail, at what he called the wonderful modern science of Connoisseurship--which is upsetting, as perhaps you’re not aware, all the old-fashioned canons of art-criticism, everything we’ve stupidly thought right and held dear; that he was to spend Easter in these parts, and that he should like greatly to be allowed some day to come over and make acquaintance with our things. I told him,” Lady Grace wound up, “that nothing would be easier; a note from him arrived before dinner----” Lady Sandgate jumped the rest “And it’s for him you’ve come in.” “It’s for him I’ve come in,” the girl assented with serenity. “Very good--though he sounds most detrimental! But will you first just tell me _this_--whether when you sent in ten minutes ago for Lord John to come out to you it was wholly of your own movement?” And she followed it up as her young friend appeared to hesitate.<|quote|>“Was it because you knew why he had arrived?”</|quote|>The young friend hesitated still. “‘Why ‘?” “So particularly to speak to you.” “Since he was expected and mightn’t know where I was,” Lady Grace said after an instant, “I wanted naturally to be civil to him.” “And had he time there to tell you,” Lady Sand-gate asked, “how very civil he wants to be to you?” “No, only to tell me that his friend--who’s off there--was coming; for Kitty at once appropriated him and was still in possession when I came away.” Then, as deciding at last on perfect frankness, Lady Grace went on: “If you want to know, I sent for news of him because Kitty insisted on my doing so; saying, so very oddly and quite in her own way, that she herself didn’t wish to ‘appear in it.’ She had done nothing but say to me for an hour, rather worryingly, what you’ve just said--that it’s me he’s what, like Mr. Bender, she calls ‘after’; but as soon as he appeared she pounced on him, and I left him--I assure you quite resignedly--in her hands.” “She wants” --it was easy for Lady Sandgate to remark-- “to talk of you to him.” “I don’t know _what_ she
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enough to risk the chance of Kitty’s being for once right?” Lady Grace gave it a thought--with which she moved away. “I don’t know how much I like him!” “Nor how little!” cried her friend, who evidently found amusement in the tone of it. “And you’re not disposed to take the time to find out? He’s at least better than the others.” “The ‘others’?” --Lady Grace was blank for them. “The others of his set.” “Oh, his set! That wouldn’t be difficult--by what I imagine of some of them. But he means well enough,” the girl added; “he’s very charming and does me great honour.” It determined in her companion, about to leave her, another brief arrest. “Then may I tell your father?” This in turn brought about in Lady Grace an immediate drop of the subject. “Tell my father, please, that I’m expecting Mr. Crimble; of whom I’ve spoken to him even if he doesn’t remember, and who bicycles this afternoon ten miles over from where he’s staying--with some people we don’t know--to look at the pictures, about which he’s awfully keen.” Lady Sandgate took it in. “Ah, like Mr. Bender?” “No, not at all, I think, like Mr. Bender.” This appeared to move in the elder woman some deeper thought “May I ask then--if one’s to meet him--who he is?” “Oh, father knows--or ought to--that I sat next him, in London, a month ago, at dinner, and that he then told me he was working, tooth and nail, at what he called the wonderful modern science of Connoisseurship--which is upsetting, as perhaps you’re not aware, all the old-fashioned canons of art-criticism, everything we’ve stupidly thought right and held dear; that he was to spend Easter in these parts, and that he should like greatly to be allowed some day to come over and make acquaintance with our things. I told him,” Lady Grace wound up, “that nothing would be easier; a note from him arrived before dinner----” Lady Sandgate jumped the rest “And it’s for him you’ve come in.” “It’s for him I’ve come in,” the girl assented with serenity. “Very good--though he sounds most detrimental! But will you first just tell me _this_--whether when you sent in ten minutes ago for Lord John to come out to you it was wholly of your own movement?” And she followed it up as her young friend appeared to hesitate.<|quote|>“Was it because you knew why he had arrived?”</|quote|>The young friend hesitated still. “‘Why ‘?” “So particularly to speak to you.” “Since he was expected and mightn’t know where I was,” Lady Grace said after an instant, “I wanted naturally to be civil to him.” “And had he time there to tell you,” Lady Sand-gate asked, “how very civil he wants to be to you?” “No, only to tell me that his friend--who’s off there--was coming; for Kitty at once appropriated him and was still in possession when I came away.” Then, as deciding at last on perfect frankness, Lady Grace went on: “If you want to know, I sent for news of him because Kitty insisted on my doing so; saying, so very oddly and quite in her own way, that she herself didn’t wish to ‘appear in it.’ She had done nothing but say to me for an hour, rather worryingly, what you’ve just said--that it’s me he’s what, like Mr. Bender, she calls ‘after’; but as soon as he appeared she pounced on him, and I left him--I assure you quite resignedly--in her hands.” “She wants” --it was easy for Lady Sandgate to remark-- “to talk of you to him.” “I don’t know _what_ she wants,” the girl replied as with rather a tired patience; “Kitty wants so many things at once. She always wants money, in quantities, to begin with--and all to throw so horribly away; so that whenever I see her ‘in’ so very deep with any one I always imagine her appealing for some new tip as to how it’s to be come by.” “Kitty’s an abyss, I grant you, and with my disinterested devotion to your father--in requital of all his kindness to me since Lord Sandgate’s death and since your mother’s--I can never be too grateful to you, my dear, for your being so different a creature. But what is she going to gain financially,” Lady Sand-gate pursued with a strong emphasis on her adverb, “by working up our friend’s confidence in your listening to him--if you _are_ to listen?” “I haven’t in the least engaged to listen,” said Lady Grace-- “it will depend on the music he makes!” But she added with light cynicism: “Perhaps she’s to gain a commission!” “On his fairly getting you?” And then as the girl assented by silence: “Is he in a position to pay her one?” Lady Sandgate asked. “I dare say the
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‘funny’--but you already know him?” There might have been a sense of embarrassment in the way in which, as to gain time, Lady Sandgate pointed, instead of answering, to the small picture pronounced upon by Mr. Bender. “He thinks your little Cuyp a fraud.” “That one?” Lady Grace could but stare. “The wretch!” However, she made, without alarm, no more of it; she returned to her previous question. “You’ve met him before?” “Just a little--in town. Being ‘after pictures’” Lady Sandgate explained, “he has been after my great-grandmother.” “She,” said Lady Grace with amusement, “must have found him funny! But he can clearly take care of himself, while Kitty takes care of Lord John, and while you, if you’ll be so good, go back to support father--in the hour of his triumph: which he wants you so much to witness that he complains of your desertion and goes so far as to speak of you as sneaking away.” Lady Sandgate, with a slight flush, turned it over. “I delight in his triumph, and whatever I do is at least above board; but if it’s a question of support, aren’t you yourself failing him quite as much?” This had, however, no effect on the girl’s confidence. “Ah, my dear, I’m not at all the same thing, and as I’m the person in the world he least misses--” Well, such a fact spoke for itself. “You’ve been free to return and wait for Lord John?” --that was the sense in which the elder woman appeared to prefer to understand it as speaking. The tone of it, none the less, led her companion immediately, though very quietly, to correct her. “I’ve not come back to wait for Lord John.” “Then he hasn’t told you--if you’ve talked--with what idea he has come?” Lady Grace had for a further correction the same shade of detachment. “Kitty has told me--what it suits her to pretend to suppose.” “And Kitty’s pretensions and suppositions always go with what happens--at the moment, among all her wonderful happenings--to suit her?” Lady Grace let that question answer itself--she took the case up further on. “What I can’t make out is why this _should_ so suit her!” “And what _I_ can’t!” said Lady Sandgate without gross honesty and turning away after having watched the girl a moment. She nevertheless presently faced her again to follow this speculation up. “Do you like him enough to risk the chance of Kitty’s being for once right?” Lady Grace gave it a thought--with which she moved away. “I don’t know how much I like him!” “Nor how little!” cried her friend, who evidently found amusement in the tone of it. “And you’re not disposed to take the time to find out? He’s at least better than the others.” “The ‘others’?” --Lady Grace was blank for them. “The others of his set.” “Oh, his set! That wouldn’t be difficult--by what I imagine of some of them. But he means well enough,” the girl added; “he’s very charming and does me great honour.” It determined in her companion, about to leave her, another brief arrest. “Then may I tell your father?” This in turn brought about in Lady Grace an immediate drop of the subject. “Tell my father, please, that I’m expecting Mr. Crimble; of whom I’ve spoken to him even if he doesn’t remember, and who bicycles this afternoon ten miles over from where he’s staying--with some people we don’t know--to look at the pictures, about which he’s awfully keen.” Lady Sandgate took it in. “Ah, like Mr. Bender?” “No, not at all, I think, like Mr. Bender.” This appeared to move in the elder woman some deeper thought “May I ask then--if one’s to meet him--who he is?” “Oh, father knows--or ought to--that I sat next him, in London, a month ago, at dinner, and that he then told me he was working, tooth and nail, at what he called the wonderful modern science of Connoisseurship--which is upsetting, as perhaps you’re not aware, all the old-fashioned canons of art-criticism, everything we’ve stupidly thought right and held dear; that he was to spend Easter in these parts, and that he should like greatly to be allowed some day to come over and make acquaintance with our things. I told him,” Lady Grace wound up, “that nothing would be easier; a note from him arrived before dinner----” Lady Sandgate jumped the rest “And it’s for him you’ve come in.” “It’s for him I’ve come in,” the girl assented with serenity. “Very good--though he sounds most detrimental! But will you first just tell me _this_--whether when you sent in ten minutes ago for Lord John to come out to you it was wholly of your own movement?” And she followed it up as her young friend appeared to hesitate.<|quote|>“Was it because you knew why he had arrived?”</|quote|>The young friend hesitated still. “‘Why ‘?” “So particularly to speak to you.” “Since he was expected and mightn’t know where I was,” Lady Grace said after an instant, “I wanted naturally to be civil to him.” “And had he time there to tell you,” Lady Sand-gate asked, “how very civil he wants to be to you?” “No, only to tell me that his friend--who’s off there--was coming; for Kitty at once appropriated him and was still in possession when I came away.” Then, as deciding at last on perfect frankness, Lady Grace went on: “If you want to know, I sent for news of him because Kitty insisted on my doing so; saying, so very oddly and quite in her own way, that she herself didn’t wish to ‘appear in it.’ She had done nothing but say to me for an hour, rather worryingly, what you’ve just said--that it’s me he’s what, like Mr. Bender, she calls ‘after’; but as soon as he appeared she pounced on him, and I left him--I assure you quite resignedly--in her hands.” “She wants” --it was easy for Lady Sandgate to remark-- “to talk of you to him.” “I don’t know _what_ she wants,” the girl replied as with rather a tired patience; “Kitty wants so many things at once. She always wants money, in quantities, to begin with--and all to throw so horribly away; so that whenever I see her ‘in’ so very deep with any one I always imagine her appealing for some new tip as to how it’s to be come by.” “Kitty’s an abyss, I grant you, and with my disinterested devotion to your father--in requital of all his kindness to me since Lord Sandgate’s death and since your mother’s--I can never be too grateful to you, my dear, for your being so different a creature. But what is she going to gain financially,” Lady Sand-gate pursued with a strong emphasis on her adverb, “by working up our friend’s confidence in your listening to him--if you _are_ to listen?” “I haven’t in the least engaged to listen,” said Lady Grace-- “it will depend on the music he makes!” But she added with light cynicism: “Perhaps she’s to gain a commission!” “On his fairly getting you?” And then as the girl assented by silence: “Is he in a position to pay her one?” Lady Sandgate asked. “I dare say the Duchess is!” “But do you see the Duchess _producing_ money--with all that Kitty, as we’re not ignorant, owes her? Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds!” --Lady Sandgate piled them up. Her young friend’s gesture checked it. “Ah, don’t tell me how many--it’s too sad and too ugly and too wrong!” To which, however, Lady Grace added: “But perhaps that will be just her way!” And then as her companion seemed for the moment not quite to follow: “By letting Kitty off her debt.” “You mean that Kitty goes free if Lord John wins your promise?” “Kitty goes free.” “She has her creditor’s release?” “For every shilling.” “And if he only fails?” “Why then of course,” said now quite lucid Lady Grace, “she throws herself more than ever on poor father.” “Poor father indeed!” --Lady Sandgate richly sighed it It appeared even to create in the younger woman a sense of excess. “Yes--but he after all and in spite of everything adores her.” “To the point, you mean” --for Lady Sandgate could clearly but wonder-- “of really sacrificing you?” The weight of Lady Grace’s charming deep eyes on her face made her pause while, at some length, she gave back this look and the interchange determined in the girl a grave appeal. “You think I _should_ be sacrificed if I married him?” Lady Sandgate replied, though with an equal emphasis, indirectly. “_Could_ you marry him?” Lady Grace waited a moment “Do you mean for Kitty?” “For himself even--if they should convince you, among them, that he cares for you.” Lady Grace had another delay. “Well, he’s his awful mother’s son.” “Yes--but you wouldn’t marry his mother.” “No--but I should only be the more uncomfortably and intimately conscious of her.” “Even when,” Lady Sandgate optimistically put it, “she so markedly likes you?” This determined in the girl a fine impatience. “She doesn’t ‘like’ me, she only _wants_ me--which is a very different thing; wants me for my father’s so particularly beautiful position, and my mother’s so supremely great people, and for everything we have been and have done, and still are and still have: except of course poor not-at-all-model Kitty.” To this luminous account of the matter Lady Sand-gate turned as to a genial sun-burst. “I see indeed--for the general immaculate connection.” The words had no note of irony, but Lady Grace, in her great seriousness, glanced with deprecation at the possibility. “Well,
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Sandgate took it in. “Ah, like Mr. Bender?” “No, not at all, I think, like Mr. Bender.” This appeared to move in the elder woman some deeper thought “May I ask then--if one’s to meet him--who he is?” “Oh, father knows--or ought to--that I sat next him, in London, a month ago, at dinner, and that he then told me he was working, tooth and nail, at what he called the wonderful modern science of Connoisseurship--which is upsetting, as perhaps you’re not aware, all the old-fashioned canons of art-criticism, everything we’ve stupidly thought right and held dear; that he was to spend Easter in these parts, and that he should like greatly to be allowed some day to come over and make acquaintance with our things. I told him,” Lady Grace wound up, “that nothing would be easier; a note from him arrived before dinner----” Lady Sandgate jumped the rest “And it’s for him you’ve come in.” “It’s for him I’ve come in,” the girl assented with serenity. “Very good--though he sounds most detrimental! But will you first just tell me _this_--whether when you sent in ten minutes ago for Lord John to come out to you it was wholly of your own movement?” And she followed it up as her young friend appeared to hesitate.<|quote|>“Was it because you knew why he had arrived?”</|quote|>The young friend hesitated still. “‘Why ‘?” “So particularly to speak to you.” “Since he was expected and mightn’t know where I was,” Lady Grace said after an instant, “I wanted naturally to be civil to him.” “And had he time there to tell you,” Lady Sand-gate asked, “how very civil he wants to be to you?” “No, only to tell me that his friend--who’s off there--was coming; for Kitty at once appropriated him and was still in possession when I came away.” Then, as deciding at last on perfect frankness, Lady Grace went on: “If you want to know, I sent for news of him because Kitty insisted on my doing so; saying, so very oddly and quite in her own way, that she herself didn’t wish to ‘appear in it.’ She had done nothing but say to me for an hour, rather worryingly, what you’ve just said--that it’s me he’s what, like Mr. Bender, she calls ‘after’; but as soon as he appeared she pounced on him, and I left him--I assure you quite resignedly--in her hands.” “She wants” --it was easy for Lady Sandgate to remark-- “to talk of you to him.” “I don’t know _what_ she wants,” the girl replied as with rather a tired patience; “Kitty wants so many things at once. She always wants money, in quantities, to begin with--and all to throw so horribly away; so that whenever I see her ‘in’ so very deep with any one I always imagine her appealing for some new tip as to how it’s to be come by.” “Kitty’s an abyss, I grant you, and with my disinterested devotion to your father--in requital of all his kindness to me since Lord Sandgate’s death and since your mother’s--I can never be too grateful to you, my dear, for your being so different a creature. But what is she going to gain financially,” Lady Sand-gate pursued with a strong emphasis on her adverb, “by working up our friend’s confidence in your listening to him--if you _are_ to listen?” “I haven’t in the least engaged to listen,” said Lady Grace-- “it will depend on the music he makes!” But she added with light cynicism: “Perhaps she’s to gain a commission!” “On his fairly getting you?” And then as the girl assented by silence: “Is he in a position to pay her one?” Lady Sandgate asked. “I dare say the Duchess is!” “But do you see the Duchess _producing_ money--with all that Kitty, as we’re not ignorant, owes her? Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds!” --Lady Sandgate piled them up. Her young friend’s gesture checked it. “Ah, don’t tell me how many--it’s too sad and too ugly and too wrong!” To which, however, Lady Grace added: “But perhaps that will be just her way!” And then as her companion seemed for the moment not quite to follow: “By letting Kitty off her debt.” “You mean that Kitty goes free if
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The Outcry
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answered the mother, amazed.
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No speaker
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"I go to the sultan!"<|quote|>answered the mother, amazed.</|quote|>"I shall be cautious how
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"You yourself," replied he immediately. "I go to the sultan!"<|quote|>answered the mother, amazed.</|quote|>"I shall be cautious how I engage in such an
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that I am resolved to demand the princess in marriage!" "Indeed, son," replied the mother seriously, "I cannot help telling you that you have forgotten yourself, and I do not see who will venture to make the proposal for you." "You yourself," replied he immediately. "I go to the sultan!"<|quote|>answered the mother, amazed.</|quote|>"I shall be cautious how I engage in such an errand. Why, who are you, son," continued she, "that you can have the assurance to think of your sultan's daughter? Have you forgotten that your father was one of the poorest tailors in the capital, and that I am of
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"Alas! child," said she, "what are you thinking of? you must be mad to talk thus." "I assure you, mother," replied Aladdin, "that I am not mad, but in my right senses; I foresaw that you would reproach me with folly and extravagance; but I must tell you once more, that I am resolved to demand the princess in marriage!" "Indeed, son," replied the mother seriously, "I cannot help telling you that you have forgotten yourself, and I do not see who will venture to make the proposal for you." "You yourself," replied he immediately. "I go to the sultan!"<|quote|>answered the mother, amazed.</|quote|>"I shall be cautious how I engage in such an errand. Why, who are you, son," continued she, "that you can have the assurance to think of your sultan's daughter? Have you forgotten that your father was one of the poorest tailors in the capital, and that I am of no better extraction; and do not you know that sultans never marry their daughters but to sons of sovereigns like themselves?" "Mother," answered Aladdin, "I foresaw all that you have said, or can say: and tell you that neither your discourse nor your remonstrances shall make me change my mind.
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She did so and I had the happiness of seeing her lovely face with the greatest security. This, mother, was the cause of my silence yesterday; I love the princess with more violence than I can express; and as my passion increases every moment, I am resolved to ask her in marriage of the sultan, her father." Aladdin's mother listened with interest to what her son told her; but when he talked of asking the princess in marriage, she could not help bursting out into a loud laugh. He would have gone on with his rhapsody, but she interrupted him: "Alas! child," said she, "what are you thinking of? you must be mad to talk thus." "I assure you, mother," replied Aladdin, "that I am not mad, but in my right senses; I foresaw that you would reproach me with folly and extravagance; but I must tell you once more, that I am resolved to demand the princess in marriage!" "Indeed, son," replied the mother seriously, "I cannot help telling you that you have forgotten yourself, and I do not see who will venture to make the proposal for you." "You yourself," replied he immediately. "I go to the sultan!"<|quote|>answered the mother, amazed.</|quote|>"I shall be cautious how I engage in such an errand. Why, who are you, son," continued she, "that you can have the assurance to think of your sultan's daughter? Have you forgotten that your father was one of the poorest tailors in the capital, and that I am of no better extraction; and do not you know that sultans never marry their daughters but to sons of sovereigns like themselves?" "Mother," answered Aladdin, "I foresaw all that you have said, or can say: and tell you that neither your discourse nor your remonstrances shall make me change my mind. I have told you that you must ask the princess in marriage for me. I beg of you not to refuse, unless you would rather see me in my grave, than by your compliance give me new life." The good old woman was much embarrassed, when she found Aladdin persisting in so wild a design. "My son," said she again, "I am your mother, and there is nothing that is reasonable but I would readily do for you. If I were to go and treat about your marriage with some neighbour's daughter, I would do it with all my heart;
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but that his mother perceived it, was surprised to see him so much more thoughtful than usual; and asked if he were ill? He returned her no answer, but sat carelessly down on the sofa, and remained silently musing on the image of the charming Badroulboudour. After supper, his mother asked him again why he was so melancholy, but could get no information, and he determined to go to bed rather than give her the least satisfaction. As he sat next day on the sofa, opposite his mother, however, as she was spinning cotton, he spoke to her in these words: "I perceive, mother, that my silence yesterday has much troubled you; I was not, nor am I ill; but I assure you, that what I felt then, and now endure, is worse than any disease.It was not proclaimed in this quarter of the town, and therefore you could know nothing of it, that the sultan's daughter was yesterday to go to the baths. I had a great curiosity to see her face; and as it occurred to me that when she came nigh the bath, she would pull her veil off, I resolved to conceal myself behind the door. She did so and I had the happiness of seeing her lovely face with the greatest security. This, mother, was the cause of my silence yesterday; I love the princess with more violence than I can express; and as my passion increases every moment, I am resolved to ask her in marriage of the sultan, her father." Aladdin's mother listened with interest to what her son told her; but when he talked of asking the princess in marriage, she could not help bursting out into a loud laugh. He would have gone on with his rhapsody, but she interrupted him: "Alas! child," said she, "what are you thinking of? you must be mad to talk thus." "I assure you, mother," replied Aladdin, "that I am not mad, but in my right senses; I foresaw that you would reproach me with folly and extravagance; but I must tell you once more, that I am resolved to demand the princess in marriage!" "Indeed, son," replied the mother seriously, "I cannot help telling you that you have forgotten yourself, and I do not see who will venture to make the proposal for you." "You yourself," replied he immediately. "I go to the sultan!"<|quote|>answered the mother, amazed.</|quote|>"I shall be cautious how I engage in such an errand. Why, who are you, son," continued she, "that you can have the assurance to think of your sultan's daughter? Have you forgotten that your father was one of the poorest tailors in the capital, and that I am of no better extraction; and do not you know that sultans never marry their daughters but to sons of sovereigns like themselves?" "Mother," answered Aladdin, "I foresaw all that you have said, or can say: and tell you that neither your discourse nor your remonstrances shall make me change my mind. I have told you that you must ask the princess in marriage for me. I beg of you not to refuse, unless you would rather see me in my grave, than by your compliance give me new life." The good old woman was much embarrassed, when she found Aladdin persisting in so wild a design. "My son," said she again, "I am your mother, and there is nothing that is reasonable but I would readily do for you. If I were to go and treat about your marriage with some neighbour's daughter, I would do it with all my heart; and even then they would expect you should have some little estate, or be of some trade. When such poor folks as we are wish to marry, the first thing they ought to think of, is how to live. But without reflecting on the meanness of your birth, and the little fortune you have to recommend you, you aim at the highest pitch of exaltation; and your pretensions are no less than to demand in marriage the daughter of your sovereign, who with one single word can crush you to pieces. How could so extraordinary a thought come into your head, as that I should go to the sultan and ask him to give his daughter in marriage to you? Suppose I had the impudence to present myself before the sultan, to whom should I address myself to be introduced to his majesty? Do you not think the first person I should speak to would take me for a mad woman, and chastise me as I should deserve? I know there is no difficulty to those who go to petition for justice, which the sultan distributes equally among his subjects; I know, too, that to those who ask a favour
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to know that the fruits which he had gathered when he took the lamp were, instead of coloured glass, stones of inestimable value; but he had the prudence not to mention this to any one, not even to his mother. One day as Aladdin was walking about the town, he heard an order proclaimed, commanding the people to shut up their shops and houses, and keep within doors, while the Princess Badroulboudour, the sultan's daughter, went to the baths and returned. This proclamation inspired Aladdin with eager curiosity to see the princess's face, which he could not do without admission into the house of some acquaintance, and then only through a window; but to gratify his curiosity, he presently thought of a scheme, which succeeded; it was to place himself behind the door of the bath, which was so situated that he could not fail of seeing her face. Aladdin had not waited long before the princess came, and he could see her plainly through a chink of the door without being discovered. She was attended by a great crowd of ladies, slaves, and eunuchs, who walked on each side, and behind her. When she came within three or four paces of the door of the baths, she took off her veil, and gave Aladdin an opportunity of a full view. As soon as Aladdin had seen the princess, his heart could not withstand those inclinations so charming an object always inspires. She was the most beautiful brunette in the world; her eyes were large, lively, and sparkling; her looks sweet and modest; her nose was of a just proportion and without a fault, her mouth small, her lips of a vermilion red; in a word, all the features of her face were perfectly regular. It is not therefore surprising that Aladdin, who had never before seen such a blaze of charms, was dazzled, and his senses ravished by such an assemblage. With all these perfections the princess had so majestic an air, that the sight of her was sufficient to inspire love and admiration. After the princess had passed by, and entered the baths, Aladdin remained some time astonished and in a kind of ecstasy, retracing and imprinting the idea of so charming an object deeply in his mind, but at last, he resolved to quit his hiding-place and go home. He could not so far conceal his uneasiness but that his mother perceived it, was surprised to see him so much more thoughtful than usual; and asked if he were ill? He returned her no answer, but sat carelessly down on the sofa, and remained silently musing on the image of the charming Badroulboudour. After supper, his mother asked him again why he was so melancholy, but could get no information, and he determined to go to bed rather than give her the least satisfaction. As he sat next day on the sofa, opposite his mother, however, as she was spinning cotton, he spoke to her in these words: "I perceive, mother, that my silence yesterday has much troubled you; I was not, nor am I ill; but I assure you, that what I felt then, and now endure, is worse than any disease.It was not proclaimed in this quarter of the town, and therefore you could know nothing of it, that the sultan's daughter was yesterday to go to the baths. I had a great curiosity to see her face; and as it occurred to me that when she came nigh the bath, she would pull her veil off, I resolved to conceal myself behind the door. She did so and I had the happiness of seeing her lovely face with the greatest security. This, mother, was the cause of my silence yesterday; I love the princess with more violence than I can express; and as my passion increases every moment, I am resolved to ask her in marriage of the sultan, her father." Aladdin's mother listened with interest to what her son told her; but when he talked of asking the princess in marriage, she could not help bursting out into a loud laugh. He would have gone on with his rhapsody, but she interrupted him: "Alas! child," said she, "what are you thinking of? you must be mad to talk thus." "I assure you, mother," replied Aladdin, "that I am not mad, but in my right senses; I foresaw that you would reproach me with folly and extravagance; but I must tell you once more, that I am resolved to demand the princess in marriage!" "Indeed, son," replied the mother seriously, "I cannot help telling you that you have forgotten yourself, and I do not see who will venture to make the proposal for you." "You yourself," replied he immediately. "I go to the sultan!"<|quote|>answered the mother, amazed.</|quote|>"I shall be cautious how I engage in such an errand. Why, who are you, son," continued she, "that you can have the assurance to think of your sultan's daughter? Have you forgotten that your father was one of the poorest tailors in the capital, and that I am of no better extraction; and do not you know that sultans never marry their daughters but to sons of sovereigns like themselves?" "Mother," answered Aladdin, "I foresaw all that you have said, or can say: and tell you that neither your discourse nor your remonstrances shall make me change my mind. I have told you that you must ask the princess in marriage for me. I beg of you not to refuse, unless you would rather see me in my grave, than by your compliance give me new life." The good old woman was much embarrassed, when she found Aladdin persisting in so wild a design. "My son," said she again, "I am your mother, and there is nothing that is reasonable but I would readily do for you. If I were to go and treat about your marriage with some neighbour's daughter, I would do it with all my heart; and even then they would expect you should have some little estate, or be of some trade. When such poor folks as we are wish to marry, the first thing they ought to think of, is how to live. But without reflecting on the meanness of your birth, and the little fortune you have to recommend you, you aim at the highest pitch of exaltation; and your pretensions are no less than to demand in marriage the daughter of your sovereign, who with one single word can crush you to pieces. How could so extraordinary a thought come into your head, as that I should go to the sultan and ask him to give his daughter in marriage to you? Suppose I had the impudence to present myself before the sultan, to whom should I address myself to be introduced to his majesty? Do you not think the first person I should speak to would take me for a mad woman, and chastise me as I should deserve? I know there is no difficulty to those who go to petition for justice, which the sultan distributes equally among his subjects; I know, too, that to those who ask a favour he grants it with pleasure when he sees it is deserved. But do you think you have merited the honour you would have me ask? What have you done to claim such a favour, either for your prince or country? How can I open my mouth to make the proposal to the sultan? His majestic presence and the lustre of his court would absolutely confound me. There is another reason, my son, which you do not think of, which is that nobody ever goes to ask a favour of the sultan without a present. But what presents have you to make? and what proportion could they bear to the favour you would ask? Therefore, reflect well, and consider that you aspire to an object which it is impossible for you to obtain." Aladdin heard very calmly all that his mother could say to dissuade him from his design, and after he had weighed her representations replied: "I own, mother, it is great rashness in me to presume to carry my pretensions so far; and a great want of consideration to ask you to go and make the proposal to the sultan, without first taking proper measures to procure a favourable reception, and I therefore beg your pardon. But be not surprised that I did not at first see every measure necessary to procure me the happiness I seek. I love the princess, and shall always persevere in my design of marrying her. I am obliged to you for the hint you have given me, and look upon it as the first step I ought to take to procure the happy issue I promise myself.You say it is not customary to go to the sultan without a present, and that I have nothing worthy of his acceptance. Do not you think, mother, that what I brought home with me the day on which I was delivered from death may be an acceptable present? I mean those things that you and I both took for coloured glass: but now I can tell you that they are jewels of inestimable value. I know the worth of them by frequenting the shops; and you may take my word that all the precious stones which I saw in the jewellers' shops were not to be compared to those we have, either for size or beauty; I am persuaded that they will be received very favourably
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veil off, I resolved to conceal myself behind the door. She did so and I had the happiness of seeing her lovely face with the greatest security. This, mother, was the cause of my silence yesterday; I love the princess with more violence than I can express; and as my passion increases every moment, I am resolved to ask her in marriage of the sultan, her father." Aladdin's mother listened with interest to what her son told her; but when he talked of asking the princess in marriage, she could not help bursting out into a loud laugh. He would have gone on with his rhapsody, but she interrupted him: "Alas! child," said she, "what are you thinking of? you must be mad to talk thus." "I assure you, mother," replied Aladdin, "that I am not mad, but in my right senses; I foresaw that you would reproach me with folly and extravagance; but I must tell you once more, that I am resolved to demand the princess in marriage!" "Indeed, son," replied the mother seriously, "I cannot help telling you that you have forgotten yourself, and I do not see who will venture to make the proposal for you." "You yourself," replied he immediately. "I go to the sultan!"<|quote|>answered the mother, amazed.</|quote|>"I shall be cautious how I engage in such an errand. Why, who are you, son," continued she, "that you can have the assurance to think of your sultan's daughter? Have you forgotten that your father was one of the poorest tailors in the capital, and that I am of no better extraction; and do not you know that sultans never marry their daughters but to sons of sovereigns like themselves?" "Mother," answered Aladdin, "I foresaw all that you have said, or can say: and tell you that neither your discourse nor your remonstrances shall make me change my mind. I have told you that you must ask the princess in marriage for me. I beg of you not to refuse, unless you would rather see me in my grave, than by your compliance give me new life." The good old woman was much embarrassed, when she found Aladdin persisting in so wild a design. "My son," said she again, "I am your mother, and there is nothing that is reasonable but I would readily do for you. If I were to go and treat about your marriage with some neighbour's daughter, I would do it with all my heart; and even then they would expect you should have some little estate, or be of some trade. When such poor folks as we are wish to marry, the first thing they ought to think of, is how to live. But without reflecting on the meanness of your birth, and the little fortune you have to recommend you, you aim at the highest pitch of exaltation; and your pretensions are no less than to demand in marriage the daughter of your
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Arabian Nights (4)
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"He don t want no help, he says,"
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Mr. Hall
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limited to express his impressions.<|quote|>"He don t want no help, he says,"</|quote|>he said in answer to
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his vocabulary was altogether too limited to express his impressions.<|quote|>"He don t want no help, he says,"</|quote|>he said in answer to his wife s inquiry. "We
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" Tasn t right _have_ such dargs"; "Whad _e_ bite n for, then?" and so forth. Mr. Hall, staring at them from the steps and listening, found it incredible that he had seen anything so very remarkable happen upstairs. Besides, his vocabulary was altogether too limited to express his impressions.<|quote|>"He don t want no help, he says,"</|quote|>he said in answer to his wife s inquiry. "We d better be a-takin of his luggage in." "He ought to have it cauterised at once," said Mr. Huxter; "especially if it s at all inflamed." "I d shoot en, that s what I d do," said a lady in
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was Mrs. Hall saying his dog didn t have no business to bite her guests; there was Huxter, the general dealer from over the road, interrogative; and Sandy Wadgers from the forge, judicial; besides women and children, all of them saying fatuities: "Wouldn t let en bite _me_, I knows"; " Tasn t right _have_ such dargs"; "Whad _e_ bite n for, then?" and so forth. Mr. Hall, staring at them from the steps and listening, found it incredible that he had seen anything so very remarkable happen upstairs. Besides, his vocabulary was altogether too limited to express his impressions.<|quote|>"He don t want no help, he says,"</|quote|>he said in answer to his wife s inquiry. "We d better be a-takin of his luggage in." "He ought to have it cauterised at once," said Mr. Huxter; "especially if it s at all inflamed." "I d shoot en, that s what I d do," said a lady in the group. Suddenly the dog began growling again. "Come along," cried an angry voice in the doorway, and there stood the muffled stranger with his collar turned up, and his hat-brim bent down. "The sooner you get those things in the better I ll be pleased." It is stated by
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on white, very like the face of a pale pansy. Then he was struck violently in the chest, hurled back, and the door slammed in his face and locked. It was so rapid that it gave him no time to observe. A waving of indecipherable shapes, a blow, and a concussion. There he stood on the dark little landing, wondering what it might be that he had seen. A couple of minutes after, he rejoined the little group that had formed outside the "Coach and Horses." There was Fearenside telling about it all over again for the second time; there was Mrs. Hall saying his dog didn t have no business to bite her guests; there was Huxter, the general dealer from over the road, interrogative; and Sandy Wadgers from the forge, judicial; besides women and children, all of them saying fatuities: "Wouldn t let en bite _me_, I knows"; " Tasn t right _have_ such dargs"; "Whad _e_ bite n for, then?" and so forth. Mr. Hall, staring at them from the steps and listening, found it incredible that he had seen anything so very remarkable happen upstairs. Besides, his vocabulary was altogether too limited to express his impressions.<|quote|>"He don t want no help, he says,"</|quote|>he said in answer to his wife s inquiry. "We d better be a-takin of his luggage in." "He ought to have it cauterised at once," said Mr. Huxter; "especially if it s at all inflamed." "I d shoot en, that s what I d do," said a lady in the group. Suddenly the dog began growling again. "Come along," cried an angry voice in the doorway, and there stood the muffled stranger with his collar turned up, and his hat-brim bent down. "The sooner you get those things in the better I ll be pleased." It is stated by an anonymous bystander that his trousers and gloves had been changed. "Was you hurt, sir?" said Fearenside. "I m rare sorry the darg" "Not a bit," said the stranger. "Never broke the skin. Hurry up with those things." He then swore to himself, so Mr. Hall asserts. Directly the first crate was, in accordance with his directions, carried into the parlour, the stranger flung himself upon it with extraordinary eagerness, and began to unpack it, scattering the straw with an utter disregard of Mrs. Hall s carpet. And from it he began to produce bottles little fat bottles containing powders,
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with dismay, retreated under the wheels of the waggon. It was all the business of a swift half-minute. No one spoke, everyone shouted. The stranger glanced swiftly at his torn glove and at his leg, made as if he would stoop to the latter, then turned and rushed swiftly up the steps into the inn. They heard him go headlong across the passage and up the uncarpeted stairs to his bedroom. "You brute, you!" said Fearenside, climbing off the waggon with his whip in his hand, while the dog watched him through the wheel. "Come here," said Fearenside "You d better." Hall had stood gaping. "He wuz bit," said Hall. "I d better go and see to en," and he trotted after the stranger. He met Mrs. Hall in the passage. "Carrier s darg," he said "bit en." He went straight upstairs, and the stranger s door being ajar, he pushed it open and was entering without any ceremony, being of a naturally sympathetic turn of mind. The blind was down and the room dim. He caught a glimpse of a most singular thing, what seemed a handless arm waving towards him, and a face of three huge indeterminate spots on white, very like the face of a pale pansy. Then he was struck violently in the chest, hurled back, and the door slammed in his face and locked. It was so rapid that it gave him no time to observe. A waving of indecipherable shapes, a blow, and a concussion. There he stood on the dark little landing, wondering what it might be that he had seen. A couple of minutes after, he rejoined the little group that had formed outside the "Coach and Horses." There was Fearenside telling about it all over again for the second time; there was Mrs. Hall saying his dog didn t have no business to bite her guests; there was Huxter, the general dealer from over the road, interrogative; and Sandy Wadgers from the forge, judicial; besides women and children, all of them saying fatuities: "Wouldn t let en bite _me_, I knows"; " Tasn t right _have_ such dargs"; "Whad _e_ bite n for, then?" and so forth. Mr. Hall, staring at them from the steps and listening, found it incredible that he had seen anything so very remarkable happen upstairs. Besides, his vocabulary was altogether too limited to express his impressions.<|quote|>"He don t want no help, he says,"</|quote|>he said in answer to his wife s inquiry. "We d better be a-takin of his luggage in." "He ought to have it cauterised at once," said Mr. Huxter; "especially if it s at all inflamed." "I d shoot en, that s what I d do," said a lady in the group. Suddenly the dog began growling again. "Come along," cried an angry voice in the doorway, and there stood the muffled stranger with his collar turned up, and his hat-brim bent down. "The sooner you get those things in the better I ll be pleased." It is stated by an anonymous bystander that his trousers and gloves had been changed. "Was you hurt, sir?" said Fearenside. "I m rare sorry the darg" "Not a bit," said the stranger. "Never broke the skin. Hurry up with those things." He then swore to himself, so Mr. Hall asserts. Directly the first crate was, in accordance with his directions, carried into the parlour, the stranger flung himself upon it with extraordinary eagerness, and began to unpack it, scattering the straw with an utter disregard of Mrs. Hall s carpet. And from it he began to produce bottles little fat bottles containing powders, small and slender bottles containing coloured and white fluids, fluted blue bottles labeled Poison, bottles with round bodies and slender necks, large green-glass bottles, large white-glass bottles, bottles with glass stoppers and frosted labels, bottles with fine corks, bottles with bungs, bottles with wooden caps, wine bottles, salad-oil bottles putting them in rows on the chiffonnier, on the mantel, on the table under the window, round the floor, on the bookshelf everywhere. The chemist s shop in Bramblehurst could not boast half so many. Quite a sight it was. Crate after crate yielded bottles, until all six were empty and the table high with straw; the only things that came out of these crates besides the bottles were a number of test-tubes and a carefully packed balance. And directly the crates were unpacked, the stranger went to the window and set to work, not troubling in the least about the litter of straw, the fire which had gone out, the box of books outside, nor for the trunks and other luggage that had gone upstairs. When Mrs. Hall took his dinner in to him, he was already so absorbed in his work, pouring little drops out of the bottles into
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own business, Hall," said Mrs. Hall, "and I ll mind mine." She was all the more inclined to snap at Hall because the stranger was undoubtedly an unusually strange sort of stranger, and she was by no means assured about him in her own mind. In the middle of the night she woke up dreaming of huge white heads like turnips, that came trailing after her, at the end of interminable necks, and with vast black eyes. But being a sensible woman, she subdued her terrors and turned over and went to sleep again. CHAPTER III. THE THOUSAND AND ONE BOTTLES So it was that on the twenty-ninth day of February, at the beginning of the thaw, this singular person fell out of infinity into Iping village. Next day his luggage arrived through the slush and very remarkable luggage it was. There were a couple of trunks indeed, such as a rational man might need, but in addition there were a box of books big, fat books, of which some were just in an incomprehensible handwriting and a dozen or more crates, boxes, and cases, containing objects packed in straw, as it seemed to Hall, tugging with a casual curiosity at the straw glass bottles. The stranger, muffled in hat, coat, gloves, and wrapper, came out impatiently to meet Fearenside s cart, while Hall was having a word or so of gossip preparatory to helping bring them in. Out he came, not noticing Fearenside s dog, who was sniffing in a _dilettante_ spirit at Hall s legs. "Come along with those boxes," he said. "I ve been waiting long enough." And he came down the steps towards the tail of the cart as if to lay hands on the smaller crate. No sooner had Fearenside s dog caught sight of him, however, than it began to bristle and growl savagely, and when he rushed down the steps it gave an undecided hop, and then sprang straight at his hand. "Whup!" cried Hall, jumping back, for he was no hero with dogs, and Fearenside howled, "Lie down!" and snatched his whip. They saw the dog s teeth had slipped the hand, heard a kick, saw the dog execute a flanking jump and get home on the stranger s leg, and heard the rip of his trousering. Then the finer end of Fearenside s whip reached his property, and the dog, yelping with dismay, retreated under the wheels of the waggon. It was all the business of a swift half-minute. No one spoke, everyone shouted. The stranger glanced swiftly at his torn glove and at his leg, made as if he would stoop to the latter, then turned and rushed swiftly up the steps into the inn. They heard him go headlong across the passage and up the uncarpeted stairs to his bedroom. "You brute, you!" said Fearenside, climbing off the waggon with his whip in his hand, while the dog watched him through the wheel. "Come here," said Fearenside "You d better." Hall had stood gaping. "He wuz bit," said Hall. "I d better go and see to en," and he trotted after the stranger. He met Mrs. Hall in the passage. "Carrier s darg," he said "bit en." He went straight upstairs, and the stranger s door being ajar, he pushed it open and was entering without any ceremony, being of a naturally sympathetic turn of mind. The blind was down and the room dim. He caught a glimpse of a most singular thing, what seemed a handless arm waving towards him, and a face of three huge indeterminate spots on white, very like the face of a pale pansy. Then he was struck violently in the chest, hurled back, and the door slammed in his face and locked. It was so rapid that it gave him no time to observe. A waving of indecipherable shapes, a blow, and a concussion. There he stood on the dark little landing, wondering what it might be that he had seen. A couple of minutes after, he rejoined the little group that had formed outside the "Coach and Horses." There was Fearenside telling about it all over again for the second time; there was Mrs. Hall saying his dog didn t have no business to bite her guests; there was Huxter, the general dealer from over the road, interrogative; and Sandy Wadgers from the forge, judicial; besides women and children, all of them saying fatuities: "Wouldn t let en bite _me_, I knows"; " Tasn t right _have_ such dargs"; "Whad _e_ bite n for, then?" and so forth. Mr. Hall, staring at them from the steps and listening, found it incredible that he had seen anything so very remarkable happen upstairs. Besides, his vocabulary was altogether too limited to express his impressions.<|quote|>"He don t want no help, he says,"</|quote|>he said in answer to his wife s inquiry. "We d better be a-takin of his luggage in." "He ought to have it cauterised at once," said Mr. Huxter; "especially if it s at all inflamed." "I d shoot en, that s what I d do," said a lady in the group. Suddenly the dog began growling again. "Come along," cried an angry voice in the doorway, and there stood the muffled stranger with his collar turned up, and his hat-brim bent down. "The sooner you get those things in the better I ll be pleased." It is stated by an anonymous bystander that his trousers and gloves had been changed. "Was you hurt, sir?" said Fearenside. "I m rare sorry the darg" "Not a bit," said the stranger. "Never broke the skin. Hurry up with those things." He then swore to himself, so Mr. Hall asserts. Directly the first crate was, in accordance with his directions, carried into the parlour, the stranger flung himself upon it with extraordinary eagerness, and began to unpack it, scattering the straw with an utter disregard of Mrs. Hall s carpet. And from it he began to produce bottles little fat bottles containing powders, small and slender bottles containing coloured and white fluids, fluted blue bottles labeled Poison, bottles with round bodies and slender necks, large green-glass bottles, large white-glass bottles, bottles with glass stoppers and frosted labels, bottles with fine corks, bottles with bungs, bottles with wooden caps, wine bottles, salad-oil bottles putting them in rows on the chiffonnier, on the mantel, on the table under the window, round the floor, on the bookshelf everywhere. The chemist s shop in Bramblehurst could not boast half so many. Quite a sight it was. Crate after crate yielded bottles, until all six were empty and the table high with straw; the only things that came out of these crates besides the bottles were a number of test-tubes and a carefully packed balance. And directly the crates were unpacked, the stranger went to the window and set to work, not troubling in the least about the litter of straw, the fire which had gone out, the box of books outside, nor for the trunks and other luggage that had gone upstairs. When Mrs. Hall took his dinner in to him, he was already so absorbed in his work, pouring little drops out of the bottles into test-tubes, that he did not hear her until she had swept away the bulk of the straw and put the tray on the table, with some little emphasis perhaps, seeing the state that the floor was in. Then he half turned his head and immediately turned it away again. But she saw he had removed his glasses; they were beside him on the table, and it seemed to her that his eye sockets were extraordinarily hollow. He put on his spectacles again, and then turned and faced her. She was about to complain of the straw on the floor when he anticipated her. "I wish you wouldn t come in without knocking," he said in the tone of abnormal exasperation that seemed so characteristic of him. "I knocked, but seemingly" "Perhaps you did. But in my investigations my really very urgent and necessary investigations the slightest disturbance, the jar of a door I must ask you" "Certainly, sir. You can turn the lock if you re like that, you know. Any time." "A very good idea," said the stranger. "This stror, sir, if I might make so bold as to remark" "Don t. If the straw makes trouble put it down in the bill." And he mumbled at her words suspiciously like curses. He was so odd, standing there, so aggressive and explosive, bottle in one hand and test-tube in the other, that Mrs. Hall was quite alarmed. But she was a resolute woman. "In which case, I should like to know, sir, what you consider" "A shilling put down a shilling. Surely a shilling s enough?" "So be it," said Mrs. Hall, taking up the table-cloth and beginning to spread it over the table. "If you re satisfied, of course" He turned and sat down, with his coat-collar toward her. All the afternoon he worked with the door locked and, as Mrs. Hall testifies, for the most part in silence. But once there was a concussion and a sound of bottles ringing together as though the table had been hit, and the smash of a bottle flung violently down, and then a rapid pacing athwart the room. Fearing "something was the matter," she went to the door and listened, not caring to knock. "I can t go on," he was raving. "I _can t_ go on. Three hundred thousand, four hundred thousand! The huge multitude! Cheated! All my life
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down the steps it gave an undecided hop, and then sprang straight at his hand. "Whup!" cried Hall, jumping back, for he was no hero with dogs, and Fearenside howled, "Lie down!" and snatched his whip. They saw the dog s teeth had slipped the hand, heard a kick, saw the dog execute a flanking jump and get home on the stranger s leg, and heard the rip of his trousering. Then the finer end of Fearenside s whip reached his property, and the dog, yelping with dismay, retreated under the wheels of the waggon. It was all the business of a swift half-minute. No one spoke, everyone shouted. The stranger glanced swiftly at his torn glove and at his leg, made as if he would stoop to the latter, then turned and rushed swiftly up the steps into the inn. They heard him go headlong across the passage and up the uncarpeted stairs to his bedroom. "You brute, you!" said Fearenside, climbing off the waggon with his whip in his hand, while the dog watched him through the wheel. "Come here," said Fearenside "You d better." Hall had stood gaping. "He wuz bit," said Hall. "I d better go and see to en," and he trotted after the stranger. He met Mrs. Hall in the passage. "Carrier s darg," he said "bit en." He went straight upstairs, and the stranger s door being ajar, he pushed it open and was entering without any ceremony, being of a naturally sympathetic turn of mind. The blind was down and the room dim. He caught a glimpse of a most singular thing, what seemed a handless arm waving towards him, and a face of three huge indeterminate spots on white, very like the face of a pale pansy. Then he was struck violently in the chest, hurled back, and the door slammed in his face and locked. It was so rapid that it gave him no time to observe. A waving of indecipherable shapes, a blow, and a concussion. There he stood on the dark little landing, wondering what it might be that he had seen. A couple of minutes after, he rejoined the little group that had formed outside the "Coach and Horses." There was Fearenside telling about it all over again for the second time; there was Mrs. Hall saying his dog didn t have no business to bite her guests; there was Huxter, the general dealer from over the road, interrogative; and Sandy Wadgers from the forge, judicial; besides women and children, all of them saying fatuities: "Wouldn t let en bite _me_, I knows"; " Tasn t right _have_ such dargs"; "Whad _e_ bite n for, then?" and so forth. Mr. Hall, staring at them from the steps and listening, found it incredible that he had seen anything so very remarkable happen upstairs. Besides, his vocabulary was altogether too limited to express his impressions.<|quote|>"He don t want no help, he says,"</|quote|>he said in answer to his wife s inquiry. "We d better be a-takin of his luggage in." "He ought to have it cauterised at once," said Mr. Huxter; "especially if it s at all inflamed." "I d shoot en, that s what I d do," said a lady in the group. Suddenly the dog began growling again. "Come along," cried an angry voice in the doorway, and there stood the muffled stranger with his collar turned up, and his hat-brim bent down. "The sooner you get those things in the better I ll be pleased." It is stated by an anonymous bystander that his trousers and gloves had been changed. "Was you hurt, sir?" said Fearenside. "I m rare sorry the darg" "Not a bit," said the stranger. "Never broke the skin. Hurry up with those things." He then swore to himself, so Mr. Hall asserts. Directly the first crate was, in accordance with his directions, carried into the parlour, the stranger flung himself upon it with extraordinary eagerness, and began to unpack it, scattering the straw with an utter disregard of Mrs. Hall s carpet. And from it he began to produce bottles little fat bottles containing powders, small and slender bottles containing coloured and white fluids, fluted blue bottles labeled Poison, bottles with round bodies and slender necks, large green-glass bottles, large white-glass bottles, bottles with glass stoppers and frosted labels, bottles with fine corks, bottles with bungs, bottles with wooden caps, wine bottles, salad-oil bottles putting them in rows on the chiffonnier, on the mantel, on the table under the
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The Invisible Man
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So they walked on down the Tottenham Court Road, parting and coming together again, and Ralph felt much as though he were addressing the summit of a poplar in a high gale of wind.
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No speaker
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wouldn t do at all."<|quote|>So they walked on down the Tottenham Court Road, parting and coming together again, and Ralph felt much as though he were addressing the summit of a poplar in a high gale of wind.</|quote|>"Suppose we get on to
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them?" "Oh dear no that wouldn t do at all."<|quote|>So they walked on down the Tottenham Court Road, parting and coming together again, and Ralph felt much as though he were addressing the summit of a poplar in a high gale of wind.</|quote|>"Suppose we get on to that omnibus?" he suggested. Katharine
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She s responsible for it, I suppose?" "Yes. The others don t help at all.... Has she made a convert of you?" "Oh no. That is, I m a convert already." "But she hasn t persuaded you to work for them?" "Oh dear no that wouldn t do at all."<|quote|>So they walked on down the Tottenham Court Road, parting and coming together again, and Ralph felt much as though he were addressing the summit of a poplar in a high gale of wind.</|quote|>"Suppose we get on to that omnibus?" he suggested. Katharine acquiesced, and they climbed up, and found themselves alone on top of it. "But which way are you going?" Katharine asked, waking a little from the trance into which movement among moving things had thrown her. "I m going to
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fast, and the effect of people passing in the opposite direction was to produce a queer dizziness both in her head and in Ralph s, which set their bodies far apart. But she did her duty by her companion almost unconsciously. "Mary Datchet does that sort of work very well.... She s responsible for it, I suppose?" "Yes. The others don t help at all.... Has she made a convert of you?" "Oh no. That is, I m a convert already." "But she hasn t persuaded you to work for them?" "Oh dear no that wouldn t do at all."<|quote|>So they walked on down the Tottenham Court Road, parting and coming together again, and Ralph felt much as though he were addressing the summit of a poplar in a high gale of wind.</|quote|>"Suppose we get on to that omnibus?" he suggested. Katharine acquiesced, and they climbed up, and found themselves alone on top of it. "But which way are you going?" Katharine asked, waking a little from the trance into which movement among moving things had thrown her. "I m going to the Temple," Ralph replied, inventing a destination on the spur of the moment. He felt the change come over her as they sat down and the omnibus began to move forward. He imagined her contemplating the avenue in front of them with those honest sad eyes which seemed to set
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which rushed down the streets outside. She may have been conscious that there was some exaggeration in this fancy of hers, for she certainly did not wish to share it with Ralph. To him, she supposed, Mary Datchet, composing leaflets for Cabinet Ministers among her typewriters, represented all that was interesting and genuine; and, accordingly, she shut them both out from all share in the crowded street, with its pendant necklace of lamps, its lighted windows, and its throng of men and women, which exhilarated her to such an extent that she very nearly forgot her companion. She walked very fast, and the effect of people passing in the opposite direction was to produce a queer dizziness both in her head and in Ralph s, which set their bodies far apart. But she did her duty by her companion almost unconsciously. "Mary Datchet does that sort of work very well.... She s responsible for it, I suppose?" "Yes. The others don t help at all.... Has she made a convert of you?" "Oh no. That is, I m a convert already." "But she hasn t persuaded you to work for them?" "Oh dear no that wouldn t do at all."<|quote|>So they walked on down the Tottenham Court Road, parting and coming together again, and Ralph felt much as though he were addressing the summit of a poplar in a high gale of wind.</|quote|>"Suppose we get on to that omnibus?" he suggested. Katharine acquiesced, and they climbed up, and found themselves alone on top of it. "But which way are you going?" Katharine asked, waking a little from the trance into which movement among moving things had thrown her. "I m going to the Temple," Ralph replied, inventing a destination on the spur of the moment. He felt the change come over her as they sat down and the omnibus began to move forward. He imagined her contemplating the avenue in front of them with those honest sad eyes which seemed to set him at such a distance from them. But the breeze was blowing in their faces; it lifted her hat for a second, and she drew out a pin and stuck it in again, a little action which seemed, for some reason, to make her rather more fallible. Ah, if only her hat would blow off, and leave her altogether disheveled, accepting it from his hands! "This is like Venice," she observed, raising her hand. "The motor-cars, I mean, shooting about so quickly, with their lights." "I ve never seen Venice," he replied. "I keep that and some other things for
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at all, so that when he met her he was bewildered by the fact that she had nothing to do with his dream of her. When, on reaching the street, Katharine found that Mr. Denham proceeded to keep pace by her side, she was surprised and, perhaps, a little annoyed. She, too, had her margin of imagination, and to-night her activity in this obscure region of the mind required solitude. If she had had her way, she would have walked very fast down the Tottenham Court Road, and then sprung into a cab and raced swiftly home. The view she had had of the inside of an office was of the nature of a dream to her. Shut off up there, she compared Mrs. Seal, and Mary Datchet, and Mr. Clacton to enchanted people in a bewitched tower, with the spiders webs looping across the corners of the room, and all the tools of the necromancer s craft at hand; for so aloof and unreal and apart from the normal world did they seem to her, in the house of innumerable typewriters, murmuring their incantations and concocting their drugs, and flinging their frail spiders webs over the torrent of life which rushed down the streets outside. She may have been conscious that there was some exaggeration in this fancy of hers, for she certainly did not wish to share it with Ralph. To him, she supposed, Mary Datchet, composing leaflets for Cabinet Ministers among her typewriters, represented all that was interesting and genuine; and, accordingly, she shut them both out from all share in the crowded street, with its pendant necklace of lamps, its lighted windows, and its throng of men and women, which exhilarated her to such an extent that she very nearly forgot her companion. She walked very fast, and the effect of people passing in the opposite direction was to produce a queer dizziness both in her head and in Ralph s, which set their bodies far apart. But she did her duty by her companion almost unconsciously. "Mary Datchet does that sort of work very well.... She s responsible for it, I suppose?" "Yes. The others don t help at all.... Has she made a convert of you?" "Oh no. That is, I m a convert already." "But she hasn t persuaded you to work for them?" "Oh dear no that wouldn t do at all."<|quote|>So they walked on down the Tottenham Court Road, parting and coming together again, and Ralph felt much as though he were addressing the summit of a poplar in a high gale of wind.</|quote|>"Suppose we get on to that omnibus?" he suggested. Katharine acquiesced, and they climbed up, and found themselves alone on top of it. "But which way are you going?" Katharine asked, waking a little from the trance into which movement among moving things had thrown her. "I m going to the Temple," Ralph replied, inventing a destination on the spur of the moment. He felt the change come over her as they sat down and the omnibus began to move forward. He imagined her contemplating the avenue in front of them with those honest sad eyes which seemed to set him at such a distance from them. But the breeze was blowing in their faces; it lifted her hat for a second, and she drew out a pin and stuck it in again, a little action which seemed, for some reason, to make her rather more fallible. Ah, if only her hat would blow off, and leave her altogether disheveled, accepting it from his hands! "This is like Venice," she observed, raising her hand. "The motor-cars, I mean, shooting about so quickly, with their lights." "I ve never seen Venice," he replied. "I keep that and some other things for my old age." "What are the other things?" she asked. "There s Venice and India and, I think, Dante, too." She laughed. "Think of providing for one s old age! And would you refuse to see Venice if you had the chance?" Instead of answering her, he wondered whether he should tell her something that was quite true about himself; and as he wondered, he told her. "I ve planned out my life in sections ever since I was a child, to make it last longer. You see, I m always afraid that I m missing something" "And so am I!" Katharine exclaimed. "But, after all," she added, "why should you miss anything?" "Why? Because I m poor, for one thing," Ralph rejoined. "You, I suppose, can have Venice and India and Dante every day of your life." She said nothing for a moment, but rested one hand, which was bare of glove, upon the rail in front of her, meditating upon a variety of things, of which one was that this strange young man pronounced Dante as she was used to hearing it pronounced, and another, that he had, most unexpectedly, a feeling about life that was familiar to
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of the office, as if she included them all in her rather malicious amusement, which caused Mary to keep her eyes on her straightly and rather fiercely, as if she were a gay-plumed, mischievous bird, who might light on the topmost bough and pick off the ruddiest cherry, without any warning. Two women less like each other could scarcely be imagined, Ralph thought, looking from one to the other. Next moment, he too, rose, and nodding to Mary, as Katharine said good-bye, opened the door for her, and followed her out. Mary sat still and made no attempt to prevent them from going. For a second or two after the door had shut on them her eyes rested on the door with a straightforward fierceness in which, for a moment, a certain degree of bewilderment seemed to enter; but, after a brief hesitation, she put down her cup and proceeded to clear away the tea-things. The impulse which had driven Ralph to take this action was the result of a very swift little piece of reasoning, and thus, perhaps, was not quite so much of an impulse as it seemed. It passed through his mind that if he missed this chance of talking to Katharine, he would have to face an enraged ghost, when he was alone in his room again, demanding an explanation of his cowardly indecision. It was better, on the whole, to risk present discomfiture than to waste an evening bandying excuses and constructing impossible scenes with this uncompromising section of himself. For ever since he had visited the Hilberys he had been much at the mercy of a phantom Katharine, who came to him when he sat alone, and answered him as he would have her answer, and was always beside him to crown those varying triumphs which were transacted almost every night, in imaginary scenes, as he walked through the lamplit streets home from the office. To walk with Katharine in the flesh would either feed that phantom with fresh food, which, as all who nourish dreams are aware, is a process that becomes necessary from time to time, or refine it to such a degree of thinness that it was scarcely serviceable any longer; and that, too, is sometimes a welcome change to a dreamer. And all the time Ralph was well aware that the bulk of Katharine was not represented in his dreams at all, so that when he met her he was bewildered by the fact that she had nothing to do with his dream of her. When, on reaching the street, Katharine found that Mr. Denham proceeded to keep pace by her side, she was surprised and, perhaps, a little annoyed. She, too, had her margin of imagination, and to-night her activity in this obscure region of the mind required solitude. If she had had her way, she would have walked very fast down the Tottenham Court Road, and then sprung into a cab and raced swiftly home. The view she had had of the inside of an office was of the nature of a dream to her. Shut off up there, she compared Mrs. Seal, and Mary Datchet, and Mr. Clacton to enchanted people in a bewitched tower, with the spiders webs looping across the corners of the room, and all the tools of the necromancer s craft at hand; for so aloof and unreal and apart from the normal world did they seem to her, in the house of innumerable typewriters, murmuring their incantations and concocting their drugs, and flinging their frail spiders webs over the torrent of life which rushed down the streets outside. She may have been conscious that there was some exaggeration in this fancy of hers, for she certainly did not wish to share it with Ralph. To him, she supposed, Mary Datchet, composing leaflets for Cabinet Ministers among her typewriters, represented all that was interesting and genuine; and, accordingly, she shut them both out from all share in the crowded street, with its pendant necklace of lamps, its lighted windows, and its throng of men and women, which exhilarated her to such an extent that she very nearly forgot her companion. She walked very fast, and the effect of people passing in the opposite direction was to produce a queer dizziness both in her head and in Ralph s, which set their bodies far apart. But she did her duty by her companion almost unconsciously. "Mary Datchet does that sort of work very well.... She s responsible for it, I suppose?" "Yes. The others don t help at all.... Has she made a convert of you?" "Oh no. That is, I m a convert already." "But she hasn t persuaded you to work for them?" "Oh dear no that wouldn t do at all."<|quote|>So they walked on down the Tottenham Court Road, parting and coming together again, and Ralph felt much as though he were addressing the summit of a poplar in a high gale of wind.</|quote|>"Suppose we get on to that omnibus?" he suggested. Katharine acquiesced, and they climbed up, and found themselves alone on top of it. "But which way are you going?" Katharine asked, waking a little from the trance into which movement among moving things had thrown her. "I m going to the Temple," Ralph replied, inventing a destination on the spur of the moment. He felt the change come over her as they sat down and the omnibus began to move forward. He imagined her contemplating the avenue in front of them with those honest sad eyes which seemed to set him at such a distance from them. But the breeze was blowing in their faces; it lifted her hat for a second, and she drew out a pin and stuck it in again, a little action which seemed, for some reason, to make her rather more fallible. Ah, if only her hat would blow off, and leave her altogether disheveled, accepting it from his hands! "This is like Venice," she observed, raising her hand. "The motor-cars, I mean, shooting about so quickly, with their lights." "I ve never seen Venice," he replied. "I keep that and some other things for my old age." "What are the other things?" she asked. "There s Venice and India and, I think, Dante, too." She laughed. "Think of providing for one s old age! And would you refuse to see Venice if you had the chance?" Instead of answering her, he wondered whether he should tell her something that was quite true about himself; and as he wondered, he told her. "I ve planned out my life in sections ever since I was a child, to make it last longer. You see, I m always afraid that I m missing something" "And so am I!" Katharine exclaimed. "But, after all," she added, "why should you miss anything?" "Why? Because I m poor, for one thing," Ralph rejoined. "You, I suppose, can have Venice and India and Dante every day of your life." She said nothing for a moment, but rested one hand, which was bare of glove, upon the rail in front of her, meditating upon a variety of things, of which one was that this strange young man pronounced Dante as she was used to hearing it pronounced, and another, that he had, most unexpectedly, a feeling about life that was familiar to her. Perhaps, then, he was the sort of person she might take an interest in, if she came to know him better, and as she had placed him among those whom she would never want to know better, this was enough to make her silent. She hastily recalled her first view of him, in the little room where the relics were kept, and ran a bar through half her impressions, as one cancels a badly written sentence, having found the right one. "But to know that one might have things doesn t alter the fact that one hasn t got them," she said, in some confusion. "How could I go to India, for example? Besides," she began impulsively, and stopped herself. Here the conductor came round, and interrupted them. Ralph waited for her to resume her sentence, but she said no more. "I have a message to give your father," he remarked. "Perhaps you would give it him, or I could come" "Yes, do come," Katharine replied. "Still, I don t see why you shouldn t go to India," Ralph began, in order to keep her from rising, as she threatened to do. But she got up in spite of him, and said good-bye with her usual air of decision, and left him with a quickness which Ralph connected now with all her movements. He looked down and saw her standing on the pavement edge, an alert, commanding figure, which waited its season to cross, and then walked boldly and swiftly to the other side. That gesture and action would be added to the picture he had of her, but at present the real woman completely routed the phantom one. CHAPTER VII "And little Augustus Pelham said to me," It s the younger generation knocking at the door, "and I said to him," Oh, but the younger generation comes in without knocking, Mr. Pelham. "Such a feeble little joke, wasn t it, but down it went into his notebook all the same."" "Let us congratulate ourselves that we shall be in the grave before that work is published," said Mr. Hilbery. The elderly couple were waiting for the dinner-bell to ring and for their daughter to come into the room. Their arm-chairs were drawn up on either side of the fire, and each sat in the same slightly crouched position, looking into the coals, with the expressions of people who
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walked very fast down the Tottenham Court Road, and then sprung into a cab and raced swiftly home. The view she had had of the inside of an office was of the nature of a dream to her. Shut off up there, she compared Mrs. Seal, and Mary Datchet, and Mr. Clacton to enchanted people in a bewitched tower, with the spiders webs looping across the corners of the room, and all the tools of the necromancer s craft at hand; for so aloof and unreal and apart from the normal world did they seem to her, in the house of innumerable typewriters, murmuring their incantations and concocting their drugs, and flinging their frail spiders webs over the torrent of life which rushed down the streets outside. She may have been conscious that there was some exaggeration in this fancy of hers, for she certainly did not wish to share it with Ralph. To him, she supposed, Mary Datchet, composing leaflets for Cabinet Ministers among her typewriters, represented all that was interesting and genuine; and, accordingly, she shut them both out from all share in the crowded street, with its pendant necklace of lamps, its lighted windows, and its throng of men and women, which exhilarated her to such an extent that she very nearly forgot her companion. She walked very fast, and the effect of people passing in the opposite direction was to produce a queer dizziness both in her head and in Ralph s, which set their bodies far apart. But she did her duty by her companion almost unconsciously. "Mary Datchet does that sort of work very well.... She s responsible for it, I suppose?" "Yes. The others don t help at all.... Has she made a convert of you?" "Oh no. That is, I m a convert already." "But she hasn t persuaded you to work for them?" "Oh dear no that wouldn t do at all."<|quote|>So they walked on down the Tottenham Court Road, parting and coming together again, and Ralph felt much as though he were addressing the summit of a poplar in a high gale of wind.</|quote|>"Suppose we get on to that omnibus?" he suggested. Katharine acquiesced, and they climbed up, and found themselves alone on top of it. "But which way are you going?" Katharine asked, waking a little from the trance into which movement among moving things had thrown her. "I m going to the Temple," Ralph replied, inventing a destination on the spur of the moment. He felt the change come over her as they sat down and the omnibus began to move forward. He imagined her contemplating the avenue in front of them with those honest sad eyes which seemed to set him at such a distance from them. But the breeze was blowing in their faces; it lifted her hat for a second, and she drew out a pin and stuck it in again, a little action which seemed, for some reason, to make her rather more fallible. Ah, if only her hat would blow off, and leave her altogether disheveled, accepting it from his hands! "This is like Venice," she observed, raising her hand. "The motor-cars, I mean, shooting about so quickly, with their lights." "I ve never seen Venice," he replied. "I keep that and some other things for my old age." "What are the other things?" she asked. "There s Venice and India and, I think, Dante, too." She laughed. "Think of providing for one s old age! And would you refuse to see Venice if you had the chance?" Instead of answering her, he wondered whether he should tell her something that was quite true about himself; and as he wondered, he told her. "I ve planned out my life in sections ever since I was a child, to make it last longer. You see, I m always afraid that I m missing something" "And so am I!" Katharine exclaimed. "But, after all," she added, "why should you miss anything?" "Why? Because I m poor, for one thing," Ralph rejoined. "You, I suppose, can have Venice and India and Dante every day of your life." She said nothing for a moment, but rested one hand, which was bare of glove, upon the rail in front of her, meditating upon a variety of things, of which one was that this strange young man pronounced Dante as she was used to hearing it pronounced, and another, that he had, most unexpectedly, a feeling about life that was familiar to her. Perhaps, then, he was the sort of person she might take an interest in, if
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Night And Day
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rejoined Bolter,
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No speaker
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care and caution." "I say,"<|quote|>rejoined Bolter,</|quote|>"don't yer go shoving me
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my dear, that needs great care and caution." "I say,"<|quote|>rejoined Bolter,</|quote|>"don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me
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out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. "I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution." "I say,"<|quote|>rejoined Bolter,</|quote|>"don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell yer." "That's not the smallest danger in it not the very smallest," said the Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded
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Bolter complacently. "The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!" Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. "I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution." "I say,"<|quote|>rejoined Bolter,</|quote|>"don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell yer." "That's not the smallest danger in it not the very smallest," said the Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter. "A young one," replied Fagin. "I can do that pretty well, I know," said Bolter. "I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to" "Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she
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Talk away. Yer won't interrupt me." There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business. "You did well yesterday, my dear," said Fagin. "Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you." "Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can," said Mr. Bolter. "No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece." "Pretty well, I think, for a beginner," remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. "The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!" Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. "I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution." "I say,"<|quote|>rejoined Bolter,</|quote|>"don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell yer." "That's not the smallest danger in it not the very smallest," said the Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter. "A young one," replied Fagin. "I can do that pretty well, I know," said Bolter. "I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to" "Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the information you can." "What'll yer give me?" asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his employer, eagerly, in the face. "If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound," said Fagin, wishing to interest him in the scent as much as possible. "And that's what I never gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn't valuable consideration to be gained." "Who is she?" inquired
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which he wrenched tightly in his grasp, as though there were a hated enemy crushed with every motion of his fingers. CHAPTER XLV. NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION The old man was up, betimes, next morning, and waited impatiently for the appearance of his new associate, who after a delay that seemed interminable, at length presented himself, and commenced a voracious assault on the breakfast. "Bolter," said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite Morris Bolter. "Well, here I am," returned Noah. "What's the matter? Don't yer ask me to do anything till I have done eating. That's a great fault in this place. Yer never get time enough over yer meals." "You can talk as you eat, can't you?" said Fagin, cursing his dear young friend's greediness from the very bottom of his heart. "Oh yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk," said Noah, cutting a monstrous slice of bread. "Where's Charlotte?" "Out," said Fagin. "I sent her out this morning with the other young woman, because I wanted us to be alone." "Oh!" said Noah. "I wish yer'd ordered her to make some buttered toast first. Well. Talk away. Yer won't interrupt me." There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business. "You did well yesterday, my dear," said Fagin. "Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you." "Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can," said Mr. Bolter. "No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece." "Pretty well, I think, for a beginner," remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. "The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!" Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. "I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution." "I say,"<|quote|>rejoined Bolter,</|quote|>"don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell yer." "That's not the smallest danger in it not the very smallest," said the Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter. "A young one," replied Fagin. "I can do that pretty well, I know," said Bolter. "I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to" "Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the information you can." "What'll yer give me?" asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his employer, eagerly, in the face. "If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound," said Fagin, wishing to interest him in the scent as much as possible. "And that's what I never gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn't valuable consideration to be gained." "Who is she?" inquired Noah. "One of us." "Oh Lor!" cried Noah, curling up his nose. "Yer doubtful of her, are yer?" "She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they are," replied Fagin. "I see," said Noah. "Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they're respectable people, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I'm your man." "I knew you would be," cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal. "Of course, of course," replied Noah. "Where is she? Where am I to wait for her? Where am I to go?" "All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I'll point her out at the proper time," said Fagin. "You keep ready, and leave the rest to me." That night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and equipped in his carter's dress: ready to turn out at a word from Fagin. Six nights passed six long weary nights and on each, Fagin came home with a disappointed face, and briefly intimated that it was not yet time. On the seventh, he returned earlier, and with an exultation he could not conceal. It was Sunday. "She goes abroad to-night," said Fagin, "and
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such an assistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin argued) be secured without delay. There was another, and a darker object, to be gained. Sikes knew too much, and his ruffian taunts had not galled Fagin the less, because the wounds were hidden. The girl must know, well, that if she shook him off, she could never be safe from his fury, and that it would be surely wreaked to the maiming of limbs, or perhaps the loss of life on the object of her more recent fancy. "With a little persuasion," thought Fagin, "what more likely than that she would consent to poison him? Women have done such things, and worse, to secure the same object before now. There would be the dangerous villain: the man I hate: gone; another secured in his place; and my influence over the girl, with a knowledge of this crime to back it, unlimited." These things passed through the mind of Fagin, during the short time he sat alone, in the housebreaker's room; and with them uppermost in his thoughts, he had taken the opportunity afterwards afforded him, of sounding the girl in the broken hints he threw out at parting. There was no expression of surprise, no assumption of an inability to understand his meaning. The girl clearly comprehended it. Her glance at parting showed _that_. But perhaps she would recoil from a plot to take the life of Sikes, and that was one of the chief ends to be attained. "How," thought Fagin, as he crept homeward, "can I increase my influence with her? What new power can I acquire?" Such brains are fertile in expedients. If, without extracting a confession from herself, he laid a watch, discovered the object of her altered regard, and threatened to reveal the whole history to Sikes (of whom she stood in no common fear) unless she entered into his designs, could he not secure her compliance? "I can," said Fagin, almost aloud. "She durst not refuse me then. Not for her life, not for her life! I have it all. The means are ready, and shall be set to work. I shall have you yet!" He cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of the hand, towards the spot where he had left the bolder villain; and went on his way: busying his bony hands in the folds of his tattered garment, which he wrenched tightly in his grasp, as though there were a hated enemy crushed with every motion of his fingers. CHAPTER XLV. NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION The old man was up, betimes, next morning, and waited impatiently for the appearance of his new associate, who after a delay that seemed interminable, at length presented himself, and commenced a voracious assault on the breakfast. "Bolter," said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite Morris Bolter. "Well, here I am," returned Noah. "What's the matter? Don't yer ask me to do anything till I have done eating. That's a great fault in this place. Yer never get time enough over yer meals." "You can talk as you eat, can't you?" said Fagin, cursing his dear young friend's greediness from the very bottom of his heart. "Oh yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk," said Noah, cutting a monstrous slice of bread. "Where's Charlotte?" "Out," said Fagin. "I sent her out this morning with the other young woman, because I wanted us to be alone." "Oh!" said Noah. "I wish yer'd ordered her to make some buttered toast first. Well. Talk away. Yer won't interrupt me." There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business. "You did well yesterday, my dear," said Fagin. "Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you." "Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can," said Mr. Bolter. "No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece." "Pretty well, I think, for a beginner," remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. "The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!" Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. "I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution." "I say,"<|quote|>rejoined Bolter,</|quote|>"don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell yer." "That's not the smallest danger in it not the very smallest," said the Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter. "A young one," replied Fagin. "I can do that pretty well, I know," said Bolter. "I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to" "Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the information you can." "What'll yer give me?" asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his employer, eagerly, in the face. "If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound," said Fagin, wishing to interest him in the scent as much as possible. "And that's what I never gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn't valuable consideration to be gained." "Who is she?" inquired Noah. "One of us." "Oh Lor!" cried Noah, curling up his nose. "Yer doubtful of her, are yer?" "She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they are," replied Fagin. "I see," said Noah. "Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they're respectable people, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I'm your man." "I knew you would be," cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal. "Of course, of course," replied Noah. "Where is she? Where am I to wait for her? Where am I to go?" "All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I'll point her out at the proper time," said Fagin. "You keep ready, and leave the rest to me." That night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and equipped in his carter's dress: ready to turn out at a word from Fagin. Six nights passed six long weary nights and on each, Fagin came home with a disappointed face, and briefly intimated that it was not yet time. On the seventh, he returned earlier, and with an exultation he could not conceal. It was Sunday. "She goes abroad to-night," said Fagin, "and on the right errand, I'm sure; for she has been alone all day, and the man she is afraid of will not be back much before daybreak. Come with me. Quick!" Noah started up without saying a word; for the Jew was in a state of such intense excitement that it infected him. They left the house stealthily, and hurrying through a labyrinth of streets, arrived at length before a public-house, which Noah recognised as the same in which he had slept, on the night of his arrival in London. It was past eleven o'clock, and the door was closed. It opened softly on its hinges as Fagin gave a low whistle. They entered, without noise; and the door was closed behind them. Scarcely venturing to whisper, but substituting dumb show for words, Fagin, and the young Jew who had admitted them, pointed out the pane of glass to Noah, and signed to him to climb up and observe the person in the adjoining room. "Is that the woman?" he asked, scarcely above his breath. Fagin nodded yes. "I can't see her face well," whispered Noah. "She is looking down, and the candle is behind her." "Stay there," whispered Fagin. He signed to Barney, who withdrew. In an instant, the lad entered the room adjoining, and, under pretence of snuffing the candle, moved it in the required position, and, speaking to the girl, caused her to raise her face. "I see her now," cried the spy. "Plainly?" "I should know her among a thousand." He hastily descended, as the room-door opened, and the girl came out. Fagin drew him behind a small partition which was curtained off, and they held their breaths as she passed within a few feet of their place of concealment, and emerged by the door at which they had entered. "Hist!" cried the lad who held the door. "Dow." Noah exchanged a look with Fagin, and darted out. "To the left," whispered the lad; "take the left had, and keep od the other side." He did so; and, by the light of the lamps, saw the girl's retreating figure, already at some distance before him. He advanced as near as he considered prudent, and kept on the opposite side of the street, the better to observe her motions. She looked nervously round, twice or thrice, and once stopped to let two men who were following close
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Bolter. "Well, here I am," returned Noah. "What's the matter? Don't yer ask me to do anything till I have done eating. That's a great fault in this place. Yer never get time enough over yer meals." "You can talk as you eat, can't you?" said Fagin, cursing his dear young friend's greediness from the very bottom of his heart. "Oh yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk," said Noah, cutting a monstrous slice of bread. "Where's Charlotte?" "Out," said Fagin. "I sent her out this morning with the other young woman, because I wanted us to be alone." "Oh!" said Noah. "I wish yer'd ordered her to make some buttered toast first. Well. Talk away. Yer won't interrupt me." There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business. "You did well yesterday, my dear," said Fagin. "Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you." "Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can," said Mr. Bolter. "No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece." "Pretty well, I think, for a beginner," remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. "The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!" Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. "I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution." "I say,"<|quote|>rejoined Bolter,</|quote|>"don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell yer." "That's not the smallest danger in it not the very smallest," said the Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter. "A young one," replied Fagin. "I can do that pretty well, I know," said Bolter. "I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to" "Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the information you can." "What'll yer give me?" asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his employer, eagerly, in the face. "If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound," said Fagin, wishing to interest him in the scent as much as possible. "And that's what I never gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn't valuable consideration to be gained." "Who is she?" inquired Noah. "One of us." "Oh Lor!" cried Noah, curling up his nose. "Yer doubtful of her, are yer?" "She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they are," replied Fagin. "I see," said Noah. "Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they're respectable people, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I'm your man." "I knew you would be," cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal. "Of course, of course," replied Noah. "Where is she? Where am I to wait for her? Where am I to go?" "All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I'll point her out at the proper time," said Fagin. "You keep ready, and leave the rest to me." That night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and equipped in his carter's dress: ready to turn out at a word from Fagin. Six nights passed six long weary nights and on each, Fagin came home with a disappointed face, and briefly intimated that it was not yet time. On the seventh, he returned earlier, and with an exultation he could not conceal. It was Sunday. "She goes abroad to-night," said Fagin, "and on the right errand, I'm sure; for she has been alone all day, and the man she is afraid of will not be back much before daybreak. Come with me. Quick!" Noah started up without saying a word; for the Jew was in a state of such intense excitement that it infected him. They left the house stealthily, and hurrying through a labyrinth of streets, arrived at length before a public-house, which Noah recognised as the same in which he had slept, on the night of his arrival in London. It was past eleven o'clock, and the door was closed. It opened softly on its hinges as Fagin gave a low whistle. They entered, without noise; and the door was closed behind them. Scarcely venturing to whisper, but substituting dumb show for words, Fagin, and the young Jew who had admitted them, pointed out the pane of glass to Noah, and signed to him to climb up and observe the person in the adjoining
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Oliver Twist
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"Ach, why--it's merely that I can't sleep----"
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Detering
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"Don't do anything silly, Detering."<|quote|>"Ach, why--it's merely that I can't sleep----"</|quote|>"What did you pick the
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and I said to him: "Don't do anything silly, Detering."<|quote|>"Ach, why--it's merely that I can't sleep----"</|quote|>"What did you pick the cherry branches for?" "I might
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wedding. He made no answer, but laid them on his bed. During the night I heard him making a noise, he seemed to be packing. I sensed something amiss and went over to him. He made out it was nothing, and I said to him: "Don't do anything silly, Detering."<|quote|>"Ach, why--it's merely that I can't sleep----"</|quote|>"What did you pick the cherry branches for?" "I might have been going to get some more cherry branches," he replied, evasively--and after a while: "I have a big orchard with cherry trees at home. When they are in blossom, from the hay loft they look like one single sheet,
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had no leaves, but was one white mass of blossom. In the evening Detering was not to be seen. Then at last he came back and had a couple of branches of cherry blossom in his hand. We made fun of him, and asked whether he was going to a wedding. He made no answer, but laid them on his bed. During the night I heard him making a noise, he seemed to be packing. I sensed something amiss and went over to him. He made out it was nothing, and I said to him: "Don't do anything silly, Detering."<|quote|>"Ach, why--it's merely that I can't sleep----"</|quote|>"What did you pick the cherry branches for?" "I might have been going to get some more cherry branches," he replied, evasively--and after a while: "I have a big orchard with cherry trees at home. When they are in blossom, from the hay loft they look like one single sheet, so white. It is just the time." "Perhaps you will get leave soon. You may even be sent back as a farmer." He nodded, but he was far away. When these peasants are excited they have a curious expression, a mixture of cow and yearning god, half stupid and half
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we wait for the morning. * * Every day and every hour every shell and every death cuts into this thin support, and the years waste it rapidly. I see how it is already gradually breaking down around me. There is the mad story of Detering. He was one of those who kept himself to himself. His misfortune was that he saw a cherry tree in a garden. We were just coming back from the front line, and at a turning of the road near our new billets, marvellous in the morning twilight, stood this cherry tree before us. It had no leaves, but was one white mass of blossom. In the evening Detering was not to be seen. Then at last he came back and had a couple of branches of cherry blossom in his hand. We made fun of him, and asked whether he was going to a wedding. He made no answer, but laid them on his bed. During the night I heard him making a noise, he seemed to be packing. I sensed something amiss and went over to him. He made out it was nothing, and I said to him: "Don't do anything silly, Detering."<|quote|>"Ach, why--it's merely that I can't sleep----"</|quote|>"What did you pick the cherry branches for?" "I might have been going to get some more cherry branches," he replied, evasively--and after a while: "I have a big orchard with cherry trees at home. When they are in blossom, from the hay loft they look like one single sheet, so white. It is just the time." "Perhaps you will get leave soon. You may even be sent back as a farmer." He nodded, but he was far away. When these peasants are excited they have a curious expression, a mixture of cow and yearning god, half stupid and half rapt. In order to turn him away from his thoughts I asked him for a piece of bread. He gave it to me without a murmur. That was suspicious, for he is usually tight-fisted. So I stayed awake. Nothing happened; in the morning he was as usual. Apparently he had noticed that I had been watching him;--but the second morning after he was gone. I noticed it, but said nothing, in order to give him time; he might perhaps get through. Various fellows have already got into Holland. But at roll call he was missed. A week after we heard
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Those are the dangerous moments. They show us that the adjustment is only artificial, that it is not simple rest, but sharpest struggle for rest. In the outward form of our life we are hardly distinguishable from Bushmen; but whereas the latter can be so always, because they are so truly, and at best may develop further by exertion of their spiritual forces, with us it is the reverse;--our inner forces are not exerted toward regeneration, but toward degeneration. The Bushmen are primitive and naturally so, but we are primitive in an artificial sense, and by virtue of the utmost effort. And at night, waking out of a dream, overwhelmed and bewitched by the crowding faces, a man perceives with alarm how slight is the support, how thin the boundary that divides him from the darkness. We are little flames poorly sheltered by frail walls against the storm of dissolution and madness, in which we flicker and sometimes almost go out. Then the muffled roar of the battle becomes a ring that encircles us, we creep in upon ourselves, and with big eyes stare into the night. Our only comfort is the steady breathing of our comrades asleep, and thus we wait for the morning. * * Every day and every hour every shell and every death cuts into this thin support, and the years waste it rapidly. I see how it is already gradually breaking down around me. There is the mad story of Detering. He was one of those who kept himself to himself. His misfortune was that he saw a cherry tree in a garden. We were just coming back from the front line, and at a turning of the road near our new billets, marvellous in the morning twilight, stood this cherry tree before us. It had no leaves, but was one white mass of blossom. In the evening Detering was not to be seen. Then at last he came back and had a couple of branches of cherry blossom in his hand. We made fun of him, and asked whether he was going to a wedding. He made no answer, but laid them on his bed. During the night I heard him making a noise, he seemed to be packing. I sensed something amiss and went over to him. He made out it was nothing, and I said to him: "Don't do anything silly, Detering."<|quote|>"Ach, why--it's merely that I can't sleep----"</|quote|>"What did you pick the cherry branches for?" "I might have been going to get some more cherry branches," he replied, evasively--and after a while: "I have a big orchard with cherry trees at home. When they are in blossom, from the hay loft they look like one single sheet, so white. It is just the time." "Perhaps you will get leave soon. You may even be sent back as a farmer." He nodded, but he was far away. When these peasants are excited they have a curious expression, a mixture of cow and yearning god, half stupid and half rapt. In order to turn him away from his thoughts I asked him for a piece of bread. He gave it to me without a murmur. That was suspicious, for he is usually tight-fisted. So I stayed awake. Nothing happened; in the morning he was as usual. Apparently he had noticed that I had been watching him;--but the second morning after he was gone. I noticed it, but said nothing, in order to give him time; he might perhaps get through. Various fellows have already got into Holland. But at roll call he was missed. A week after we heard that he had been caught by the field gendarmes, those despicable military police. He had headed toward Germany, that was hopeless, of course--and, of course, he did everything else just as idiotically. Anyone might have known that his flight was only home-sickness and a momentary aberration. But what does a court martial hundreds of miles behind the front-line know about it? We have heard nothing more of Detering. * * But sometimes it broke out in other ways, this danger, these pent-up things, as from an overheated boiler. It will be enough to tell how Berger met his end. Our trenches have now for some time been shot to pieces, and we have an elastic line, so that there is practically no longer any proper trench warfare. When attack and counter-attack have waged backwards and forwards there remains a broken line and a bitter struggle from crater to crater. The front line has been penetrated, and everywhere small groups have established themselves, the fight is carried on from clusters of shell-holes. We are in a crater, the English are coming down obliquely, they are turning our flank and working in behind us. We are surrounded. It is not easy to
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wants to appraise it, it is at once heroic and banal--but who wants to do that? It is this, for example, that makes Tjaden spoon down his ham-and-pea soup in such tearing haste when an enemy attack is reported, simply because he cannot be sure that in an hour's time he will still be alive. We have discussed at length, whether it is right or not to do so. Kat condemns it, because, he says, a man has to reckon with the possibility of an abdominal wound, and that is more dangerous on a full stomach than on an empty one. Such things are real problems, they are serious matters to us, they cannot be otherwise. Here, on the borders of death, life follows an amazingly simple course, it is limited to what is most necessary, all else lies buried in gloomy sleep;--in that lies our primitiveness and our survival. Were we more subtly differentiated we must long since have gone mad, have deserted, or have fallen. As in a polar expedition, every expression of life must serve only the preservation of existence, and is absolutely focussed on that. All else is banished because it would consume energies unnecessarily. That is the only way to save ourselves. In the quiet hours when the puzzling reflection of former days, like a blurred mirror, projects beyond me the figure of my present existence, I often sit over against myself, as before a stranger, and wonder how the unnameable active principle that calls itself Life has adapted itself even to this form. All other expressions lie in a winter sleep, life is simply one continual watch against the menace of death;--it has transformed us into unthinking animals in order to give us the weapon of instinct--it has reinforced us with dullness, so that we do not go to pieces before the horror, which would overwhelm us if we had clear, conscious thought--it has awakened in us the sense of comradeship, so that we escape the abyss of solitude--it has lent us the indifference of wild creatures, so that in spite of all we perceive the positive in every moment, and store it up as a reserve against the onslaught of nothingness. Thus we live a closed, hard existence of the utmost superficiality, and rarely does an incident strike out a spark. But then unexpectedly a flame of grievous and terrible yearning flares up. Those are the dangerous moments. They show us that the adjustment is only artificial, that it is not simple rest, but sharpest struggle for rest. In the outward form of our life we are hardly distinguishable from Bushmen; but whereas the latter can be so always, because they are so truly, and at best may develop further by exertion of their spiritual forces, with us it is the reverse;--our inner forces are not exerted toward regeneration, but toward degeneration. The Bushmen are primitive and naturally so, but we are primitive in an artificial sense, and by virtue of the utmost effort. And at night, waking out of a dream, overwhelmed and bewitched by the crowding faces, a man perceives with alarm how slight is the support, how thin the boundary that divides him from the darkness. We are little flames poorly sheltered by frail walls against the storm of dissolution and madness, in which we flicker and sometimes almost go out. Then the muffled roar of the battle becomes a ring that encircles us, we creep in upon ourselves, and with big eyes stare into the night. Our only comfort is the steady breathing of our comrades asleep, and thus we wait for the morning. * * Every day and every hour every shell and every death cuts into this thin support, and the years waste it rapidly. I see how it is already gradually breaking down around me. There is the mad story of Detering. He was one of those who kept himself to himself. His misfortune was that he saw a cherry tree in a garden. We were just coming back from the front line, and at a turning of the road near our new billets, marvellous in the morning twilight, stood this cherry tree before us. It had no leaves, but was one white mass of blossom. In the evening Detering was not to be seen. Then at last he came back and had a couple of branches of cherry blossom in his hand. We made fun of him, and asked whether he was going to a wedding. He made no answer, but laid them on his bed. During the night I heard him making a noise, he seemed to be packing. I sensed something amiss and went over to him. He made out it was nothing, and I said to him: "Don't do anything silly, Detering."<|quote|>"Ach, why--it's merely that I can't sleep----"</|quote|>"What did you pick the cherry branches for?" "I might have been going to get some more cherry branches," he replied, evasively--and after a while: "I have a big orchard with cherry trees at home. When they are in blossom, from the hay loft they look like one single sheet, so white. It is just the time." "Perhaps you will get leave soon. You may even be sent back as a farmer." He nodded, but he was far away. When these peasants are excited they have a curious expression, a mixture of cow and yearning god, half stupid and half rapt. In order to turn him away from his thoughts I asked him for a piece of bread. He gave it to me without a murmur. That was suspicious, for he is usually tight-fisted. So I stayed awake. Nothing happened; in the morning he was as usual. Apparently he had noticed that I had been watching him;--but the second morning after he was gone. I noticed it, but said nothing, in order to give him time; he might perhaps get through. Various fellows have already got into Holland. But at roll call he was missed. A week after we heard that he had been caught by the field gendarmes, those despicable military police. He had headed toward Germany, that was hopeless, of course--and, of course, he did everything else just as idiotically. Anyone might have known that his flight was only home-sickness and a momentary aberration. But what does a court martial hundreds of miles behind the front-line know about it? We have heard nothing more of Detering. * * But sometimes it broke out in other ways, this danger, these pent-up things, as from an overheated boiler. It will be enough to tell how Berger met his end. Our trenches have now for some time been shot to pieces, and we have an elastic line, so that there is practically no longer any proper trench warfare. When attack and counter-attack have waged backwards and forwards there remains a broken line and a bitter struggle from crater to crater. The front line has been penetrated, and everywhere small groups have established themselves, the fight is carried on from clusters of shell-holes. We are in a crater, the English are coming down obliquely, they are turning our flank and working in behind us. We are surrounded. It is not easy to surrender, fog and smoke hang over us, no one would recognize that we wanted to give ourselves up, and perhaps we don't want to, a man doesn't even know himself at such moments. We hear the explosions of the hand-grenades coming toward us. Our machine-gun sweeps over the semicircle in front of us. The cooling-water evaporates, we hastily pass round the case, every man pisses in it, and thus we again have water, and are able to continue firing. But behind us the attack crashes ever nearer. A few minutes and we are lost. Then, at closest range, a second machine-gun bursts out. It is set up in a crater alongside us; Berger has fetched it, and now the counter-attack comes over from behind; we are set free and make contact with the rear. Afterwards, as we lie in comparatively good cover, one of the food-carriers reports that a couple of hundred yards distant there lies a wounded messenger-dog. "Where?" asks Berger. The other describes the place to him. Berger goes off either to fetch the beast in or to shoot it. Six months ago he would not have cared, he would have been reasonable. We try to prevent him. Then, as he goes off grimly, all we can say is: "You're mad," and let him go. For these cases of front-line madness become dangerous if one is not able to fling the man to the ground and hold him fast. And Berger is six feet and the most powerful man in the company. He is absolutely mad for he has to pass through the barrage; but this lightning that lowers somewhere above us all has struck him and made him demented. It affects others so that they begin to rave, to run away--there was one man who even tried to dig himself into the ground with hands, feet, and teeth. It is true, such things are often simulated, but the pretence itself is a symptom. Berger, who means to finish off the dog, is carried off with a wound in the pelvis, and one of the fellows who carry him gets a bullet in the cheek while doing it. * * Müller is dead. Someone shot him point blank with a Verey light in the stomach. He lived for half an hour, quite conscious, and in terrible pain. Before he died he handed over his pocketbook to me, and
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rarely does an incident strike out a spark. But then unexpectedly a flame of grievous and terrible yearning flares up. Those are the dangerous moments. They show us that the adjustment is only artificial, that it is not simple rest, but sharpest struggle for rest. In the outward form of our life we are hardly distinguishable from Bushmen; but whereas the latter can be so always, because they are so truly, and at best may develop further by exertion of their spiritual forces, with us it is the reverse;--our inner forces are not exerted toward regeneration, but toward degeneration. The Bushmen are primitive and naturally so, but we are primitive in an artificial sense, and by virtue of the utmost effort. And at night, waking out of a dream, overwhelmed and bewitched by the crowding faces, a man perceives with alarm how slight is the support, how thin the boundary that divides him from the darkness. We are little flames poorly sheltered by frail walls against the storm of dissolution and madness, in which we flicker and sometimes almost go out. Then the muffled roar of the battle becomes a ring that encircles us, we creep in upon ourselves, and with big eyes stare into the night. Our only comfort is the steady breathing of our comrades asleep, and thus we wait for the morning. * * Every day and every hour every shell and every death cuts into this thin support, and the years waste it rapidly. I see how it is already gradually breaking down around me. There is the mad story of Detering. He was one of those who kept himself to himself. His misfortune was that he saw a cherry tree in a garden. We were just coming back from the front line, and at a turning of the road near our new billets, marvellous in the morning twilight, stood this cherry tree before us. It had no leaves, but was one white mass of blossom. In the evening Detering was not to be seen. Then at last he came back and had a couple of branches of cherry blossom in his hand. We made fun of him, and asked whether he was going to a wedding. He made no answer, but laid them on his bed. During the night I heard him making a noise, he seemed to be packing. I sensed something amiss and went over to him. He made out it was nothing, and I said to him: "Don't do anything silly, Detering."<|quote|>"Ach, why--it's merely that I can't sleep----"</|quote|>"What did you pick the cherry branches for?" "I might have been going to get some more cherry branches," he replied, evasively--and after a while: "I have a big orchard with cherry trees at home. When they are in blossom, from the hay loft they look like one single sheet, so white. It is just the time." "Perhaps you will get leave soon. You may even be sent back as a farmer." He nodded, but he was far away. When these peasants are excited they have a curious expression, a mixture of cow and yearning god, half stupid and half rapt. In order to turn him away from his thoughts I asked him for a piece of bread. He gave it to me without a murmur. That was suspicious, for he is usually tight-fisted. So I stayed awake. Nothing happened; in the morning he was as usual. Apparently he had noticed that I had been watching him;--but the second morning after he was gone. I noticed it, but said nothing, in order to give him time; he might perhaps get through. Various fellows have already got into Holland. But at roll call he was missed. A week after we heard that he had been caught by the field gendarmes, those despicable military police. He had headed toward Germany, that was hopeless, of course--and, of course, he did everything else just as idiotically. Anyone might have known that his flight was only home-sickness and a momentary aberration. But what does a court martial hundreds of miles behind the front-line know about it? We have heard nothing more of Detering. * * But sometimes it broke out in other ways, this danger, these pent-up things, as from an overheated boiler. It will be enough to tell how Berger met his end. Our trenches have now for some time been shot to pieces, and we have an elastic line, so that there is practically no longer any proper trench warfare. When attack and counter-attack have waged backwards and forwards there remains a broken line and a bitter struggle from crater to crater. The front line has been penetrated, and everywhere small groups have established themselves, the fight is carried on from clusters of shell-holes. We are in a crater, the English are coming down obliquely, they are turning our flank and working in behind us. We are surrounded. It is not easy to surrender, fog and smoke hang over us, no one would recognize that we wanted to give ourselves up, and perhaps we don't want to, a man doesn't even know himself at such moments. We hear the explosions of the hand-grenades coming toward us. Our machine-gun sweeps over the semicircle in front of us. The cooling-water evaporates, we hastily pass round the case, every man pisses in it, and thus we again have water, and are able to continue firing. But behind us the attack crashes ever nearer. A few minutes and we are lost. Then, at closest range, a second machine-gun bursts out. It is set up in a crater alongside us; Berger has fetched it, and now the counter-attack comes over from behind; we are set free and make contact with the rear. Afterwards, as we lie in comparatively good cover, one of the food-carriers reports that a couple of hundred
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All Quiet on the Western Front
|
"I did not know before,"
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Mr. Bingley
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suffered to do at home."<|quote|>"I did not know before,"</|quote|>continued Bingley immediately, "that you
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wild manner that you are suffered to do at home."<|quote|>"I did not know before,"</|quote|>continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a studier of character.
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is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours." "Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home."<|quote|>"I did not know before,"</|quote|>continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study." "Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at least that advantage." "The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you
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is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth. "You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning towards her. "Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly." "I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful." "That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours." "Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home."<|quote|>"I did not know before,"</|quote|>continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study." "Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at least that advantage." "The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society." "But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever." "Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. "I assure you there is quite as much of _that_
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met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I hope, though you have but a short lease." "Whatever I do is done in a hurry," replied he; "and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here." "That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth. "You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning towards her. "Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly." "I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful." "That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours." "Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home."<|quote|>"I did not know before,"</|quote|>continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study." "Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at least that advantage." "The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society." "But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever." "Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. "I assure you there is quite as much of _that_ going on in the country as in town." Every body was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph. "I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?" "When I am in the country," he replied, "I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have
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apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected. "Indeed I have, Sir," was her answer. "She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness." "Removed!" cried Bingley. "It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal." "You may depend upon it, Madam," said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, "that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us." Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments. "I am sure," she added, "if it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I hope, though you have but a short lease." "Whatever I do is done in a hurry," replied he; "and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here." "That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth. "You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning towards her. "Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly." "I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful." "That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours." "Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home."<|quote|>"I did not know before,"</|quote|>continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study." "Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at least that advantage." "The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society." "But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever." "Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. "I assure you there is quite as much of _that_ going on in the country as in town." Every body was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph. "I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?" "When I am in the country," he replied, "I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either." "Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman," looking at Darcy, "seemed to think the country was nothing at all." "Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken," said Elizabeth, blushing for her mother. "You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there were not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true." "Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four and twenty families." Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of saying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away. "Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir William is, Mr. Bingley--is not he? so much the man of fashion! so genteel and so easy!--He has always
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young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex, by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art." "Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, "there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable." Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject. Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones's being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This, she would not hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister. CHAPTER IX. Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the enquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast. Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not listen therefore to her daughter's proposal of being carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected. "Indeed I have, Sir," was her answer. "She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness." "Removed!" cried Bingley. "It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal." "You may depend upon it, Madam," said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, "that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us." Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments. "I am sure," she added, "if it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I hope, though you have but a short lease." "Whatever I do is done in a hurry," replied he; "and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here." "That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth. "You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning towards her. "Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly." "I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful." "That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours." "Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home."<|quote|>"I did not know before,"</|quote|>continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study." "Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at least that advantage." "The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society." "But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever." "Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. "I assure you there is quite as much of _that_ going on in the country as in town." Every body was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph. "I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?" "When I am in the country," he replied, "I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either." "Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman," looking at Darcy, "seemed to think the country was nothing at all." "Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken," said Elizabeth, blushing for her mother. "You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there were not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true." "Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four and twenty families." Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of saying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away. "Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir William is, Mr. Bingley--is not he? so much the man of fashion! so genteel and so easy!--He has always something to say to every body.--_That_ is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very important and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter." "Did Charlotte dine with you?" "No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants that can do their own work; _my_ daughters are brought up differently. But every body is to judge for themselves, and the Lucases are very good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that _I_ think Charlotte so _very_ plain--but then she is our particular friend." "She seems a very pleasant young woman," said Bingley. "Oh! dear, yes;--but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see any body better looking. It is what every body says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my brother Gardiner's in town, so much in love with her, that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But however he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were." "And so ended his affection," said Elizabeth impatiently. "There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!" "I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love," said Darcy. "Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Every thing nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away." Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also, and
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of this amendment, however, she requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast. Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not listen therefore to her daughter's proposal of being carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected. "Indeed I have, Sir," was her answer. "She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness." "Removed!" cried Bingley. "It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal." "You may depend upon it, Madam," said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, "that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us." Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments. "I am sure," she added, "if it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I hope, though you have but a short lease." "Whatever I do is done in a hurry," replied he; "and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here." "That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth. "You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning towards her. "Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly." "I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful." "That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours." "Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home."<|quote|>"I did not know before,"</|quote|>continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study." "Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at least that advantage." "The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society." "But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever." "Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. "I assure you there is quite as much of _that_ going on in the country as in town." Every body was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph. "I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?" "When I am in the country," he replied, "I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either." "Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman," looking at Darcy, "seemed to think the country was nothing at all." "Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken," said Elizabeth, blushing for her mother. "You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there were not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true." "Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four and twenty families." Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of saying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away. "Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir William is, Mr. Bingley--is not he? so much the man of fashion! so genteel and so easy!--He has always something to say to every body.--_That_ is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very important and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter." "Did Charlotte dine with you?" "No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants that can do their own work; _my_ daughters are brought up differently. But every body is to judge for themselves, and the Lucases are very good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that _I_ think Charlotte so _very_ plain--but then she is our particular friend." "She seems a very pleasant young woman," said Bingley. "Oh! dear, yes;--but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see any body better looking. It is what every body says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen,
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Pride And Prejudice
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as the custom is, in these examinations.
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No speaker
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out in chorus, "No, sir!"<|quote|>as the custom is, in these examinations.</|quote|>"Of course, No. Why wouldn't
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that Yes was wrong, cried out in chorus, "No, sir!"<|quote|>as the custom is, in these examinations.</|quote|>"Of course, No. Why wouldn't you?" A pause. One corpulent
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Now, let me ask you girls and boys, Would you paper a room with representations of horses?" After a pause, one half of the children cried in chorus, "Yes, sir!" Upon which the other half, seeing in the gentleman's face that Yes was wrong, cried out in chorus, "No, sir!"<|quote|>as the custom is, in these examinations.</|quote|>"Of course, No. Why wouldn't you?" A pause. One corpulent slow boy, with a wheezy manner of breathing, ventured the answer, Because he wouldn't paper a room at all, but would paint it. "You _must_ paper it," said the gentleman, rather warmly. "You must paper it," said Thomas Gradgrind, "whether
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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 paper a room with representations of horses?" After a pause, one half of the children cried in chorus, "Yes, sir!" Upon which the other half, seeing in the gentleman's face that Yes was wrong, cried out in chorus, "No, sir!"<|quote|>as the custom is, in these examinations.</|quote|>"Of course, No. Why wouldn't you?" A pause. One corpulent slow boy, with a wheezy manner of breathing, ventured the answer, Because he wouldn't paper a room at all, but would paint it. "You _must_ paper it," said the gentleman, rather warmly. "You must paper it," said Thomas Gradgrind, "whether you like it or not. Don't tell _us_ you wouldn't paper it. What do you mean, boy?" "I'll explain to you, then," said the gentleman, after another and a dismal pause, "why you wouldn't paper a room with representations of horses. Do you ever see horses walking up and down
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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 paper a room with representations of horses?" After a pause, one half of the children cried in chorus, "Yes, sir!" Upon which the other half, seeing in the gentleman's face that Yes was wrong, cried out in chorus, "No, sir!"<|quote|>as the custom is, in these examinations.</|quote|>"Of course, No. Why wouldn't you?" A pause. One corpulent slow boy, with a wheezy manner of breathing, ventured the answer, Because he wouldn't paper a room at all, but would paint it. "You _must_ paper it," said the gentleman, rather warmly. "You must paper it," said Thomas Gradgrind, "whether you like it or not. Don't tell _us_ you wouldn't paper it. What do you mean, boy?" "I'll explain to you, then," said the gentleman, after another and a dismal pause, "why you wouldn't paper a room with representations of horses. Do you ever see horses walking up and down the sides of rooms in reality in fact? Do you?" "Yes, sir!" from one half. "No, sir!" from the other. "Of course no," said the gentleman, with an indignant look at the wrong half. "Why, then, you are not to see anywhere, what you don't see in fact; you are not to have anywhere, what you don't have in fact. What is called Taste, is only another name for Fact." Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. "This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery," said the gentleman. "Now, I'll try you again. Suppose you were going to carpet a
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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 paper a room with representations of horses?" After a pause, one half of the children cried in chorus, "Yes, sir!" Upon which the other half, seeing in the gentleman's face that Yes was wrong, cried out in chorus, "No, sir!"<|quote|>as the custom is, in these examinations.</|quote|>"Of course, No. Why wouldn't you?" A pause. One corpulent slow boy, with a wheezy manner of breathing, ventured the answer, Because he wouldn't paper a room at all, but would paint it. "You _must_ paper it," said the gentleman, rather warmly. "You must paper it," said Thomas Gradgrind, "whether you like it or not. Don't tell _us_ you wouldn't paper it. What do you mean, boy?" "I'll explain to you, then," said the gentleman, after another and a dismal pause, "why you wouldn't paper a room with representations of horses. Do you ever see horses walking up and down the sides of rooms in reality in fact? Do you?" "Yes, sir!" from one half. "No, sir!" from the other. "Of course no," said the gentleman, with an indignant look at the wrong half. "Why, then, you are not to see anywhere, what you don't see in fact; you are not to have anywhere, what you don't have in fact. What is called Taste, is only another name for Fact." Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. "This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery," said the gentleman. "Now, I'll try you again. Suppose you were going to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet having a representation of flowers upon it?" There being a general conviction by this time that "No, sir!" was always the right answer to this gentleman, the chorus of NO was very strong. Only a few feeble stragglers said Yes: among them Sissy Jupe. "Girl number twenty," said the gentleman, smiling in the calm strength of knowledge. Sissy blushed, and stood up. "So you would carpet your room or your husband's room, if you were a grown woman, and had a husband with representations of flowers, would you?" said the gentleman. "Why would you?" "Yes, sir!" from one half. "No, sir!" from the other. "Of course no," said the gentleman, with an indignant look at the wrong half. "Why, then, you are not to see anywhere, what you don't see in fact; you are not to have anywhere, what you don't have in fact. What is called Taste, is only another name for Fact." Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. "This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery," said the gentleman. "Now, I'll try you again. Suppose you were going to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet having a representation of
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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 paper a room with representations of horses?" After a pause, one half of the children cried in chorus, "Yes, sir!" Upon which the other half, seeing in the gentleman's face that Yes was wrong, cried out in chorus, "No, sir!"<|quote|>as the custom is, in these examinations.</|quote|>"Of course, No. Why wouldn't you?" A pause. One corpulent slow boy, with a wheezy manner of breathing, ventured the answer, Because he wouldn't paper a room at all, but would paint it. "You _must_ paper it," said the gentleman, rather warmly. "You must paper it," said Thomas Gradgrind, "whether you like it or not. Don't tell _us_ you wouldn't paper it. What do you mean, boy?" "I'll explain to you, then," said the gentleman, after another and a dismal pause, "why you wouldn't paper a room with representations of horses. Do you ever see horses walking up and down the sides of rooms in reality in fact? Do you?" "Yes, sir!" from one half. "No, sir!" from the other. "Of course no," said the gentleman, with an indignant look at the wrong half. "Why, then, you are not to see anywhere, what you don't see in fact; you are not to have anywhere, what you don't have in fact. What is called Taste, is only another name for Fact." Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. "This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery," said the gentleman. "Now, I'll try you again. Suppose you were going to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet having a representation of flowers upon it?" There being a general conviction by this time that "No, sir!" was always the right answer to this gentleman, the chorus of NO was very strong. Only a few feeble stragglers said Yes: among them Sissy Jupe. "Girl number twenty," said the gentleman, smiling in the calm strength of knowledge. Sissy blushed, and stood up. "So you would carpet your room or your husband's room, if you were a grown woman, and had a husband with representations of flowers, would you?" said the gentleman. "Why would you?" "Yes, sir!" from one half. "No, sir!" from the other. "Of course no," said the gentleman, with an indignant look at the wrong half. "Why, then, you are not to see anywhere, what you don't see in fact; you are not to have anywhere, what you don't have in fact. What is called Taste, is only another name for Fact." Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. "This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery," said the gentleman. "Now, I'll try you again. Suppose you were going to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet having a representation of flowers upon it?" There being a general conviction by this time that "No, sir!" was always the right answer to this gentleman, the chorus of NO was very strong. Only a few feeble stragglers said Yes: among them Sissy Jupe. "Girl number twenty," said the gentleman, smiling in the calm strength of knowledge. Sissy blushed, and stood up. "So you would carpet your room or your husband's room, if you were a grown woman, and had a husband with representations of flowers, would you?" said the gentleman. "Why would you?" "If you please, sir, I am very fond of flowers," returned the girl. "And is that why you would put tables and chairs upon them, and have people walking over them with heavy boots?" "It wouldn't hurt them, sir. They wouldn't crush and wither, if you please, sir. They would be the pictures of what was very pretty and pleasant, and I would fancy" "Ay, ay, ay! But you mustn't fancy," cried the gentleman, quite elated by coming so happily to his point. "That's it! You are never to fancy." "You are not, Cecilia Jupe," Thomas Gradgrind solemnly repeated, "to do anything of that kind." "Fact, fact, fact!" said the gentleman. And "Fact, fact, fact!" repeated Thomas Gradgrind. "You are to be in all things regulated and governed," said the gentleman, "by fact. We hope to have, before long, a board of fact, composed of commissioners of fact, who will force the people to be a people of fact, and of nothing but fact. You must discard the word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to do with it. You are not to have, in any object of use or ornament, what would be a contradiction in fact. You don't walk upon flowers in fact; you cannot be allowed to walk upon flowers in carpets. You don't find that foreign birds and butterflies come and perch upon your crockery; you cannot be permitted to paint foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. You never meet with quadrupeds going up and down walls; you must not have quadrupeds represented upon walls. You must use," said the gentleman, "for all these purposes, combinations and modifications (in primary colours) of mathematical figures which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. This is the new discovery. This is fact. This is taste." The girl curtseyed, and sat down. She was very young, and she looked as
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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 paper a room with representations of horses?" After a pause, one half of the children cried in chorus, "Yes, sir!" Upon which the other half, seeing in the gentleman's face that Yes was wrong, cried out in chorus, "No, sir!"<|quote|>as the custom is, in these examinations.</|quote|>"Of course, No. Why wouldn't you?" A pause. One corpulent slow boy, with a wheezy manner of breathing, ventured the answer, Because he wouldn't paper a room at all, but would paint it. "You _must_ paper it," said the gentleman, rather warmly. "You must paper it," said Thomas Gradgrind, "whether you like it or not. Don't tell _us_ you wouldn't paper it. What do you mean, boy?" "I'll explain to you, then," said the gentleman, after another and a dismal pause, "why you wouldn't paper a room with representations of horses. Do you ever see horses walking up and down the sides of rooms in reality in fact? Do you?" "Yes, sir!" from one half. "No, sir!" from the other. "Of course no," said the gentleman, with an indignant look at the wrong half. "Why, then, you are not to see anywhere, what you don't see in fact; you are not to have anywhere, what you don't have in fact. What is called Taste, is only another name for Fact." Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. "This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery," said the gentleman. "Now, I'll try you again. Suppose you were going to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet having a representation of flowers upon it?" There being a general conviction by this time that "No, sir!" was always the right answer to this gentleman, the chorus of NO was very strong. Only a few feeble stragglers said Yes: among them Sissy Jupe. "Girl number twenty," said the gentleman, smiling in the calm strength of knowledge. Sissy blushed, and stood up. "So you would carpet your room or your husband's room, if you were a grown woman, and had a husband with representations of flowers, would you?" said the gentleman. "Why would you?" "Yes, sir!" from one half. "No, sir!" from the other. "Of course no," said the gentleman, with an indignant look at the wrong half. "Why, then, you are not to see anywhere, what you don't see in fact; you are not to have anywhere, what you don't have in fact. What is called Taste, is only another name for Fact." Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. "This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery," said the gentleman. "Now, I'll try you again. Suppose you were going to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet having a representation of flowers upon it?" There being a general conviction by this time that "No, sir!" was always the right answer to this gentleman, the chorus of NO was very strong. Only a few feeble stragglers said Yes: among them Sissy Jupe. "Girl number twenty," said the gentleman, smiling in the calm strength of knowledge.
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Hard Times
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Don shook his head, and they remained thinking and watching for nearly an hour before Jem declared that they must risk it.
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No speaker
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me whether they're coming back?"<|quote|>Don shook his head, and they remained thinking and watching for nearly an hour before Jem declared that they must risk it.</|quote|>"One minute," said Don; and
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Now, then, can you tell me whether they're coming back?"<|quote|>Don shook his head, and they remained thinking and watching for nearly an hour before Jem declared that they must risk it.</|quote|>"One minute," said Don; and he went on tip-toe as
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"Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't, Mas' Don. That stoutish chap seemed to smell a rat, and that smiling door-knocker fellow was all on the spy; but I don't think he heared anything, and I'm sure he didn't see. Now, then, can you tell me whether they're coming back?"<|quote|>Don shook his head, and they remained thinking and watching for nearly an hour before Jem declared that they must risk it.</|quote|>"One minute," said Don; and he went on tip-toe as far as the trap-door, and lying down, listened and applied his eyes to various cracks, before feeling convinced that no one was listening. "Why, you didn't try if it was fastened," cried Jem; and taking out his knife, he inserted
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"Hist! Don't talk so loud," whispered Don. "He listens." "I hope he's a-listening now," said Jem, loudly; "a lively smiling sort of a man. That's what he is, Mas' Don. Sort o' man always on the blue sneak." Don held up his hand. "Think they suspect anything, Jem?" he whispered. "Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't, Mas' Don. That stoutish chap seemed to smell a rat, and that smiling door-knocker fellow was all on the spy; but I don't think he heared anything, and I'm sure he didn't see. Now, then, can you tell me whether they're coming back?"<|quote|>Don shook his head, and they remained thinking and watching for nearly an hour before Jem declared that they must risk it.</|quote|>"One minute," said Don; and he went on tip-toe as far as the trap-door, and lying down, listened and applied his eyes to various cracks, before feeling convinced that no one was listening. "Why, you didn't try if it was fastened," cried Jem; and taking out his knife, he inserted it opposite to the hinges, and tried to lever up the door. It was labour in vain, for the bolt had been shot. "They don't mean to let us go, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Come on, and let's get the rope done." They returned to the sacking, lifted it up,
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lengthened out in time and form, till he was right down the ladder, with the trap-door drawn over and resting upon his head. This he slowly lowered, till only his eyes and brow were seen, and he stayed like that watching for a minute, then let the lid close with a _flap_, and shut him, as it were, in a box. "Gone!" said Jem. "Lor', how I should ha' liked to go and jump on that there trap just while he was holding it up with his head. I'd ha' made it ache for him worse than they made mine." "Hist! Don't talk so loud," whispered Don. "He listens." "I hope he's a-listening now," said Jem, loudly; "a lively smiling sort of a man. That's what he is, Mas' Don. Sort o' man always on the blue sneak." Don held up his hand. "Think they suspect anything, Jem?" he whispered. "Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't, Mas' Don. That stoutish chap seemed to smell a rat, and that smiling door-knocker fellow was all on the spy; but I don't think he heared anything, and I'm sure he didn't see. Now, then, can you tell me whether they're coming back?"<|quote|>Don shook his head, and they remained thinking and watching for nearly an hour before Jem declared that they must risk it.</|quote|>"One minute," said Don; and he went on tip-toe as far as the trap-door, and lying down, listened and applied his eyes to various cracks, before feeling convinced that no one was listening. "Why, you didn't try if it was fastened," cried Jem; and taking out his knife, he inserted it opposite to the hinges, and tried to lever up the door. It was labour in vain, for the bolt had been shot. "They don't mean to let us go, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Come on, and let's get the rope done." They returned to the sacking, lifted it up, and taking out the unfinished rope, worked away rapidly, but with the action of sparrows feeding in a road--one peck and two looks out for danger. Half-a-dozen times at least the work was hidden, some sound below suggesting danger, while over and over again, in spite of their efforts, the rope advanced so slowly, and the result was so poor, that Don felt in despair of its being done by the time they wanted it, and doubtful whether if done it would bear their weight. He envied Jem's stolid patience and the brave way in which he worked, twisting, and
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have made a bed of it, eh? Let's have a look." The perspiration stood on Don's forehead. "Well," said the bluff man, "why don't you get up? Quick!" He took a step nearer Don, and was in the act of stooping to take him by the arm, when there was a hail from below. "Ahoy!" shouted the sailor, bending over the trap-door. "Wants Mr Jones," came up. "Luff wants you, sir," said the man. "Right. There, cheer up, my lads; you might be worse off than you are," said the bluff visitor pleasantly. Then, clapping Don on the shoulder, "Don't sulk, my lad. Make the best of things. You're in the king's service now, so take your fate like a man." He nodded and crossed to the trap. "Ahoy, there! Below there! I'm coming.--Can't expect a bosun to break his neck." He said these last words as his head and shoulders were above the floor, and gave the prisoners a friendly nod just as his eyes were disappearing. "Come along, my lad," he said, when he was out of sight. "Ay! Ay!" growled the furtive-looking man, slowly following, and giving those he left behind a very peculiar smile, which he lengthened out in time and form, till he was right down the ladder, with the trap-door drawn over and resting upon his head. This he slowly lowered, till only his eyes and brow were seen, and he stayed like that watching for a minute, then let the lid close with a _flap_, and shut him, as it were, in a box. "Gone!" said Jem. "Lor', how I should ha' liked to go and jump on that there trap just while he was holding it up with his head. I'd ha' made it ache for him worse than they made mine." "Hist! Don't talk so loud," whispered Don. "He listens." "I hope he's a-listening now," said Jem, loudly; "a lively smiling sort of a man. That's what he is, Mas' Don. Sort o' man always on the blue sneak." Don held up his hand. "Think they suspect anything, Jem?" he whispered. "Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't, Mas' Don. That stoutish chap seemed to smell a rat, and that smiling door-knocker fellow was all on the spy; but I don't think he heared anything, and I'm sure he didn't see. Now, then, can you tell me whether they're coming back?"<|quote|>Don shook his head, and they remained thinking and watching for nearly an hour before Jem declared that they must risk it.</|quote|>"One minute," said Don; and he went on tip-toe as far as the trap-door, and lying down, listened and applied his eyes to various cracks, before feeling convinced that no one was listening. "Why, you didn't try if it was fastened," cried Jem; and taking out his knife, he inserted it opposite to the hinges, and tried to lever up the door. It was labour in vain, for the bolt had been shot. "They don't mean to let us go, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Come on, and let's get the rope done." They returned to the sacking, lifted it up, and taking out the unfinished rope, worked away rapidly, but with the action of sparrows feeding in a road--one peck and two looks out for danger. Half-a-dozen times at least the work was hidden, some sound below suggesting danger, while over and over again, in spite of their efforts, the rope advanced so slowly, and the result was so poor, that Don felt in despair of its being done by the time they wanted it, and doubtful whether if done it would bear their weight. He envied Jem's stolid patience and the brave way in which he worked, twisting, and knotting about every three feet, while every time their eyes met Jem gave him an encouraging nod. Whether to be successful or not, the making of the rope did one thing-- it relieved them of a great deal of mental strain. In fact, Don stared wonderingly at the skylight, as it seemed to him to have suddenly turned dark. "Going to be a storm, Jem," he said. "Will the rain hurt the rope?" "Storm, Mas' Don? Why, it's as clear as clear. Getting late, and us not done." "But the rope must be long enough now." "Think so, sir?" "Yes; and if it is not, we can easily drop the rest of the way." "What! And break our legs, or sprain our ankles, and be caught? No let's make it another yard or two." "Hist! Quick!" They were only just in time, for almost before they had thrown the old sacking over the rope, the bolt of the trap-door was thrust back, and the sinister-looking sailor entered with four more, to give a sharp look round the place, and then roughly seize the prisoners. "Now, then!" cried Jem sharply, "what yer about? Arn't going to tie us up, are you?"
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and threw down the yarn. "Here, what yer doing? You'll get everything in a tangle, sir." "Hush! Some one coming." "I can't hear him." "There is, I tell you. Listen!" Jem held his head on one side like a magpie, and then shook it. "Nobody," he said; but hardly had he said the words than he dabbed the rope under him, and seized upon the yarn, threw some of the old sacks upon it, and then laid his hand on Don's shoulder, just as the trap-door was raised softly a few inches, and a pair of eyes appeared at the broad crack. Then the trap made a creaking noise, and a strange sailor came up, to find Jem seated on the floor tailor-fashion, and Don lying upon his face, with his arms crossed beneath his forehead, and some of the old sacking beneath him. The man came up slowly, and laid the trap back in a careful way, as if to avoid making a noise, and then, after a furtive look at Jem, who gave him a sturdy stare in return, he stood leaning over the opening and listening. Footsteps were heard directly after, and a familiar voice gave some order. Directly after the bluff-looking man with whom they had had so much dealing stepped up into the loft. "Well, my lads," he said, "how are the sore places?" Jem did not answer. "Sulky, eh? Ah, you'll soon get over that. Now, my boy, let's have a look at you." He gave Don a clap on the shoulder, and the lad started up as if from sleep, and stared at the fresh comer. "Won't do," said the bluff man, laughing. "Men don't wake up from sleep like that. Ah! Of course: now you are turning red in the face. Didn't want to speak to me, eh? Well, you are all right, I see." Don did not attempt to rise from where he half sat, half lay, and the man gave a sharp look round, letting his eyes rest; for a few moments upon the window, and then turning them curiously upon the old sacking. To Don's horror he approached and picked up a piece close to that which served for a couch. "How came all this here?" he said sharply. "Old stuff, sir. Been used for the bales o' 'bacco, I s'pose," said the furtive-looking man. "Humph. And so you have made a bed of it, eh? Let's have a look." The perspiration stood on Don's forehead. "Well," said the bluff man, "why don't you get up? Quick!" He took a step nearer Don, and was in the act of stooping to take him by the arm, when there was a hail from below. "Ahoy!" shouted the sailor, bending over the trap-door. "Wants Mr Jones," came up. "Luff wants you, sir," said the man. "Right. There, cheer up, my lads; you might be worse off than you are," said the bluff visitor pleasantly. Then, clapping Don on the shoulder, "Don't sulk, my lad. Make the best of things. You're in the king's service now, so take your fate like a man." He nodded and crossed to the trap. "Ahoy, there! Below there! I'm coming.--Can't expect a bosun to break his neck." He said these last words as his head and shoulders were above the floor, and gave the prisoners a friendly nod just as his eyes were disappearing. "Come along, my lad," he said, when he was out of sight. "Ay! Ay!" growled the furtive-looking man, slowly following, and giving those he left behind a very peculiar smile, which he lengthened out in time and form, till he was right down the ladder, with the trap-door drawn over and resting upon his head. This he slowly lowered, till only his eyes and brow were seen, and he stayed like that watching for a minute, then let the lid close with a _flap_, and shut him, as it were, in a box. "Gone!" said Jem. "Lor', how I should ha' liked to go and jump on that there trap just while he was holding it up with his head. I'd ha' made it ache for him worse than they made mine." "Hist! Don't talk so loud," whispered Don. "He listens." "I hope he's a-listening now," said Jem, loudly; "a lively smiling sort of a man. That's what he is, Mas' Don. Sort o' man always on the blue sneak." Don held up his hand. "Think they suspect anything, Jem?" he whispered. "Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't, Mas' Don. That stoutish chap seemed to smell a rat, and that smiling door-knocker fellow was all on the spy; but I don't think he heared anything, and I'm sure he didn't see. Now, then, can you tell me whether they're coming back?"<|quote|>Don shook his head, and they remained thinking and watching for nearly an hour before Jem declared that they must risk it.</|quote|>"One minute," said Don; and he went on tip-toe as far as the trap-door, and lying down, listened and applied his eyes to various cracks, before feeling convinced that no one was listening. "Why, you didn't try if it was fastened," cried Jem; and taking out his knife, he inserted it opposite to the hinges, and tried to lever up the door. It was labour in vain, for the bolt had been shot. "They don't mean to let us go, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Come on, and let's get the rope done." They returned to the sacking, lifted it up, and taking out the unfinished rope, worked away rapidly, but with the action of sparrows feeding in a road--one peck and two looks out for danger. Half-a-dozen times at least the work was hidden, some sound below suggesting danger, while over and over again, in spite of their efforts, the rope advanced so slowly, and the result was so poor, that Don felt in despair of its being done by the time they wanted it, and doubtful whether if done it would bear their weight. He envied Jem's stolid patience and the brave way in which he worked, twisting, and knotting about every three feet, while every time their eyes met Jem gave him an encouraging nod. Whether to be successful or not, the making of the rope did one thing-- it relieved them of a great deal of mental strain. In fact, Don stared wonderingly at the skylight, as it seemed to him to have suddenly turned dark. "Going to be a storm, Jem," he said. "Will the rain hurt the rope?" "Storm, Mas' Don? Why, it's as clear as clear. Getting late, and us not done." "But the rope must be long enough now." "Think so, sir?" "Yes; and if it is not, we can easily drop the rest of the way." "What! And break our legs, or sprain our ankles, and be caught? No let's make it another yard or two." "Hist! Quick!" They were only just in time, for almost before they had thrown the old sacking over the rope, the bolt of the trap-door was thrust back, and the sinister-looking sailor entered with four more, to give a sharp look round the place, and then roughly seize the prisoners. "Now, then!" cried Jem sharply, "what yer about? Arn't going to tie us up, are you?" "Yes, if you cut up rough again," said the leader of the little party. "Come on." "Here, what yer going to do?" cried Jem. "Do? You'll see. Not going to spoil your beauty, mate." Don's heart sank low. All that hopeful labour over the rope thrown away! And he cast a despairing look at Jem. "Never mind, my lad," whispered the latter. "More chances than one." "Now then! No whispering. Come along!" shouted the sinister-looking man, fiercely. "Come on down. Bring 'em along." Don cast another despairing look at Jem, and then marched slowly toward the opening in the floor. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. A DESPERATE ATTEMPT. Just as the prisoners reached the trap-door a voice came from below. "Hold hard there, my lads. Bosun Jones has been down to the others, and he says these here may stop where they are." "What for?" "Oh, one o' the four chaps we brought in last night's half wild, and been running amuck. Come on down." "Yah!" growled the sinister sailor, scowling at Jem, as if there were some old enmity between them. "I say, don't," said Jem mockingly. "You'll spoil your good looks. Say, does he always look as handsome as that?" The man doubled his fist, and made a sharp blow at Jem, and seemed surprised at the result; for Jem dodged, and retorted, planting his fist in the fellow's chest, and sending him staggering back. The man's eyes blazed as he recovered himself, and rushed at Jem like a bull-dog. Obeying his first impulse, Don, who had never struck a blow in anger since he left school, forgot fair play for the moment, and doubled his fists to help Jem. "No, no, Mas' Don; I can tackle him," cried Jem; "and I feel as if I should like to now." But there was to be no encounter, for a couple of the other sailors seized their messmate, and forced him to the trap-door, growling and threatening all manner of evil to the sturdy little prisoner, who was standing on his defence. "No, no, mate," said the biggest and strongest of the party; "it's like hitting a man as is down. Come on." There was another struggle, but the brute was half thrust to the ladder, and directly after the trap was closed again, and the bolt shot. "Well, I never felt so much like fighting before--leastwise not since I thrashed old
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break his neck." He said these last words as his head and shoulders were above the floor, and gave the prisoners a friendly nod just as his eyes were disappearing. "Come along, my lad," he said, when he was out of sight. "Ay! Ay!" growled the furtive-looking man, slowly following, and giving those he left behind a very peculiar smile, which he lengthened out in time and form, till he was right down the ladder, with the trap-door drawn over and resting upon his head. This he slowly lowered, till only his eyes and brow were seen, and he stayed like that watching for a minute, then let the lid close with a _flap_, and shut him, as it were, in a box. "Gone!" said Jem. "Lor', how I should ha' liked to go and jump on that there trap just while he was holding it up with his head. I'd ha' made it ache for him worse than they made mine." "Hist! Don't talk so loud," whispered Don. "He listens." "I hope he's a-listening now," said Jem, loudly; "a lively smiling sort of a man. That's what he is, Mas' Don. Sort o' man always on the blue sneak." Don held up his hand. "Think they suspect anything, Jem?" he whispered. "Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't, Mas' Don. That stoutish chap seemed to smell a rat, and that smiling door-knocker fellow was all on the spy; but I don't think he heared anything, and I'm sure he didn't see. Now, then, can you tell me whether they're coming back?"<|quote|>Don shook his head, and they remained thinking and watching for nearly an hour before Jem declared that they must risk it.</|quote|>"One minute," said Don; and he went on tip-toe as far as the trap-door, and lying down, listened and applied his eyes to various cracks, before feeling convinced that no one was listening. "Why, you didn't try if it was fastened," cried Jem; and taking out his knife, he inserted it opposite to the hinges, and tried to lever up the door. It was labour in vain, for the bolt had been shot. "They don't mean to let us go, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Come on, and let's get the rope done." They returned to the sacking, lifted it up, and taking out the unfinished rope, worked away rapidly, but with the action of sparrows feeding in a road--one peck and two looks out for danger. Half-a-dozen times at least the work was hidden, some sound below suggesting danger, while over and over again, in spite of their efforts, the rope advanced so slowly, and the result was so poor, that Don felt in despair of its being done by the time they wanted it, and doubtful whether if done it would bear their weight. He envied Jem's stolid patience and the brave way in which he worked, twisting, and knotting about every three feet, while every time their eyes met Jem gave him an encouraging nod. Whether to be successful or not, the making of the rope did one thing-- it relieved them of a great deal of mental strain. In fact, Don stared wonderingly at the skylight, as it seemed to him to have suddenly turned dark. "Going to be a storm, Jem," he said. "Will the rain hurt the rope?" "Storm, Mas' Don? Why, it's as clear as clear. Getting late, and us not done." "But the rope must be long enough now." "Think so, sir?" "Yes; and if it is not, we can easily drop the rest of the way." "What! And break our legs, or sprain our ankles, and be caught? No let's make it another yard or two." "Hist! Quick!"
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Don Lavington
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he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered,
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No speaker
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_interest_ of it all; since,”<|quote|>he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered,</|quote|>“when we’re really ‘hit’ over
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you see, is the ripping _interest_ of it all; since,”<|quote|>he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered,</|quote|>“when we’re really ‘hit’ over a case we’ll do almost
|
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,”<|quote|>he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered,</|quote|>“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
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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,”<|quote|>he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered,</|quote|>“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
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_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,”<|quote|>he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered,</|quote|>“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” --he at once pursued-- “will always be at the least the greatest of Morettos? Ah,” he cried so cheerily that there was still a freedom in it toward
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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,”<|quote|>he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered,</|quote|>“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” --he at once pursued-- “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
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balance against them. “The man I told _you_ about also,” he said to his formidable patron; “whom I went to Brussels to talk with and who, most kindly, has gone for us to Verona. He has been able to get straight at _their_ Mantovano, but the brute horribly wires me that he doesn’t quite see the thing; see, I mean” --and he gathered his two hearers together now in his overflow of chagrin, conscious, with his break of the ice, more exclusively of that-- “my vivid vital point, the absolute screaming identity of the two persons represented. I still hold,” he persuasively went on, “that our man is their man, but Pappendick decides that he isn’t--and as Pappendick has so _much_ to be reckoned with of course I’m awfully abashed.” Lord Theign had remained what he had begun by being, immeasurably and inaccessibly detached--only with his curiosity more moved than he could help and as, on second thought, to see what sort of a still more offensive fool the heated youth would really make of himself. “Yes--you seem indeed remarkably abashed!” Hugh clearly was thrown again, by the cold “cut” of 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,”<|quote|>he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered,</|quote|>“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” --he at once pursued-- “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
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“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,”<|quote|>he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered,</|quote|>“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” --he at once pursued-- “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
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The Outcry
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said Marilla wearily, looking up.
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No speaker
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tired, Marilla?" "Yes--no--I don't know,"<|quote|>said Marilla wearily, looking up.</|quote|>"I suppose I am tired
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like that. "Are you very tired, Marilla?" "Yes--no--I don't know,"<|quote|>said Marilla wearily, looking up.</|quote|>"I suppose I am tired but I haven't thought about
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Diana and came back to find Marilla in the kitchen, sitting by the table with her head leaning on her hand. Something in her dejected attitude struck a chill to Anne's heart. She had never seen Marilla sit limply inert like that. "Are you very tired, Marilla?" "Yes--no--I don't know,"<|quote|>said Marilla wearily, looking up.</|quote|>"I suppose I am tired but I haven't thought about it. It's not that." "Did you see the oculist? What did he say?" asked Anne anxiously. "Yes, I saw him. He examined my eyes. He says that if I give up all reading and sewing entirely and any kind of
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Everybody has forgot about me and John. I'd forgotten myself. But it all came back to me when I saw Gilbert last Sunday." CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Bend in the road |MARILLA went to town the next day and returned in the evening. Anne had gone over to Orchard Slope with Diana and came back to find Marilla in the kitchen, sitting by the table with her head leaning on her hand. Something in her dejected attitude struck a chill to Anne's heart. She had never seen Marilla sit limply inert like that. "Are you very tired, Marilla?" "Yes--no--I don't know,"<|quote|>said Marilla wearily, looking up.</|quote|>"I suppose I am tired but I haven't thought about it. It's not that." "Did you see the oculist? What did he say?" asked Anne anxiously. "Yes, I saw him. He examined my eyes. He says that if I give up all reading and sewing entirely and any kind of work that strains the eyes, and if I'm careful not to cry, and if I wear the glasses he's given me he thinks my eyes may not get any worse and my headaches will be cured. But if I don't he says I'll certainly be stone-blind in six months. Blind!
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you--" "We had a quarrel. I wouldn't forgive him when he asked me to. I meant to, after awhile--but I was sulky and angry and I wanted to punish him first. He never came back--the Blythes were all mighty independent. But I always felt--rather sorry. I've always kind of wished I'd forgiven him when I had the chance." "So you've had a bit of romance in your life, too," said Anne softly. "Yes, I suppose you might call it that. You wouldn't think so to look at me, would you? But you never can tell about people from their outsides. Everybody has forgot about me and John. I'd forgotten myself. But it all came back to me when I saw Gilbert last Sunday." CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Bend in the road |MARILLA went to town the next day and returned in the evening. Anne had gone over to Orchard Slope with Diana and came back to find Marilla in the kitchen, sitting by the table with her head leaning on her hand. Something in her dejected attitude struck a chill to Anne's heart. She had never seen Marilla sit limply inert like that. "Are you very tired, Marilla?" "Yes--no--I don't know,"<|quote|>said Marilla wearily, looking up.</|quote|>"I suppose I am tired but I haven't thought about it. It's not that." "Did you see the oculist? What did he say?" asked Anne anxiously. "Yes, I saw him. He examined my eyes. He says that if I give up all reading and sewing entirely and any kind of work that strains the eyes, and if I'm careful not to cry, and if I wear the glasses he's given me he thinks my eyes may not get any worse and my headaches will be cured. But if I don't he says I'll certainly be stone-blind in six months. Blind! Anne, just think of it!" For a minute Anne, after her first quick exclamation of dismay, was silent. It seemed to her that she could _not_ speak. Then she said bravely, but with a catch in her voice: "Marilla, _don't_ think of it. You know he has given you hope. If you are careful you won't lose your sight altogether; and if his glasses cure your headaches it will be a great thing." "I don't call it much hope," said Marilla bitterly. "What am I to live for if I can't read or sew or do anything like that? I
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to having it. Marilla, I've almost decided to give up trying to like Josie Pye. I've made what I would once have called a heroic effort to like her, but Josie Pye won't _be_ liked." "Josie is a Pye," said Marilla sharply, "so she can't help being disagreeable. I suppose people of that kind serve some useful purpose in society, but I must say I don't know what it is any more than I know the use of thistles. Is Josie going to teach?" "No, she is going back to Queen's next year. So are Moody Spurgeon and Charlie Sloane. Jane and Ruby are going to teach and they have both got schools--Jane at Newbridge and Ruby at some place up west." "Gilbert Blythe is going to teach too, isn't he?" "Yes" "--briefly. "What a nice-looking fellow he is," said Marilla absently. "I saw him in church last Sunday and he seemed so tall and manly. He looks a lot like his father did at the same age. John Blythe was a nice boy. We used to be real good friends, he and I. People called him my beau." Anne looked up with swift interest. "Oh, Marilla--and what happened?--why didn't you--" "We had a quarrel. I wouldn't forgive him when he asked me to. I meant to, after awhile--but I was sulky and angry and I wanted to punish him first. He never came back--the Blythes were all mighty independent. But I always felt--rather sorry. I've always kind of wished I'd forgiven him when I had the chance." "So you've had a bit of romance in your life, too," said Anne softly. "Yes, I suppose you might call it that. You wouldn't think so to look at me, would you? But you never can tell about people from their outsides. Everybody has forgot about me and John. I'd forgotten myself. But it all came back to me when I saw Gilbert last Sunday." CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Bend in the road |MARILLA went to town the next day and returned in the evening. Anne had gone over to Orchard Slope with Diana and came back to find Marilla in the kitchen, sitting by the table with her head leaning on her hand. Something in her dejected attitude struck a chill to Anne's heart. She had never seen Marilla sit limply inert like that. "Are you very tired, Marilla?" "Yes--no--I don't know,"<|quote|>said Marilla wearily, looking up.</|quote|>"I suppose I am tired but I haven't thought about it. It's not that." "Did you see the oculist? What did he say?" asked Anne anxiously. "Yes, I saw him. He examined my eyes. He says that if I give up all reading and sewing entirely and any kind of work that strains the eyes, and if I'm careful not to cry, and if I wear the glasses he's given me he thinks my eyes may not get any worse and my headaches will be cured. But if I don't he says I'll certainly be stone-blind in six months. Blind! Anne, just think of it!" For a minute Anne, after her first quick exclamation of dismay, was silent. It seemed to her that she could _not_ speak. Then she said bravely, but with a catch in her voice: "Marilla, _don't_ think of it. You know he has given you hope. If you are careful you won't lose your sight altogether; and if his glasses cure your headaches it will be a great thing." "I don't call it much hope," said Marilla bitterly. "What am I to live for if I can't read or sew or do anything like that? I might as well be blind--or dead. And as for crying, I can't help that when I get lonesome. But there, it's no good talking about it. If you'll get me a cup of tea I'll be thankful. I'm about done out. Don't say anything about this to any one for a spell yet, anyway. I can't bear that folks should come here to question and sympathize and talk about it." When Marilla had eaten her lunch Anne persuaded her to go to bed. Then Anne went herself to the east gable and sat down by her window in the darkness alone with her tears and her heaviness of heart. How sadly things had changed since she had sat there the night after coming home! Then she had been full of hope and joy and the future had looked rosy with promise. Anne felt as if she had lived years since then, but before she went to bed there was a smile on her lips and peace in her heart. She had looked her duty courageously in the face and found it a friend--as duty ever is when we meet it frankly. One afternoon a few days later Marilla came slowly
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summers were all there to meet him. I must go home now. Marilla is all alone and she gets lonely at twilight." "She will be lonelier still, I fear, when you go away again to college," said Mrs. Allan. Anne did not reply; she said good night and went slowly back to green Gables. Marilla was sitting on the front door-steps and Anne sat down beside her. The door was open behind them, held back by a big pink conch shell with hints of sea sunsets in its smooth inner convolutions. Anne gathered some sprays of pale-yellow honeysuckle and put them in her hair. She liked the delicious hint of fragrance, as some aerial benediction, above her every time she moved. "Doctor Spencer was here while you were away," Marilla said. "He says that the specialist will be in town tomorrow and he insists that I must go in and have my eyes examined. I suppose I'd better go and have it over. I'll be more than thankful if the man can give me the right kind of glasses to suit my eyes. You won't mind staying here alone while I'm away, will you? Martin will have to drive me in and there's ironing and baking to do." "I shall be all right. Diana will come over for company for me. I shall attend to the ironing and baking beautifully--you needn't fear that I'll starch the handkerchiefs or flavor the cake with liniment." Marilla laughed. "What a girl you were for making mistakes in them days, Anne. You were always getting into scrapes. I did use to think you were possessed. Do you mind the time you dyed your hair?" "Yes, indeed. I shall never forget it," smiled Anne, touching the heavy braid of hair that was wound about her shapely head. "I laugh a little now sometimes when I think what a worry my hair used to be to me--but I don't laugh _much_, because it was a very real trouble then. I did suffer terribly over my hair and my freckles. My freckles are really gone; and people are nice enough to tell me my hair is auburn now--all but Josie Pye. She informed me yesterday that she really thought it was redder than ever, or at least my black dress made it look redder, and she asked me if people who had red hair ever got used to having it. Marilla, I've almost decided to give up trying to like Josie Pye. I've made what I would once have called a heroic effort to like her, but Josie Pye won't _be_ liked." "Josie is a Pye," said Marilla sharply, "so she can't help being disagreeable. I suppose people of that kind serve some useful purpose in society, but I must say I don't know what it is any more than I know the use of thistles. Is Josie going to teach?" "No, she is going back to Queen's next year. So are Moody Spurgeon and Charlie Sloane. Jane and Ruby are going to teach and they have both got schools--Jane at Newbridge and Ruby at some place up west." "Gilbert Blythe is going to teach too, isn't he?" "Yes" "--briefly. "What a nice-looking fellow he is," said Marilla absently. "I saw him in church last Sunday and he seemed so tall and manly. He looks a lot like his father did at the same age. John Blythe was a nice boy. We used to be real good friends, he and I. People called him my beau." Anne looked up with swift interest. "Oh, Marilla--and what happened?--why didn't you--" "We had a quarrel. I wouldn't forgive him when he asked me to. I meant to, after awhile--but I was sulky and angry and I wanted to punish him first. He never came back--the Blythes were all mighty independent. But I always felt--rather sorry. I've always kind of wished I'd forgiven him when I had the chance." "So you've had a bit of romance in your life, too," said Anne softly. "Yes, I suppose you might call it that. You wouldn't think so to look at me, would you? But you never can tell about people from their outsides. Everybody has forgot about me and John. I'd forgotten myself. But it all came back to me when I saw Gilbert last Sunday." CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Bend in the road |MARILLA went to town the next day and returned in the evening. Anne had gone over to Orchard Slope with Diana and came back to find Marilla in the kitchen, sitting by the table with her head leaning on her hand. Something in her dejected attitude struck a chill to Anne's heart. She had never seen Marilla sit limply inert like that. "Are you very tired, Marilla?" "Yes--no--I don't know,"<|quote|>said Marilla wearily, looking up.</|quote|>"I suppose I am tired but I haven't thought about it. It's not that." "Did you see the oculist? What did he say?" asked Anne anxiously. "Yes, I saw him. He examined my eyes. He says that if I give up all reading and sewing entirely and any kind of work that strains the eyes, and if I'm careful not to cry, and if I wear the glasses he's given me he thinks my eyes may not get any worse and my headaches will be cured. But if I don't he says I'll certainly be stone-blind in six months. Blind! Anne, just think of it!" For a minute Anne, after her first quick exclamation of dismay, was silent. It seemed to her that she could _not_ speak. Then she said bravely, but with a catch in her voice: "Marilla, _don't_ think of it. You know he has given you hope. If you are careful you won't lose your sight altogether; and if his glasses cure your headaches it will be a great thing." "I don't call it much hope," said Marilla bitterly. "What am I to live for if I can't read or sew or do anything like that? I might as well be blind--or dead. And as for crying, I can't help that when I get lonesome. But there, it's no good talking about it. If you'll get me a cup of tea I'll be thankful. I'm about done out. Don't say anything about this to any one for a spell yet, anyway. I can't bear that folks should come here to question and sympathize and talk about it." When Marilla had eaten her lunch Anne persuaded her to go to bed. Then Anne went herself to the east gable and sat down by her window in the darkness alone with her tears and her heaviness of heart. How sadly things had changed since she had sat there the night after coming home! Then she had been full of hope and joy and the future had looked rosy with promise. Anne felt as if she had lived years since then, but before she went to bed there was a smile on her lips and peace in her heart. She had looked her duty courageously in the face and found it a friend--as duty ever is when we meet it frankly. One afternoon a few days later Marilla came slowly in from the front yard where she had been talking to a caller--a man whom Anne knew by sight as Sadler from Carmody. Anne wondered what he could have been saying to bring that look to Marilla's face. "What did Mr. Sadler want, Marilla?" Marilla sat down by the window and looked at Anne. There were tears in her eyes in defiance of the oculist's prohibition and her voice broke as she said: "He heard that I was going to sell Green Gables and he wants to buy it." "Buy it! Buy Green Gables?" Anne wondered if she had heard aright. "Oh, Marilla, you don't mean to sell Green Gables!" "Anne, I don't know what else is to be done. I've thought it all over. If my eyes were strong I could stay here and make out to look after things and manage, with a good hired man. But as it is I can't. I may lose my sight altogether; and anyway I'll not be fit to run things. Oh, I never thought I'd live to see the day when I'd have to sell my home. But things would only go behind worse and worse all the time, till nobody would want to buy it. Every cent of our money went in that bank; and there's some notes Matthew gave last fall to pay. Mrs. Lynde advises me to sell the farm and board somewhere--with her I suppose. It won't bring much--it's small and the buildings are old. But it'll be enough for me to live on I reckon. I'm thankful you're provided for with that scholarship, Anne. I'm sorry you won't have a home to come to in your vacations, that's all, but I suppose you'll manage somehow." Marilla broke down and wept bitterly. "You mustn't sell Green Gables," said Anne resolutely. "Oh, Anne, I wish I didn't have to. But you can see for yourself. I can't stay here alone. I'd go crazy with trouble and loneliness. And my sight would go--I know it would." "You won't have to stay here alone, Marilla. I'll be with you. I'm not going to Redmond." "Not going to Redmond!" Marilla lifted her worn face from her hands and looked at Anne. "Why, what do you mean?" "Just what I say. I'm not going to take the scholarship. I decided so the night after you came home from town. You surely don't
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know the use of thistles. Is Josie going to teach?" "No, she is going back to Queen's next year. So are Moody Spurgeon and Charlie Sloane. Jane and Ruby are going to teach and they have both got schools--Jane at Newbridge and Ruby at some place up west." "Gilbert Blythe is going to teach too, isn't he?" "Yes" "--briefly. "What a nice-looking fellow he is," said Marilla absently. "I saw him in church last Sunday and he seemed so tall and manly. He looks a lot like his father did at the same age. John Blythe was a nice boy. We used to be real good friends, he and I. People called him my beau." Anne looked up with swift interest. "Oh, Marilla--and what happened?--why didn't you--" "We had a quarrel. I wouldn't forgive him when he asked me to. I meant to, after awhile--but I was sulky and angry and I wanted to punish him first. He never came back--the Blythes were all mighty independent. But I always felt--rather sorry. I've always kind of wished I'd forgiven him when I had the chance." "So you've had a bit of romance in your life, too," said Anne softly. "Yes, I suppose you might call it that. You wouldn't think so to look at me, would you? But you never can tell about people from their outsides. Everybody has forgot about me and John. I'd forgotten myself. But it all came back to me when I saw Gilbert last Sunday." CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Bend in the road |MARILLA went to town the next day and returned in the evening. Anne had gone over to Orchard Slope with Diana and came back to find Marilla in the kitchen, sitting by the table with her head leaning on her hand. Something in her dejected attitude struck a chill to Anne's heart. She had never seen Marilla sit limply inert like that. "Are you very tired, Marilla?" "Yes--no--I don't know,"<|quote|>said Marilla wearily, looking up.</|quote|>"I suppose I am tired but I haven't thought about it. It's not that." "Did you see the oculist? What did he say?" asked Anne anxiously. "Yes, I saw him. He examined my eyes. He says that if I give up all reading and sewing entirely and any kind of work that strains the eyes, and if I'm careful not to cry, and if I wear the glasses he's given me he thinks my eyes may not get any worse and my headaches will be cured. But if I don't he says I'll certainly be stone-blind in six months. Blind! Anne, just think of it!" For a minute Anne, after her first quick exclamation of dismay, was silent. It seemed to her that she could _not_ speak. Then she said bravely, but with a catch in her voice: "Marilla, _don't_ think of it. You know he has given you hope. If you are careful you won't lose your sight altogether; and if his glasses cure your headaches it will be a great thing." "I don't call it much hope," said Marilla bitterly. "What am I to live for if I can't read or sew or do anything like that? I might as well be blind--or dead. And as for crying, I can't help that when I get lonesome. But there, it's no good talking about it. If you'll get me a cup of tea I'll be thankful. I'm about done out. Don't say anything about this to any one for a spell yet, anyway. I can't bear that folks should come here to question and sympathize and talk about it." When Marilla had eaten her lunch Anne persuaded her to go to bed. Then Anne went herself to the east gable and sat down by her window in the darkness alone with her tears and her heaviness of heart. How sadly things had changed since she had sat there the night after coming home! Then she had been full of hope and joy and the future had looked rosy with promise. Anne felt as if she had lived years since then, but before she went to bed there was a smile on her lips and peace in her heart. She had looked her duty courageously in the face and found it a friend--as duty ever is when we meet it frankly. One afternoon a few days later Marilla came slowly in from the front yard where she had been talking to a caller--a man whom Anne knew by sight as Sadler from Carmody. Anne wondered what he could have been saying to bring that look to Marilla's face. "What did Mr. Sadler want, Marilla?" Marilla sat down by the window and looked at Anne. There were tears in her eyes in defiance of the oculist's prohibition and her voice broke as she said: "He heard that I was going
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Anne Of Green Gables
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"There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that."
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Mrs. Corney
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the inside," said the woman.<|quote|>"There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that."</|quote|>"And this is all?" said
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the word Agnes' engraved on the inside," said the woman.<|quote|>"There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that."</|quote|>"And this is all?" said Monks, after a close and
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a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring. "It has the word Agnes' engraved on the inside," said the woman.<|quote|>"There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that."</|quote|>"And this is all?" said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet. "All," replied the woman. Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds
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her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge." "Where is it now?" asked Monks quickly. "_There_," replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring. "It has the word Agnes' engraved on the inside," said the woman.<|quote|>"There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that."</|quote|>"And this is all?" said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet. "All," replied the woman. Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous dialogue. "I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at," said his wife addressing Monks, after a short silence; "and I want
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replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate." "For what?" demanded Monks. "In good time I'll tell you." said the woman. "I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge." "Where is it now?" asked Monks quickly. "_There_," replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring. "It has the word Agnes' engraved on the inside," said the woman.<|quote|>"There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that."</|quote|>"And this is all?" said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet. "All," replied the woman. Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous dialogue. "I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at," said his wife addressing Monks, after a short silence; "and I want to know nothing; for it's safer not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?" "You may ask," said Monks, with some show of surprise; "but whether I answer or not is another question." "Which makes three," observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of facetiousness. "Is that what you expected to get from me?" demanded the matron. "It is," replied Monks. "The other question?" "What do you propose to do with it? Can it be used against me?" "Never," rejoined Monks; "nor against me either. See here! But don't move a step forward, or your life is not worth
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mother this nurse had robbed." "In life?" asked Monks. "In death," replied the woman, with something like a shudder. "She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant's sake." "She sold it," cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; "did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?" "As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this," said the matron, "she fell back and died." "Without saying more?" cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. "It's a lie! I'll not be played with. She said more. I'll tear the life out of you both, but I'll know what it was." "She didn't utter another word," said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's violence; "but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper." "Which contained" interposed Monks, stretching forward. "Nothing," replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate." "For what?" demanded Monks. "In good time I'll tell you." said the woman. "I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge." "Where is it now?" asked Monks quickly. "_There_," replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring. "It has the word Agnes' engraved on the inside," said the woman.<|quote|>"There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that."</|quote|>"And this is all?" said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet. "All," replied the woman. Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous dialogue. "I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at," said his wife addressing Monks, after a short silence; "and I want to know nothing; for it's safer not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?" "You may ask," said Monks, with some show of surprise; "but whether I answer or not is another question." "Which makes three," observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of facetiousness. "Is that what you expected to get from me?" demanded the matron. "It is," replied Monks. "The other question?" "What do you propose to do with it? Can it be used against me?" "Never," rejoined Monks; "nor against me either. See here! But don't move a step forward, or your life is not worth a bulrush." With these words, he suddenly wheeled the table aside, and pulling an iron ring in the boarding, threw back a large trap-door which opened close at Mr. Bumble's feet, and caused that gentleman to retire several paces backward, with great precipitation. "Look down," said Monks, lowering the lantern into the gulf. "Don't fear me. I could have let you down, quietly enough, when you were seated over it, if that had been my game." Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink; and even Mr. Bumble himself, impelled by curiousity, ventured to do the same. The turbid water, swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all other sounds were lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against the green and slimy piles. There had once been a water-mill beneath; the tide foaming and chafing round the few rotten stakes, and fragments of machinery that yet remained, seemed to dart onward, with a new impulse, when freed from the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted to stem its headlong course. "If you flung a man's body down there, where would it be to-morrow morning?" said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in
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in reply; "and had better hold your tongue." "He had better have cut it out, before he came, if he can't speak in a lower tone," said Monks, grimly. "So! He's your husband, eh?" "He my husband!" tittered the matron, parrying the question. "I thought as much, when you came in," rejoined Monks, marking the angry glance which the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke. "So much the better; I have less hesitation in dealing with two people, when I find that there's only one will between them. I'm in earnest. See here!" He thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and producing a canvas bag, told out twenty-five sovereigns on the table, and pushed them over to the woman. "Now," he said, "gather them up; and when this cursed peal of thunder, which I feel is coming up to break over the house-top, is gone, let's hear your story." The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and to shiver and break almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from the table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say. The faces of the three nearly touched, as the two men leant over the small table in their eagerness to hear, and the woman also leant forward to render her whisper audible. The sickly rays of the suspended lantern falling directly upon them, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of their countenances: which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness, looked ghastly in the extreme. "When this woman, that we called old Sally, died," the matron began, "she and I were alone." "Was there no one by?" asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; "No sick wretch or idiot in some other bed? No one who could hear, and might, by possibility, understand?" "Not a soul," replied the woman; "we were alone. _I_ stood alone beside the body when death came over it." "Good," said Monks, regarding her attentively. "Go on." "She spoke of a young creature," resumed the matron, "who had brought a child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in the same bed, in which she then lay dying." "Ay?" said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder, "Blood! How things come about!" "The child was the one you named to him last night," said the matron, nodding carelessly towards her husband; "the mother this nurse had robbed." "In life?" asked Monks. "In death," replied the woman, with something like a shudder. "She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant's sake." "She sold it," cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; "did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?" "As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this," said the matron, "she fell back and died." "Without saying more?" cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. "It's a lie! I'll not be played with. She said more. I'll tear the life out of you both, but I'll know what it was." "She didn't utter another word," said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's violence; "but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper." "Which contained" interposed Monks, stretching forward. "Nothing," replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate." "For what?" demanded Monks. "In good time I'll tell you." said the woman. "I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge." "Where is it now?" asked Monks quickly. "_There_," replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring. "It has the word Agnes' engraved on the inside," said the woman.<|quote|>"There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that."</|quote|>"And this is all?" said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet. "All," replied the woman. Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous dialogue. "I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at," said his wife addressing Monks, after a short silence; "and I want to know nothing; for it's safer not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?" "You may ask," said Monks, with some show of surprise; "but whether I answer or not is another question." "Which makes three," observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of facetiousness. "Is that what you expected to get from me?" demanded the matron. "It is," replied Monks. "The other question?" "What do you propose to do with it? Can it be used against me?" "Never," rejoined Monks; "nor against me either. See here! But don't move a step forward, or your life is not worth a bulrush." With these words, he suddenly wheeled the table aside, and pulling an iron ring in the boarding, threw back a large trap-door which opened close at Mr. Bumble's feet, and caused that gentleman to retire several paces backward, with great precipitation. "Look down," said Monks, lowering the lantern into the gulf. "Don't fear me. I could have let you down, quietly enough, when you were seated over it, if that had been my game." Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink; and even Mr. Bumble himself, impelled by curiousity, ventured to do the same. The turbid water, swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all other sounds were lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against the green and slimy piles. There had once been a water-mill beneath; the tide foaming and chafing round the few rotten stakes, and fragments of machinery that yet remained, seemed to dart onward, with a new impulse, when freed from the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted to stem its headlong course. "If you flung a man's body down there, where would it be to-morrow morning?" said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in the dark well. "Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides," replied Bumble, recoiling at the thought. Monks drew the little packet from his breast, where he had hurriedly thrust it; and tying it to a leaden weight, which had formed a part of some pulley, and was lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream. It fell straight, and true as a die; clove the water with a scarcely audible splash; and was gone. The three looking into each other's faces, seemed to breathe more freely. "There!" said Monks, closing the trap-door, which fell heavily back into its former position. "If the sea ever gives up its dead, as books say it will, it will keep its gold and silver to itself, and that trash among it. We have nothing more to say, and may break up our pleasant party." "By all means," observed Mr. Bumble, with great alacrity. "You'll keep a quiet tongue in your head, will you?" said Monks, with a threatening look. "I am not afraid of your wife." "You may depend upon me, young man," answered Mr. Bumble, bowing himself gradually towards the ladder, with excessive politeness. "On everybody's account, young man; on my own, you know, Mr. Monks." "I am glad, for your sake, to hear it," remarked Monks. "Light your lantern! And get away from here as fast as you can." It was fortunate that the conversation terminated at this point, or Mr. Bumble, who had bowed himself to within six inches of the ladder, would infallibly have pitched headlong into the room below. He lighted his lantern from that which Monks had detached from the rope, and now carried in his hand; and making no effort to prolong the discourse, descended in silence, followed by his wife. Monks brought up the rear, after pausing on the steps to satisfy himself that there were no other sounds to be heard than the beating of the rain without, and the rushing of the water. They traversed the lower room, slowly, and with caution; for Monks started at every shadow; and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern a foot above the ground, walked not only with remarkable care, but with a marvellously light step for a gentleman of his figure: looking nervously about him for hidden trap-doors. The gate at which they had entered, was softly unfastened and opened by Monks; merely exchanging
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on." "She spoke of a young creature," resumed the matron, "who had brought a child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in the same bed, in which she then lay dying." "Ay?" said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder, "Blood! How things come about!" "The child was the one you named to him last night," said the matron, nodding carelessly towards her husband; "the mother this nurse had robbed." "In life?" asked Monks. "In death," replied the woman, with something like a shudder. "She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant's sake." "She sold it," cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; "did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?" "As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this," said the matron, "she fell back and died." "Without saying more?" cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. "It's a lie! I'll not be played with. She said more. I'll tear the life out of you both, but I'll know what it was." "She didn't utter another word," said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's violence; "but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper." "Which contained" interposed Monks, stretching forward. "Nothing," replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate." "For what?" demanded Monks. "In good time I'll tell you." said the woman. "I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge." "Where is it now?" asked Monks quickly. "_There_," replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring. "It has the word Agnes' engraved on the inside," said the woman.<|quote|>"There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that."</|quote|>"And this is all?" said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet. "All," replied the woman. Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous dialogue. "I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at," said his wife addressing Monks, after a short silence; "and I want to know nothing; for it's safer not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?" "You may ask," said Monks, with some show of surprise; "but whether I answer or not is another question." "Which makes three," observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of facetiousness. "Is that what you expected to get from me?" demanded the matron. "It is," replied Monks. "The other question?" "What do you propose to do with it? Can it be used against me?" "Never," rejoined Monks; "nor against me either. See here! But don't move a step forward, or your life is not worth a bulrush." With these words, he suddenly wheeled the table aside, and pulling an iron ring in the boarding, threw back a large trap-door which opened close at Mr. Bumble's feet, and caused that gentleman to retire several paces backward, with great precipitation. "Look down," said Monks, lowering the lantern into the gulf. "Don't fear me. I could have let you down, quietly enough, when you were seated over it, if that had been my game." Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink; and even Mr. Bumble himself, impelled by curiousity, ventured to do the same. The turbid water, swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all other sounds were lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against the green and slimy piles. There had once been a water-mill beneath; the tide foaming and chafing round the few rotten stakes, and fragments of machinery that yet remained, seemed to dart onward, with a new impulse, when freed from the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted to stem its headlong course. "If you flung a man's body down there, where would it be to-morrow morning?" said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in the dark well. "Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides," replied Bumble, recoiling at the thought. Monks drew the little packet from his breast, where he had hurriedly thrust it; and tying it to a leaden weight, which had formed a part of some pulley, and was lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream. It fell straight, and true as a die; clove the water with a scarcely audible splash; and was gone. The three looking into each other's faces, seemed to breathe more
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Oliver Twist
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"Two or three months!"
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Mrs. Jennings
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months will complete his ordination."<|quote|>"Two or three months!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my
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I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination."<|quote|>"Two or three months!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk
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soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that." "Really," said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination."<|quote|>"Two or three months!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars,
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as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that." "Really," said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination."<|quote|>"Two or three months!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "My dear ma am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why, Colonel Brandon s only
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shut him out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy." And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that." "Really," said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination."<|quote|>"Two or three months!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "My dear ma am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why, Colonel Brandon s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!" The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first. "Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after
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you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he _should_ be all this." Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater. "Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street," said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair. Elinor told him the number of the house. "I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give _you;_ to assure him that he has made me a very an exceedingly happy man." Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on _his_, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it. "When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy." And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that." "Really," said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination."<|quote|>"Two or three months!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "My dear ma am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why, Colonel Brandon s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!" The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first. "Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely _may_ be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds! and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage! It seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Lucy goes to it." "But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living s being enough to allow them to marry." "The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan t go if Lucy an t there." Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not waiting for any thing more. CHAPTER XLI. Edward, having carried his thanks to
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such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; but he said only these two words, "Colonel Brandon!" "Yes," continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the worst was over, "Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern for what has lately passed for the cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you a concern which I am sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion." "Colonel Brandon give _me_ a living! Can it be possible?" "The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find friendship any where." "No," replied he, with sudden consciousness, "not to find it in _you;_ for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all. I feel it I would express it if I could but, as you well know, I am no orator." "You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely, at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon s discernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till I understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps indeed I know he _has_, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation." Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of Edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it. For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to speak; at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said, "Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman." "Indeed," replied Elinor, "I believe that you will find him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he _should_ be all this." Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater. "Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street," said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair. Elinor told him the number of the house. "I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give _you;_ to assure him that he has made me a very an exceedingly happy man." Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on _his_, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it. "When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy." And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that." "Really," said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination."<|quote|>"Two or three months!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "My dear ma am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why, Colonel Brandon s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!" The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first. "Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely _may_ be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds! and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage! It seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Lucy goes to it." "But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living s being enough to allow them to marry." "The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan t go if Lucy an t there." Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not waiting for any thing more. CHAPTER XLI. Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with his happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he reached Bartlett s Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs. Jennings, who called on her again the next day with her congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in her life. Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas. So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor that credit which Edward _would_ give her, that she spoke of her friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion for their good on Miss Dashwood s part, either present or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel Brandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns; anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and secretly resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry. It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his wife s indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel it necessary to pay her a visit. This was an obligation, however, which not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the assistance of any encouragement from her companions. Marianne, not contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to prevent her sister s going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her carriage was always at Elinor s service, so very much disliked Mrs. John Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking Edward s part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. The consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for which no one could really
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and the mansion-house much greater. "Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street," said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair. Elinor told him the number of the house. "I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give _you;_ to assure him that he has made me a very an exceedingly happy man." Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on _his_, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it. "When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy." And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that." "Really," said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination."<|quote|>"Two or three months!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "My dear ma am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why, Colonel Brandon s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!" The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first. "Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely _may_ be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds! and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage! It seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Lucy goes to it." "But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living s being enough to allow them to marry." "The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan t go if Lucy an t there." Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not waiting for any thing more. CHAPTER XLI. Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with his happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he reached Bartlett s Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs. Jennings, who called on her again the next day with her congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in her life. Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas. So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor that credit which Edward
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Sense And Sensibility
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“No, sir,”
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Otto
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listened with all my ears.<|quote|>“No, sir,”</|quote|>Fuchs said in answer to
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held my tongue, but I listened with all my ears.<|quote|>“No, sir,”</|quote|>Fuchs said in answer to a question from grandfather, “nobody
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you must not bother them with questions. That is Ambrosch, asleep on the bench. Come in to breakfast, boys.” After Jake and Otto had swallowed their first cup of coffee, they began to talk excitedly, disregarding grandmother’s warning glances. I held my tongue, but I listened with all my ears.<|quote|>“No, sir,”</|quote|>Fuchs said in answer to a question from grandfather, “nobody heard the gun go off. Ambrosch was out with the ox team, trying to break a road, and the women folks was shut up tight in their cave. When Ambrosch come in it was dark and he did n’t see
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have prayers this morning, because we have a great deal to do. Old Mr. Shimerda is dead, and his family are in great distress. Ambrosch came over here in the middle of the night, and Jake and Otto went back with him. The boys have had a hard night, and you must not bother them with questions. That is Ambrosch, asleep on the bench. Come in to breakfast, boys.” After Jake and Otto had swallowed their first cup of coffee, they began to talk excitedly, disregarding grandmother’s warning glances. I held my tongue, but I listened with all my ears.<|quote|>“No, sir,”</|quote|>Fuchs said in answer to a question from grandfather, “nobody heard the gun go off. Ambrosch was out with the ox team, trying to break a road, and the women folks was shut up tight in their cave. When Ambrosch come in it was dark and he did n’t see nothing, but the oxen acted kind of queer. One of ’em ripped around and got away from him—bolted clean out of the stable. His hands is blistered where the rope run through. He got a lantern and went back and found the old man, just as we seen him.” “Poor
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the kitchen grandfather was standing before the stove with his hands behind him. Jake and Otto had taken off their boots and were rubbing their woolen socks. Their clothes and boots were steaming, and they both looked exhausted. On the bench behind the stove lay a man, covered up with a blanket. Grandmother motioned me to the dining-room. I obeyed reluctantly. I watched her as she came and went, carrying dishes. Her lips were tightly compressed and she kept whispering to herself: “Oh, dear Saviour!” “Lord, Thou knowest!” Presently grandfather came in and spoke to me: “Jimmy, we will not have prayers this morning, because we have a great deal to do. Old Mr. Shimerda is dead, and his family are in great distress. Ambrosch came over here in the middle of the night, and Jake and Otto went back with him. The boys have had a hard night, and you must not bother them with questions. That is Ambrosch, asleep on the bench. Come in to breakfast, boys.” After Jake and Otto had swallowed their first cup of coffee, they began to talk excitedly, disregarding grandmother’s warning glances. I held my tongue, but I listened with all my ears.<|quote|>“No, sir,”</|quote|>Fuchs said in answer to a question from grandfather, “nobody heard the gun go off. Ambrosch was out with the ox team, trying to break a road, and the women folks was shut up tight in their cave. When Ambrosch come in it was dark and he did n’t see nothing, but the oxen acted kind of queer. One of ’em ripped around and got away from him—bolted clean out of the stable. His hands is blistered where the rope run through. He got a lantern and went back and found the old man, just as we seen him.” “Poor soul, poor soul!” grandmother groaned. “I’d like to think he never done it. He was always considerate and un-wishful to give trouble. How could he forget himself and bring this on us!” “I don’t think he was out of his head for a minute, Mrs. Burden,” Fuchs declared. “He done everything natural. You know he was always sort of fixy, and fixy he was to the last. He shaved after dinner, and washed hisself all over after the girls was done the dishes. Ántonia heated the water for him. Then he put on a clean shirt and clean socks, and
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solid that grandmother and I could walk back and forth in it. We found the chickens asleep; perhaps they thought night had come to stay. One old rooster was stirring about, pecking at the solid lump of ice in their water-tin. When we flashed the lantern in their eyes, the hens set up a great cackling and flew about clumsily, scattering down-feathers. The mottled, pin-headed guinea-hens, always resentful of captivity, ran screeching out into the tunnel and tried to poke their ugly, painted faces through the snow walls. By five o’clock the chores were done—just when it was time to begin them all over again! That was a strange, unnatural sort of day. XIV ON the morning of the 22d I wakened with a start. Before I opened my eyes, I seemed to know that something had happened. I heard excited voices in the kitchen—grandmother’s was so shrill that I knew she must be almost beside herself. I looked forward to any new crisis with delight. What could it be, I wondered, as I hurried into my clothes. Perhaps the barn had burned; perhaps the cattle had frozen to death; perhaps a neighbor was lost in the storm. Down in the kitchen grandfather was standing before the stove with his hands behind him. Jake and Otto had taken off their boots and were rubbing their woolen socks. Their clothes and boots were steaming, and they both looked exhausted. On the bench behind the stove lay a man, covered up with a blanket. Grandmother motioned me to the dining-room. I obeyed reluctantly. I watched her as she came and went, carrying dishes. Her lips were tightly compressed and she kept whispering to herself: “Oh, dear Saviour!” “Lord, Thou knowest!” Presently grandfather came in and spoke to me: “Jimmy, we will not have prayers this morning, because we have a great deal to do. Old Mr. Shimerda is dead, and his family are in great distress. Ambrosch came over here in the middle of the night, and Jake and Otto went back with him. The boys have had a hard night, and you must not bother them with questions. That is Ambrosch, asleep on the bench. Come in to breakfast, boys.” After Jake and Otto had swallowed their first cup of coffee, they began to talk excitedly, disregarding grandmother’s warning glances. I held my tongue, but I listened with all my ears.<|quote|>“No, sir,”</|quote|>Fuchs said in answer to a question from grandfather, “nobody heard the gun go off. Ambrosch was out with the ox team, trying to break a road, and the women folks was shut up tight in their cave. When Ambrosch come in it was dark and he did n’t see nothing, but the oxen acted kind of queer. One of ’em ripped around and got away from him—bolted clean out of the stable. His hands is blistered where the rope run through. He got a lantern and went back and found the old man, just as we seen him.” “Poor soul, poor soul!” grandmother groaned. “I’d like to think he never done it. He was always considerate and un-wishful to give trouble. How could he forget himself and bring this on us!” “I don’t think he was out of his head for a minute, Mrs. Burden,” Fuchs declared. “He done everything natural. You know he was always sort of fixy, and fixy he was to the last. He shaved after dinner, and washed hisself all over after the girls was done the dishes. Ántonia heated the water for him. Then he put on a clean shirt and clean socks, and after he was dressed he kissed her and the little one and took his gun and said he was going out to hunt rabbits. He must have gone right down to the barn and done it then. He layed down on that bunk-bed, close to the ox stalls, where he always slept. When we found him, everything was decent except,” —Fuchs wrinkled his brow and hesitated,— “except what he could n’t nowise foresee. His coat was hung on a peg, and his boots was under the bed. He’d took off that silk neckcloth he always wore, and folded it smooth and stuck his pin through it. He turned back his shirt at the neck and rolled up his sleeves.” “I don’t see how he could do it!” grandmother kept saying. Otto misunderstood her. “Why, mam, it was simple enough; he pulled the trigger with his big toe. He layed over on his side and put the end of the barrel in his mouth, then he drew up one foot and felt for the trigger. He found it all right!” “Maybe he did,” said Jake grimly. “There’s something mighty queer about it.” “Now what do you mean, Jake?” grandmother asked sharply.
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and then they made for each other at a gallop. Thud, thud, we could hear the impact of their great heads, and their bellowing shook the pans on the kitchen shelves. Had they not been dehorned, they would have torn each other to pieces. Pretty soon the fat steers took it up and began butting and horning each other. Clearly, the affair had to be stopped. We all stood by and watched admiringly while Fuchs rode into the corral with a pitchfork and prodded the bulls again and again, finally driving them apart. The big storm of the winter began on my eleventh birthday, the 20th of January. When I went down to breakfast that morning, Jake and Otto came in white as snow-men, beating their hands and stamping their feet. They began to laugh boisterously when they saw me, calling:— “You’ve got a birthday present this time, Jim, and no mistake. They was a full-grown blizzard ordered for you.” All day the storm went on. The snow did not fall this time, it simply spilled out of heaven, like thousands of feather-beds being emptied. That afternoon the kitchen was a carpenter-shop; the men brought in their tools and made two great wooden shovels with long handles. Neither grandmother nor I could go out in the storm, so Jake fed the chickens and brought in a pitiful contribution of eggs. Next day our men had to shovel until noon to reach the barn—and the snow was still falling! There had not been such a storm in the ten years my grandfather had lived in Nebraska. He said at dinner that we would not try to reach the cattle—they were fat enough to go without their corn for a day or two; but to-morrow we must feed them and thaw out their water-tap so that they could drink. We could not so much as see the corrals, but we knew the steers were over there, huddled together under the north bank. Our ferocious bulls, subdued enough by this time, were probably warming each other’s backs. “This’ll take the bile out of ’em!” Fuchs remarked gleefully. At noon that day the hens had not been heard from. After dinner Jake and Otto, their damp clothes now dried on them, stretched their stiff arms and plunged again into the drifts. They made a tunnel under the snow to the henhouse, with walls so solid that grandmother and I could walk back and forth in it. We found the chickens asleep; perhaps they thought night had come to stay. One old rooster was stirring about, pecking at the solid lump of ice in their water-tin. When we flashed the lantern in their eyes, the hens set up a great cackling and flew about clumsily, scattering down-feathers. The mottled, pin-headed guinea-hens, always resentful of captivity, ran screeching out into the tunnel and tried to poke their ugly, painted faces through the snow walls. By five o’clock the chores were done—just when it was time to begin them all over again! That was a strange, unnatural sort of day. XIV ON the morning of the 22d I wakened with a start. Before I opened my eyes, I seemed to know that something had happened. I heard excited voices in the kitchen—grandmother’s was so shrill that I knew she must be almost beside herself. I looked forward to any new crisis with delight. What could it be, I wondered, as I hurried into my clothes. Perhaps the barn had burned; perhaps the cattle had frozen to death; perhaps a neighbor was lost in the storm. Down in the kitchen grandfather was standing before the stove with his hands behind him. Jake and Otto had taken off their boots and were rubbing their woolen socks. Their clothes and boots were steaming, and they both looked exhausted. On the bench behind the stove lay a man, covered up with a blanket. Grandmother motioned me to the dining-room. I obeyed reluctantly. I watched her as she came and went, carrying dishes. Her lips were tightly compressed and she kept whispering to herself: “Oh, dear Saviour!” “Lord, Thou knowest!” Presently grandfather came in and spoke to me: “Jimmy, we will not have prayers this morning, because we have a great deal to do. Old Mr. Shimerda is dead, and his family are in great distress. Ambrosch came over here in the middle of the night, and Jake and Otto went back with him. The boys have had a hard night, and you must not bother them with questions. That is Ambrosch, asleep on the bench. Come in to breakfast, boys.” After Jake and Otto had swallowed their first cup of coffee, they began to talk excitedly, disregarding grandmother’s warning glances. I held my tongue, but I listened with all my ears.<|quote|>“No, sir,”</|quote|>Fuchs said in answer to a question from grandfather, “nobody heard the gun go off. Ambrosch was out with the ox team, trying to break a road, and the women folks was shut up tight in their cave. When Ambrosch come in it was dark and he did n’t see nothing, but the oxen acted kind of queer. One of ’em ripped around and got away from him—bolted clean out of the stable. His hands is blistered where the rope run through. He got a lantern and went back and found the old man, just as we seen him.” “Poor soul, poor soul!” grandmother groaned. “I’d like to think he never done it. He was always considerate and un-wishful to give trouble. How could he forget himself and bring this on us!” “I don’t think he was out of his head for a minute, Mrs. Burden,” Fuchs declared. “He done everything natural. You know he was always sort of fixy, and fixy he was to the last. He shaved after dinner, and washed hisself all over after the girls was done the dishes. Ántonia heated the water for him. Then he put on a clean shirt and clean socks, and after he was dressed he kissed her and the little one and took his gun and said he was going out to hunt rabbits. He must have gone right down to the barn and done it then. He layed down on that bunk-bed, close to the ox stalls, where he always slept. When we found him, everything was decent except,” —Fuchs wrinkled his brow and hesitated,— “except what he could n’t nowise foresee. His coat was hung on a peg, and his boots was under the bed. He’d took off that silk neckcloth he always wore, and folded it smooth and stuck his pin through it. He turned back his shirt at the neck and rolled up his sleeves.” “I don’t see how he could do it!” grandmother kept saying. Otto misunderstood her. “Why, mam, it was simple enough; he pulled the trigger with his big toe. He layed over on his side and put the end of the barrel in his mouth, then he drew up one foot and felt for the trigger. He found it all right!” “Maybe he did,” said Jake grimly. “There’s something mighty queer about it.” “Now what do you mean, Jake?” grandmother asked sharply. “Well, mam, I found Krajiek’s axe under the manger, and I picks it up and carries it over to the corpse, and I take my oath it just fit the gash in the front of the old man’s face. That there Krajiek had been sneakin’ round, pale and quiet, and when he seen me examinin’ the axe, he begun whimperin’, ‘My God, man, don’t do that!’ ‘I reckon I’m a-goin’ to look into this,’ says I. Then he begun to squeal like a rat and run about wringin’ his hands. ‘They’ll hang me!’ says he. ‘My God, they’ll hang me sure!’” Fuchs spoke up impatiently. “Krajiek’s gone silly, Jake, and so have you. The old man would n’t have made all them preparations for Krajiek to murder him, would he? It don’t hang together. The gun was right beside him when Ambrosch found him.” “Krajiek could ’a’ put it there, could n’t he?” Jake demanded. Grandmother broke in excitedly: “See here, Jake Marpole, don’t you go trying to add murder to suicide. We’re deep enough in trouble. Otto reads you too many of them detective stories.” “It will be easy to decide all that, Emmaline,” said grandfather quietly. “If he shot himself in the way they think, the gash will be torn from the inside outward.” “Just so it is, Mr. Burden,” Otto affirmed. “I seen bunches of hair and stuff sticking to the poles and straw along the roof. They was blown up there by gunshot, no question.” Grandmother told grandfather she meant to go over to the Shimerdas with him. “There is nothing you can do,” he said doubtfully. “The body can’t be touched until we get the coroner here from Black Hawk, and that will be a matter of several days, this weather.” “Well, I can take them some victuals, anyway, and say a word of comfort to them poor little girls. The oldest one was his darling, and was like a right hand to him. He might have thought of her. He’s left her alone in a hard world.” She glanced distrustfully at Ambrosch, who was now eating his breakfast at the kitchen table. Fuchs, although he had been up in the cold nearly all night, was going to make the long ride to Black Hawk to fetch the priest and the coroner. On the gray gelding, our best horse, he would try to pick his
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kitchen—grandmother’s was so shrill that I knew she must be almost beside herself. I looked forward to any new crisis with delight. What could it be, I wondered, as I hurried into my clothes. Perhaps the barn had burned; perhaps the cattle had frozen to death; perhaps a neighbor was lost in the storm. Down in the kitchen grandfather was standing before the stove with his hands behind him. Jake and Otto had taken off their boots and were rubbing their woolen socks. Their clothes and boots were steaming, and they both looked exhausted. On the bench behind the stove lay a man, covered up with a blanket. Grandmother motioned me to the dining-room. I obeyed reluctantly. I watched her as she came and went, carrying dishes. Her lips were tightly compressed and she kept whispering to herself: “Oh, dear Saviour!” “Lord, Thou knowest!” Presently grandfather came in and spoke to me: “Jimmy, we will not have prayers this morning, because we have a great deal to do. Old Mr. Shimerda is dead, and his family are in great distress. Ambrosch came over here in the middle of the night, and Jake and Otto went back with him. The boys have had a hard night, and you must not bother them with questions. That is Ambrosch, asleep on the bench. Come in to breakfast, boys.” After Jake and Otto had swallowed their first cup of coffee, they began to talk excitedly, disregarding grandmother’s warning glances. I held my tongue, but I listened with all my ears.<|quote|>“No, sir,”</|quote|>Fuchs said in answer to a question from grandfather, “nobody heard the gun go off. Ambrosch was out with the ox team, trying to break a road, and the women folks was shut up tight in their cave. When Ambrosch come in it was dark and he did n’t see nothing, but the oxen acted kind of queer. One of ’em ripped around and got away from him—bolted clean out of the stable. His hands is blistered where the rope run through. He got a lantern and went back and found the old man, just as we seen him.” “Poor soul, poor soul!” grandmother groaned. “I’d like to think he never done it. He was always considerate and un-wishful to give trouble. How could he forget himself and bring this on us!” “I don’t think he was out of his head for a minute, Mrs. Burden,” Fuchs declared. “He done everything natural. You know he was always sort of fixy, and fixy he was to the last. He shaved after dinner, and washed hisself all over after the girls was done the dishes. Ántonia heated the water for him. Then he put on a clean shirt and clean socks, and after he was dressed he
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My Antonia
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"My life here, Jem. I shall go right away."
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Don Lavington
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over now." "What's all over?"<|quote|>"My life here, Jem. I shall go right away."</|quote|>"Go? What?" "Right away. Abroad,
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black." "Ah, well, it's all over now." "What's all over?"<|quote|>"My life here, Jem. I shall go right away."</|quote|>"Go? What?" "Right away. Abroad, I think." "And what'll your
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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?"<|quote|>"My life here, Jem. I shall go right away."</|quote|>"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.
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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?"<|quote|>"My life here, Jem. I shall go right away."</|quote|>"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
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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?"<|quote|>"My life here, Jem. I shall go right away."</|quote|>"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
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the steps on the gravel, and then to the bang of the wicket-gate. Alone with his thoughts, and they were many and strange. What should he do? Go right away, and--and-- "Mas' Don." He looked up, and Jem stood at the door. CHAPTER SIX. JEM WIMBLE TALKS SENSE. "May I come in?" Don nodded. "The master's gone, and took the ladies 'long with him. Why, don't look like that, my lad. Your uncle don't think you took the money?" Don nodded. "But your mother don't, sir?" "Yes, Jem, she believes me guilty too." "I never did!" cried Jem, excitedly. "But sure-_lie_ Miss Kitty don't?" "Yes, Jem, they all think I'm a thief. Everybody does," cried Don, passionately. "No, everybody don't," said Jem, fiercely; "so don't talk like that, Mas' Don. Why, even I couldn't ha' stole that money--me, as is only yard-man, and nothing o' no consequence t'other day. So if I couldn't ha' done it, I'm quite sure as you, as is a young gentleman born and bred, couldn't." "But they think I did. Everybody thinks so." "Tell yer everybody don't think so," cried Jem, sharply. "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?"<|quote|>"My life here, Jem. I shall go right away."</|quote|>"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
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him after all, and he responded to her advances by grasping her hands tightly in his. "Do, do speak, Don dear, and beg father to forgive you," she cried. "Tell him it was a mistake, and that you will never do so again." Don let fall her hands, the deep scowl came over his brow again, and he half turned away. "No, no, Don, dear," she whispered; "pray don't be obstinate. Confess that you did it, and promise father to do better in the future. He will forgive you; I know he will." Don turned his back with an impatient gesture, and Kitty burst into tears, and went slowly to her aunt, to whose hands she clung. "Laura, dear," said Uncle Josiah, gravely, "I think we had better bring this painful interview to an end. You may rest assured that I shall do what is just and right by Don. He shall have every opportunity for clearing himself." "I am not guilty," cried Don, fiercely throwing back his head. "I thought so this morning, my boy," said the old merchant, gravely. "Your conduct now is making me think very differently. Laura, I will walk home with you, if you please." "Josiah! Don, my boy, pray, pray speak," cried Mrs Lavington, piteously. Don heard her appeal, and it thrilled him, but his uncle's words had raised up an obstinacy that was stronger than ever, and while longing to throw himself in his mother's arms--passionately longing so to do--his indignant pride held him back, and he stood with his head bent, as in obedience to her brother Mrs Lavington took his arm, and allowed him to lead her out of the office, weeping bitterly the while. Don did not look up to meet his mother's yearning gaze, but for months and years after he seemed to see that look when far away in the midst of peril, and too late he bitterly upbraided himself for his want of frankness and power to subdue his obstinate pride. "He thinks me guilty!" he said to himself, as he stood with his head bent, listening, and unaware of the fact that some one was still in the room, till a light step came towards him, his hand was caught, and his cheek rapidly kissed. "Kitty!" "Coming, father." Then there was a rapid step, the door closed, and Don stood in the same attitude, listening to the steps on the gravel, and then to the bang of the wicket-gate. Alone with his thoughts, and they were many and strange. What should he do? Go right away, and--and-- "Mas' Don." He looked up, and Jem stood at the door. CHAPTER SIX. JEM WIMBLE TALKS SENSE. "May I come in?" Don nodded. "The master's gone, and took the ladies 'long with him. Why, don't look like that, my lad. Your uncle don't think you took the money?" Don nodded. "But your mother don't, sir?" "Yes, Jem, she believes me guilty too." "I never did!" cried Jem, excitedly. "But sure-_lie_ Miss Kitty don't?" "Yes, Jem, they all think I'm a thief. Everybody does," cried Don, passionately. "No, everybody don't," said Jem, fiercely; "so don't talk like that, Mas' Don. Why, even I couldn't ha' stole that money--me, as is only yard-man, and nothing o' no consequence t'other day. So if I couldn't ha' done it, I'm quite sure as you, as is a young gentleman born and bred, couldn't." "But they think I did. Everybody thinks so." "Tell yer everybody don't think so," cried Jem, sharply. "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?"<|quote|>"My life here, Jem. I shall go right away."</|quote|>"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." "Yes, Jem, I think I shall." "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
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"Mas' Don." He looked up, and Jem stood at the door. CHAPTER SIX. JEM WIMBLE TALKS SENSE. "May I come in?" Don nodded. "The master's gone, and took the ladies 'long with him. Why, don't look like that, my lad. Your uncle don't think you took the money?" Don nodded. "But your mother don't, sir?" "Yes, Jem, she believes me guilty too." "I never did!" cried Jem, excitedly. "But sure-_lie_ Miss Kitty don't?" "Yes, Jem, they all think I'm a thief. Everybody does," cried Don, passionately. "No, everybody don't," said Jem, fiercely; "so don't talk like that, Mas' Don. Why, even I couldn't ha' stole that money--me, as is only yard-man, and nothing o' no consequence t'other day. So if I couldn't ha' done it, I'm quite sure as you, as is a young gentleman born and bred, couldn't." "But they think I did. Everybody thinks so." "Tell yer everybody don't think so," cried Jem, sharply. "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?"<|quote|>"My life here, Jem. I shall go right away."</|quote|>"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
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Don Lavington
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"I'm supposed to have a good touch."
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Gabriel Syme
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said Syme in simple wonder,<|quote|>"I'm supposed to have a good touch."</|quote|>Then, as the other did
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you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder,<|quote|>"I'm supposed to have a good touch."</|quote|>Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I
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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,<|quote|>"I'm supposed to have a good touch."</|quote|>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
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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,<|quote|>"I'm supposed to have a good touch."</|quote|>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
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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,<|quote|>"I'm supposed to have a good touch."</|quote|>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
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the charge of not being the celebrated anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "This charge, if it was criminal at all, was certainly the lighter of the two, and I went along with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed. I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety. He offered me a good salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because" Syme laid down his knife and fork. "I know," he said, "because you talked to him in a dark room." Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass. CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES "Burgundy is a jolly thing," said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down. "You don't look as if it were," said Syme; "you drink it as if it were medicine." "You must excuse my manner," said the Professor dismally, "my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said, "it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face," and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder,<|quote|>"I'm supposed to have a good touch."</|quote|>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
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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" Syme laid down his knife and fork. "I know," he said, "because you talked to him in a dark room." Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass. CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES "Burgundy is a jolly thing," said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down. "You don't look as if it were," said Syme; "you drink it as if it were medicine." "You must excuse my manner," said the Professor dismally, "my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said, "it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face," and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder,<|quote|>"I'm supposed to have a good touch."</|quote|>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, "and the word introduced without appearing forced. We might say, Dr. Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer...'" "Do you understand," said the other, "that this is a tragedy?" "Perfectly," replied Syme; "always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed" "Syme," said his friend with a stern simplicity, "go to bed!" Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code. He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed. Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly collected his thoughts, threw off the bed-clothes, and stood up. It seemed to him in some curious way that all the safety and sociability of the night before fell with the bedclothes off him, and he stood up in an air of cold danger. He still felt an entire trust and loyalty towards his companion; but it was the trust between two men going to the scaffold. "Well," said Syme with a forced cheerfulness as he pulled on his trousers, "I dreamt of that alphabet of yours. Did it take you long to make it up?" The Professor made no answer, but gazed in front of him with eyes the colour of a wintry
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with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed. I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety. He offered me a good salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because" Syme laid down his knife and fork. "I know," he said, "because you talked to him in a dark room." Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass. CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES "Burgundy is a jolly thing," said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down. "You don't look as if it were," said Syme; "you drink it as if it were medicine." "You must excuse my manner," said the Professor dismally, "my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said, "it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face," and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder,<|quote|>"I'm supposed to have a good touch."</|quote|>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
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The Man Who Was Thursday
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"and an important one, I 'll wager."
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Maurice Oakley
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from Frank," he said joyfully,<|quote|>"and an important one, I 'll wager."</|quote|>He smiled as he weighed
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read the postmark. "A letter from Frank," he said joyfully,<|quote|>"and an important one, I 'll wager."</|quote|>He smiled as he weighed it in his hand and
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the letters from Paris. At last, as Maurice Oakley sat in his library one day, the servant brought him a letter more bulky in weight and appearance than any he had yet received. His eyes glistened with pleasure as he read the postmark. "A letter from Frank," he said joyfully,<|quote|>"and an important one, I 'll wager."</|quote|>He smiled as he weighed it in his hand and caressed it. Mrs. Oakley was out shopping, and as he knew how deep her interest was, he hesitated to break the seal before she returned. He curbed his natural desire and laid the heavy envelope down on the desk. But
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and hope made them eager to open every letter that bore the French postmark. Always it might contain news that he was coming home, or that he had made a great success, or, better, some inquiry after Claire. A long time they had waited, but found no such tidings in the letters from Paris. At last, as Maurice Oakley sat in his library one day, the servant brought him a letter more bulky in weight and appearance than any he had yet received. His eyes glistened with pleasure as he read the postmark. "A letter from Frank," he said joyfully,<|quote|>"and an important one, I 'll wager."</|quote|>He smiled as he weighed it in his hand and caressed it. Mrs. Oakley was out shopping, and as he knew how deep her interest was, he hesitated to break the seal before she returned. He curbed his natural desire and laid the heavy envelope down on the desk. But he could not deny himself the pleasure of speculating as to its contents. It was such a large, interesting-looking package. What might it not contain? It simply reeked of possibilities. Had any one banteringly told Maurice Oakley that he had such a deep vein of sentiment, he would have denied
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We must shield Frank from the pain it would cause him. Poor fellow! he is so sensitive." Their hearts were still steadfastly fixed upon the union of this younger brother with Claire Lessing. She had lately come into a fortune, and there was nothing now to prevent it. They would have written Frank to urge it, but they both believed that to try to woo him away from his art was but to make him more wayward. That any woman could have power enough to take him away from this jealous mistress they very much doubted. But they could hope, and hope made them eager to open every letter that bore the French postmark. Always it might contain news that he was coming home, or that he had made a great success, or, better, some inquiry after Claire. A long time they had waited, but found no such tidings in the letters from Paris. At last, as Maurice Oakley sat in his library one day, the servant brought him a letter more bulky in weight and appearance than any he had yet received. His eyes glistened with pleasure as he read the postmark. "A letter from Frank," he said joyfully,<|quote|>"and an important one, I 'll wager."</|quote|>He smiled as he weighed it in his hand and caressed it. Mrs. Oakley was out shopping, and as he knew how deep her interest was, he hesitated to break the seal before she returned. He curbed his natural desire and laid the heavy envelope down on the desk. But he could not deny himself the pleasure of speculating as to its contents. It was such a large, interesting-looking package. What might it not contain? It simply reeked of possibilities. Had any one banteringly told Maurice Oakley that he had such a deep vein of sentiment, he would have denied it with scorn and laughter. But here he found himself sitting with the letter in his hand and weaving stories as to its contents. First, now, it might be a notice that Frank had received the badge of the Legion of Honour. No, no, that was too big, and he laughed aloud at his own folly, wondering the next minute, with half shame, why he laughed, for did he, after all, believe anything was too big for that brother of his? Well, let him begin, anyway, away down. Let him say, for instance, that the letter told of the completion
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His brother found deep cause for congratulation in the tone of these epistles. "Frank is getting down to work," he would cry exultantly. "He is past the first buoyant enthusiasm of youth. Ah, Leslie, when a man begins to be serious, then he begins to be something." And her only answer would be, "I wonder, Maurice, if Claire Lessing will wait for him?" The two had frequent questions to answer as to Frank's doing and prospects, and they had always bright things to say of him, even when his letters gave them no such warrant. Their love for him made them read large between the lines, and all they read was good. Between Maurice and his brother no word of the guilty servant ever passed. They each avoided it as an unpleasant subject. Frank had never asked and his brother had never proffered aught of the outcome of the case. Mrs. Oakley had once suggested it. "Brother ought to know," she said, "that Berry is being properly punished." "By no means," replied her husband. "You know that it would only hurt him. He shall never know if I have to tell him." "You are right, Maurice, you are always right. We must shield Frank from the pain it would cause him. Poor fellow! he is so sensitive." Their hearts were still steadfastly fixed upon the union of this younger brother with Claire Lessing. She had lately come into a fortune, and there was nothing now to prevent it. They would have written Frank to urge it, but they both believed that to try to woo him away from his art was but to make him more wayward. That any woman could have power enough to take him away from this jealous mistress they very much doubted. But they could hope, and hope made them eager to open every letter that bore the French postmark. Always it might contain news that he was coming home, or that he had made a great success, or, better, some inquiry after Claire. A long time they had waited, but found no such tidings in the letters from Paris. At last, as Maurice Oakley sat in his library one day, the servant brought him a letter more bulky in weight and appearance than any he had yet received. His eyes glistened with pleasure as he read the postmark. "A letter from Frank," he said joyfully,<|quote|>"and an important one, I 'll wager."</|quote|>He smiled as he weighed it in his hand and caressed it. Mrs. Oakley was out shopping, and as he knew how deep her interest was, he hesitated to break the seal before she returned. He curbed his natural desire and laid the heavy envelope down on the desk. But he could not deny himself the pleasure of speculating as to its contents. It was such a large, interesting-looking package. What might it not contain? It simply reeked of possibilities. Had any one banteringly told Maurice Oakley that he had such a deep vein of sentiment, he would have denied it with scorn and laughter. But here he found himself sitting with the letter in his hand and weaving stories as to its contents. First, now, it might be a notice that Frank had received the badge of the Legion of Honour. No, no, that was too big, and he laughed aloud at his own folly, wondering the next minute, with half shame, why he laughed, for did he, after all, believe anything was too big for that brother of his? Well, let him begin, anyway, away down. Let him say, for instance, that the letter told of the completion and sale of a great picture. Frank had sold small ones. He would be glad of this, for his brother had written him several times of things that were a-doing, but not yet of anything that was done. Or, better yet, let the letter say that some picture, long finished, but of which the artist's pride and anxiety had forbidden him to speak, had made a glowing success, the success it deserved. This sounded well, and seemed not at all beyond the bounds of possibility. It was an alluring vision. He saw the picture already. It was a scene from life, true in detail to the point of very minuteness, and yet with something spiritual in it that lifted it above the mere copy of the commonplace. At the Salon it would be hung on the line, and people would stand before it admiring its workmanship and asking who the artist was. He drew on his memory of old reading. In his mind's eye he saw Frank, unconscious of his own power or too modest to admit it, stand unknown among the crowds around his picture waiting for and dreading their criticisms. He saw the light leap to his eyes
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away the sweet truth that she was engaged and to-morrow would begin work. She wished she could go over and embrace Hattie Sterling. She thought kindly of Joe, and promised herself to give him a present out of her first month's earnings. On the first night of the show pretty little Kitty Hamilton was pointed out as a girl who would n't be in the chorus long. The mother, who was soon to be Mrs. Gibson, sat in the balcony, a grieved, pained look on her face. Joe was in a front row with some of the rest of the gang. He took many drinks between the acts, because he was proud. Mr. Thomas was there. He also was proud, and after the performance he waited for Kitty at the stage door and went forward to meet her as she came out. The look she gave him stopped him, and he let her pass without a word. "Who 'd 'a' thought," he mused, "that the kid had that much nerve? Well, if they don't want to find out things, what do they come to N' Yawk for? It ain't nobody's old Sunday-school picnic. Guess I got out easy, anyhow." Hattie Sterling took Joe home in a hansom. "Say," she said, "if you come this way for me again, it 's all over, see? Your little sister 's a comer, and I 've got to hustle to keep up with her." Joe growled and fell asleep in his chair. One must needs have a strong head or a strong will when one is the brother of a celebrity and would celebrate the distinguished one's success. XIII THE OAKLEYS A year after the arrest of Berry Hamilton, and at a time when New York had shown to the eyes of his family so many strange new sights, there were few changes to be noted in the condition of affairs at the Oakley place. Maurice Oakley was perhaps a shade more distrustful of his servants, and consequently more testy with them. Mrs. Oakley was the same acquiescent woman, with unbounded faith in her husband's wisdom and judgment. With complacent minds both went their ways, drank their wine, and said their prayers, and wished that brother Frank's five years were past. They had letters from him now and then, never very cheerful in tone, but always breathing the deepest love and gratitude to them. His brother found deep cause for congratulation in the tone of these epistles. "Frank is getting down to work," he would cry exultantly. "He is past the first buoyant enthusiasm of youth. Ah, Leslie, when a man begins to be serious, then he begins to be something." And her only answer would be, "I wonder, Maurice, if Claire Lessing will wait for him?" The two had frequent questions to answer as to Frank's doing and prospects, and they had always bright things to say of him, even when his letters gave them no such warrant. Their love for him made them read large between the lines, and all they read was good. Between Maurice and his brother no word of the guilty servant ever passed. They each avoided it as an unpleasant subject. Frank had never asked and his brother had never proffered aught of the outcome of the case. Mrs. Oakley had once suggested it. "Brother ought to know," she said, "that Berry is being properly punished." "By no means," replied her husband. "You know that it would only hurt him. He shall never know if I have to tell him." "You are right, Maurice, you are always right. We must shield Frank from the pain it would cause him. Poor fellow! he is so sensitive." Their hearts were still steadfastly fixed upon the union of this younger brother with Claire Lessing. She had lately come into a fortune, and there was nothing now to prevent it. They would have written Frank to urge it, but they both believed that to try to woo him away from his art was but to make him more wayward. That any woman could have power enough to take him away from this jealous mistress they very much doubted. But they could hope, and hope made them eager to open every letter that bore the French postmark. Always it might contain news that he was coming home, or that he had made a great success, or, better, some inquiry after Claire. A long time they had waited, but found no such tidings in the letters from Paris. At last, as Maurice Oakley sat in his library one day, the servant brought him a letter more bulky in weight and appearance than any he had yet received. His eyes glistened with pleasure as he read the postmark. "A letter from Frank," he said joyfully,<|quote|>"and an important one, I 'll wager."</|quote|>He smiled as he weighed it in his hand and caressed it. Mrs. Oakley was out shopping, and as he knew how deep her interest was, he hesitated to break the seal before she returned. He curbed his natural desire and laid the heavy envelope down on the desk. But he could not deny himself the pleasure of speculating as to its contents. It was such a large, interesting-looking package. What might it not contain? It simply reeked of possibilities. Had any one banteringly told Maurice Oakley that he had such a deep vein of sentiment, he would have denied it with scorn and laughter. But here he found himself sitting with the letter in his hand and weaving stories as to its contents. First, now, it might be a notice that Frank had received the badge of the Legion of Honour. No, no, that was too big, and he laughed aloud at his own folly, wondering the next minute, with half shame, why he laughed, for did he, after all, believe anything was too big for that brother of his? Well, let him begin, anyway, away down. Let him say, for instance, that the letter told of the completion and sale of a great picture. Frank had sold small ones. He would be glad of this, for his brother had written him several times of things that were a-doing, but not yet of anything that was done. Or, better yet, let the letter say that some picture, long finished, but of which the artist's pride and anxiety had forbidden him to speak, had made a glowing success, the success it deserved. This sounded well, and seemed not at all beyond the bounds of possibility. It was an alluring vision. He saw the picture already. It was a scene from life, true in detail to the point of very minuteness, and yet with something spiritual in it that lifted it above the mere copy of the commonplace. At the Salon it would be hung on the line, and people would stand before it admiring its workmanship and asking who the artist was. He drew on his memory of old reading. In his mind's eye he saw Frank, unconscious of his own power or too modest to admit it, stand unknown among the crowds around his picture waiting for and dreading their criticisms. He saw the light leap to his eyes as he heard their words of praise. He saw the straightening of his narrow shoulders when he was forced to admit that he was the painter of the work. Then the windows of Paris were filled with his portraits. The papers were full of his praise, and brave men and fair women met together to do him homage. Fair women, yes, and Frank would look upon them all and see reflected in them but a tithe of the glory of one woman, and that woman Claire Lessing. He roused himself and laughed again as he tapped the magic envelope. "My fancies go on and conquer the world for my brother," he muttered. "He will follow their flight one day and do it himself." The letter drew his eyes back to it. It seemed to invite him, to beg him even. "No, I will not do it; I will wait until Leslie comes. She will be as glad to hear the good news as I am." His dreams were taking the shape of reality in his mind, and he was believing all that he wanted to believe. He turned to look at a picture painted by Frank which hung over the mantel. He dwelt lovingly upon it, seeing in it the touch of a genius. "Surely," he said, "this new picture cannot be greater than that, though it shall hang where kings can see it and this only graces the library of my poor house. It has the feeling of a woman's soul with the strength of a man's heart. When Frank and Claire marry, I shall give it back to them. It is too great a treasure for a clod like me. Heigho, why will women be so long a-shopping?" He glanced again at the letter, and his hand went out involuntarily towards it. He fondled it, smiling. "Ah, Lady Leslie, I 've a mind to open it to punish you for staying so long." He essayed to be playful, but he knew that he was trying to make a compromise with himself because his eagerness grew stronger than his gallantry. He laid the letter down and picked it up again. He studied the postmark over and over. He got up and walked to the window and back again, and then began fumbling in his pockets for his knife. No, he did not want it; yes, he did. He would
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husband's wisdom and judgment. With complacent minds both went their ways, drank their wine, and said their prayers, and wished that brother Frank's five years were past. They had letters from him now and then, never very cheerful in tone, but always breathing the deepest love and gratitude to them. His brother found deep cause for congratulation in the tone of these epistles. "Frank is getting down to work," he would cry exultantly. "He is past the first buoyant enthusiasm of youth. Ah, Leslie, when a man begins to be serious, then he begins to be something." And her only answer would be, "I wonder, Maurice, if Claire Lessing will wait for him?" The two had frequent questions to answer as to Frank's doing and prospects, and they had always bright things to say of him, even when his letters gave them no such warrant. Their love for him made them read large between the lines, and all they read was good. Between Maurice and his brother no word of the guilty servant ever passed. They each avoided it as an unpleasant subject. Frank had never asked and his brother had never proffered aught of the outcome of the case. Mrs. Oakley had once suggested it. "Brother ought to know," she said, "that Berry is being properly punished." "By no means," replied her husband. "You know that it would only hurt him. He shall never know if I have to tell him." "You are right, Maurice, you are always right. We must shield Frank from the pain it would cause him. Poor fellow! he is so sensitive." Their hearts were still steadfastly fixed upon the union of this younger brother with Claire Lessing. She had lately come into a fortune, and there was nothing now to prevent it. They would have written Frank to urge it, but they both believed that to try to woo him away from his art was but to make him more wayward. That any woman could have power enough to take him away from this jealous mistress they very much doubted. But they could hope, and hope made them eager to open every letter that bore the French postmark. Always it might contain news that he was coming home, or that he had made a great success, or, better, some inquiry after Claire. A long time they had waited, but found no such tidings in the letters from Paris. At last, as Maurice Oakley sat in his library one day, the servant brought him a letter more bulky in weight and appearance than any he had yet received. His eyes glistened with pleasure as he read the postmark. "A letter from Frank," he said joyfully,<|quote|>"and an important one, I 'll wager."</|quote|>He smiled as he weighed it in his hand and caressed it. Mrs. Oakley was out shopping, and as he knew how deep her interest was, he hesitated to break the seal before she returned. He curbed his natural desire and laid the heavy envelope down on the desk. But he could not deny himself the pleasure of speculating as to its contents. It was such a large, interesting-looking package. What might it not contain? It simply reeked of possibilities. Had any one banteringly told Maurice Oakley that he had such a deep vein of sentiment, he would have denied it with scorn and laughter. But here he found himself sitting with the letter in his hand and weaving stories as to its contents. First, now, it might be a notice that Frank had received the badge of the Legion of Honour. No, no, that was too big, and he laughed aloud at his own folly, wondering the next minute, with half shame, why he laughed, for did he, after all, believe anything was too big for that brother of his? Well, let him begin, anyway, away down. Let him say, for instance, that the letter told of the completion and sale of a great picture. Frank had sold small ones. He would be glad of this, for his brother had written him several times of things that were a-doing, but not yet of anything that was done. Or, better yet, let the letter say that some picture, long finished, but of which the artist's pride and anxiety had forbidden him to speak, had made a glowing success, the success it deserved. This sounded well, and seemed not at all beyond the bounds of possibility. It was an alluring vision. He saw the picture already. It was a scene from life, true in detail to the point of very minuteness, and yet with something spiritual in it that lifted it above the mere copy of
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The Sport Of The Gods
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Mrs. Hilbery inquired.
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No speaker
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"But you care for her?"<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery inquired.</|quote|>"Good God!" he exclaimed, with
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this statement on his part. "But you care for her?"<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery inquired.</|quote|>"Good God!" he exclaimed, with a vehemence which admitted of
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it yet, but she will oh, she will!" Ralph, whose hand was grasped and whose tongue almost refused to articulate, somehow contrived to say that there were moments when he felt hopeless, utterly hopeless, though he gave no reason for this statement on his part. "But you care for her?"<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery inquired.</|quote|>"Good God!" he exclaimed, with a vehemence which admitted of no question. "It s the Church of England service you both object to?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired innocently. "I don t care a damn what service it is," Ralph replied. "You would marry her in Westminster Abbey if the worst came
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with a little laugh, "though I know that both you and Katharine, unlike other young people of your generation, still find him worth reading." She paused. "I m so glad you ve made Katharine read poetry, Mr. Denham!" she exclaimed, "and feel poetry, and look poetry! She can t talk it yet, but she will oh, she will!" Ralph, whose hand was grasped and whose tongue almost refused to articulate, somehow contrived to say that there were moments when he felt hopeless, utterly hopeless, though he gave no reason for this statement on his part. "But you care for her?"<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery inquired.</|quote|>"Good God!" he exclaimed, with a vehemence which admitted of no question. "It s the Church of England service you both object to?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired innocently. "I don t care a damn what service it is," Ralph replied. "You would marry her in Westminster Abbey if the worst came to the worst?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired. "I would marry her in St. Paul s Cathedral," Ralph replied. His doubts upon this point, which were always roused by Katharine s presence, had vanished completely, and his strongest wish in the world was to be with her immediately, since every second he
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I always feel that our physical ailments are so apt to turn into mental ailments. I think Matthew Arnold says something of the same kind about Lord Byron.) But that s neither here nor there." The effect of these parentheses, whether they were introduced for that purpose or represented a natural instinct on Mrs. Hilbery s part to embellish the bareness of her discourse, gave Ralph time to perceive that she possessed all the facts of their situation and was come, somehow, in the capacity of ambassador. "I didn t come here to talk about Lord Byron," Mrs. Hilbery continued, with a little laugh, "though I know that both you and Katharine, unlike other young people of your generation, still find him worth reading." She paused. "I m so glad you ve made Katharine read poetry, Mr. Denham!" she exclaimed, "and feel poetry, and look poetry! She can t talk it yet, but she will oh, she will!" Ralph, whose hand was grasped and whose tongue almost refused to articulate, somehow contrived to say that there were moments when he felt hopeless, utterly hopeless, though he gave no reason for this statement on his part. "But you care for her?"<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery inquired.</|quote|>"Good God!" he exclaimed, with a vehemence which admitted of no question. "It s the Church of England service you both object to?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired innocently. "I don t care a damn what service it is," Ralph replied. "You would marry her in Westminster Abbey if the worst came to the worst?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired. "I would marry her in St. Paul s Cathedral," Ralph replied. His doubts upon this point, which were always roused by Katharine s presence, had vanished completely, and his strongest wish in the world was to be with her immediately, since every second he was away from her he imagined her slipping farther and farther from him into one of those states of mind in which he was unrepresented. He wished to dominate her, to possess her. "Thank God!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery. She thanked Him for a variety of blessings: for the conviction with which the young man spoke; and not least for the prospect that on her daughter s wedding-day the noble cadences, the stately periods, the ancient eloquence of the marriage service would resound over the heads of a distinguished congregation gathered together near the very spot where her father lay quiescent
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eye should behold them, when he realized that his preparations were needless. The lady was Mrs. Hilbery. "I hope you re not disposing of somebody s fortune in a hurry," she remarked, gazing at the documents on his table, "or cutting off an entail at one blow, because I want to ask you to do me a favor. And Anderson won t keep his horse waiting. (Anderson is a perfect tyrant, but he drove my dear father to the Abbey the day they buried him.) I made bold to come to you, Mr. Denham, not exactly in search of legal assistance (though I don t know who I d rather come to, if I were in trouble), but in order to ask your help in settling some tiresome little domestic affairs that have arisen in my absence. I ve been to Stratford-on-Avon (I must tell you all about that one of these days), and there I got a letter from my sister-in-law, a dear kind goose who likes interfering with other people s children because she s got none of her own. (We re dreadfully afraid that she s going to lose the sight of one of her eyes, and I always feel that our physical ailments are so apt to turn into mental ailments. I think Matthew Arnold says something of the same kind about Lord Byron.) But that s neither here nor there." The effect of these parentheses, whether they were introduced for that purpose or represented a natural instinct on Mrs. Hilbery s part to embellish the bareness of her discourse, gave Ralph time to perceive that she possessed all the facts of their situation and was come, somehow, in the capacity of ambassador. "I didn t come here to talk about Lord Byron," Mrs. Hilbery continued, with a little laugh, "though I know that both you and Katharine, unlike other young people of your generation, still find him worth reading." She paused. "I m so glad you ve made Katharine read poetry, Mr. Denham!" she exclaimed, "and feel poetry, and look poetry! She can t talk it yet, but she will oh, she will!" Ralph, whose hand was grasped and whose tongue almost refused to articulate, somehow contrived to say that there were moments when he felt hopeless, utterly hopeless, though he gave no reason for this statement on his part. "But you care for her?"<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery inquired.</|quote|>"Good God!" he exclaimed, with a vehemence which admitted of no question. "It s the Church of England service you both object to?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired innocently. "I don t care a damn what service it is," Ralph replied. "You would marry her in Westminster Abbey if the worst came to the worst?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired. "I would marry her in St. Paul s Cathedral," Ralph replied. His doubts upon this point, which were always roused by Katharine s presence, had vanished completely, and his strongest wish in the world was to be with her immediately, since every second he was away from her he imagined her slipping farther and farther from him into one of those states of mind in which he was unrepresented. He wished to dominate her, to possess her. "Thank God!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery. She thanked Him for a variety of blessings: for the conviction with which the young man spoke; and not least for the prospect that on her daughter s wedding-day the noble cadences, the stately periods, the ancient eloquence of the marriage service would resound over the heads of a distinguished congregation gathered together near the very spot where her father lay quiescent with the other poets of England. The tears filled her eyes; but she remembered simultaneously that her carriage was waiting, and with dim eyes she walked to the door. Denham followed her downstairs. It was a strange drive. For Denham it was without exception the most unpleasant he had ever taken. His only wish was to go as straightly and quickly as possible to Cheyne Walk; but it soon appeared that Mrs. Hilbery either ignored or thought fit to baffle this desire by interposing various errands of her own. She stopped the carriage at post-offices, and coffee-shops, and shops of inscrutable dignity where the aged attendants had to be greeted as old friends; and, catching sight of the dome of St. Paul s above the irregular spires of Ludgate Hill, she pulled the cord impulsively, and gave directions that Anderson should drive them there. But Anderson had reasons of his own for discouraging afternoon worship, and kept his horse s nose obstinately towards the west. After some minutes, Mrs. Hilbery realized the situation, and accepted it good-humoredly, apologizing to Ralph for his disappointment. "Never mind," she said, "we ll go to St. Paul s another day, and it may turn
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began pacing in circles until the process sickened him, and then took a sheet of paper for the composition of a letter which, he vowed before he began it, should be sent that same evening. It was a difficult matter to put into words; poetry would have done it better justice, but he must abstain from poetry. In an infinite number of half-obliterated scratches he tried to convey to her the possibility that although human beings are woefully ill-adapted for communication, still, such communion is the best we know; moreover, they make it possible for each to have access to another world independent of personal affairs, a world of law, of philosophy, or more strangely a world such as he had had a glimpse of the other evening when together they seemed to be sharing something, creating something, an ideal a vision flung out in advance of our actual circumstances. If this golden rim were quenched, if life were no longer circled by an illusion (but was it an illusion after all?), then it would be too dismal an affair to carry to an end; so he wrote with a sudden spurt of conviction which made clear way for a space and left at least one sentence standing whole. Making every allowance for other desires, on the whole this conclusion appeared to him to justify their relationship. But the conclusion was mystical; it plunged him into thought. The difficulty with which even this amount was written, the inadequacy of the words, and the need of writing under them and over them others which, after all, did no better, led him to leave off before he was at all satisfied with his production, and unable to resist the conviction that such rambling would never be fit for Katharine s eye. He felt himself more cut off from her than ever. In idleness, and because he could do nothing further with words, he began to draw little figures in the blank spaces, heads meant to resemble her head, blots fringed with flames meant to represent perhaps the entire universe. From this occupation he was roused by the message that a lady wished to speak to him. He had scarcely time to run his hands through his hair in order to look as much like a solicitor as possible, and to cram his papers into his pocket, already overcome with shame that another eye should behold them, when he realized that his preparations were needless. The lady was Mrs. Hilbery. "I hope you re not disposing of somebody s fortune in a hurry," she remarked, gazing at the documents on his table, "or cutting off an entail at one blow, because I want to ask you to do me a favor. And Anderson won t keep his horse waiting. (Anderson is a perfect tyrant, but he drove my dear father to the Abbey the day they buried him.) I made bold to come to you, Mr. Denham, not exactly in search of legal assistance (though I don t know who I d rather come to, if I were in trouble), but in order to ask your help in settling some tiresome little domestic affairs that have arisen in my absence. I ve been to Stratford-on-Avon (I must tell you all about that one of these days), and there I got a letter from my sister-in-law, a dear kind goose who likes interfering with other people s children because she s got none of her own. (We re dreadfully afraid that she s going to lose the sight of one of her eyes, and I always feel that our physical ailments are so apt to turn into mental ailments. I think Matthew Arnold says something of the same kind about Lord Byron.) But that s neither here nor there." The effect of these parentheses, whether they were introduced for that purpose or represented a natural instinct on Mrs. Hilbery s part to embellish the bareness of her discourse, gave Ralph time to perceive that she possessed all the facts of their situation and was come, somehow, in the capacity of ambassador. "I didn t come here to talk about Lord Byron," Mrs. Hilbery continued, with a little laugh, "though I know that both you and Katharine, unlike other young people of your generation, still find him worth reading." She paused. "I m so glad you ve made Katharine read poetry, Mr. Denham!" she exclaimed, "and feel poetry, and look poetry! She can t talk it yet, but she will oh, she will!" Ralph, whose hand was grasped and whose tongue almost refused to articulate, somehow contrived to say that there were moments when he felt hopeless, utterly hopeless, though he gave no reason for this statement on his part. "But you care for her?"<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery inquired.</|quote|>"Good God!" he exclaimed, with a vehemence which admitted of no question. "It s the Church of England service you both object to?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired innocently. "I don t care a damn what service it is," Ralph replied. "You would marry her in Westminster Abbey if the worst came to the worst?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired. "I would marry her in St. Paul s Cathedral," Ralph replied. His doubts upon this point, which were always roused by Katharine s presence, had vanished completely, and his strongest wish in the world was to be with her immediately, since every second he was away from her he imagined her slipping farther and farther from him into one of those states of mind in which he was unrepresented. He wished to dominate her, to possess her. "Thank God!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery. She thanked Him for a variety of blessings: for the conviction with which the young man spoke; and not least for the prospect that on her daughter s wedding-day the noble cadences, the stately periods, the ancient eloquence of the marriage service would resound over the heads of a distinguished congregation gathered together near the very spot where her father lay quiescent with the other poets of England. The tears filled her eyes; but she remembered simultaneously that her carriage was waiting, and with dim eyes she walked to the door. Denham followed her downstairs. It was a strange drive. For Denham it was without exception the most unpleasant he had ever taken. His only wish was to go as straightly and quickly as possible to Cheyne Walk; but it soon appeared that Mrs. Hilbery either ignored or thought fit to baffle this desire by interposing various errands of her own. She stopped the carriage at post-offices, and coffee-shops, and shops of inscrutable dignity where the aged attendants had to be greeted as old friends; and, catching sight of the dome of St. Paul s above the irregular spires of Ludgate Hill, she pulled the cord impulsively, and gave directions that Anderson should drive them there. But Anderson had reasons of his own for discouraging afternoon worship, and kept his horse s nose obstinately towards the west. After some minutes, Mrs. Hilbery realized the situation, and accepted it good-humoredly, apologizing to Ralph for his disappointment. "Never mind," she said, "we ll go to St. Paul s another day, and it may turn out, though I can t promise that it _will_, that he ll take us past Westminster Abbey, which would be even better." Ralph was scarcely aware of what she went on to say. Her mind and body both seemed to have floated into another region of quick-sailing clouds rapidly passing across each other and enveloping everything in a vaporous indistinctness. Meanwhile he remained conscious of his own concentrated desire, his impotence to bring about anything he wished, and his increasing agony of impatience. Suddenly Mrs. Hilbery pulled the cord with such decision that even Anderson had to listen to the order which she leant out of the window to give him. The carriage pulled up abruptly in the middle of Whitehall before a large building dedicated to one of our Government offices. In a second Mrs. Hilbery was mounting the steps, and Ralph was left in too acute an irritation by this further delay even to speculate what errand took her now to the Board of Education. He was about to jump from the carriage and take a cab, when Mrs. Hilbery reappeared talking genially to a figure who remained hidden behind her. "There s plenty of room for us all," she was saying. "Plenty of room. We could find space for FOUR of you, William," she added, opening the door, and Ralph found that Rodney had now joined their company. The two men glanced at each other. If distress, shame, discomfort in its most acute form were ever visible upon a human face, Ralph could read them all expressed beyond the eloquence of words upon the face of his unfortunate companion. But Mrs. Hilbery was either completely unseeing or determined to appear so. She went on talking; she talked, it seemed to both the young men, to some one outside, up in the air. She talked about Shakespeare, she apostrophized the human race, she proclaimed the virtues of divine poetry, she began to recite verses which broke down in the middle. The great advantage of her discourse was that it was self-supporting. It nourished itself until Cheyne Walk was reached upon half a dozen grunts and murmurs. "Now," she said, alighting briskly at her door, "here we are!" There was something airy and ironical in her voice and expression as she turned upon the doorstep and looked at them, which filled both Rodney and Denham with the same misgivings
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other desires, on the whole this conclusion appeared to him to justify their relationship. But the conclusion was mystical; it plunged him into thought. The difficulty with which even this amount was written, the inadequacy of the words, and the need of writing under them and over them others which, after all, did no better, led him to leave off before he was at all satisfied with his production, and unable to resist the conviction that such rambling would never be fit for Katharine s eye. He felt himself more cut off from her than ever. In idleness, and because he could do nothing further with words, he began to draw little figures in the blank spaces, heads meant to resemble her head, blots fringed with flames meant to represent perhaps the entire universe. From this occupation he was roused by the message that a lady wished to speak to him. He had scarcely time to run his hands through his hair in order to look as much like a solicitor as possible, and to cram his papers into his pocket, already overcome with shame that another eye should behold them, when he realized that his preparations were needless. The lady was Mrs. Hilbery. "I hope you re not disposing of somebody s fortune in a hurry," she remarked, gazing at the documents on his table, "or cutting off an entail at one blow, because I want to ask you to do me a favor. And Anderson won t keep his horse waiting. (Anderson is a perfect tyrant, but he drove my dear father to the Abbey the day they buried him.) I made bold to come to you, Mr. Denham, not exactly in search of legal assistance (though I don t know who I d rather come to, if I were in trouble), but in order to ask your help in settling some tiresome little domestic affairs that have arisen in my absence. I ve been to Stratford-on-Avon (I must tell you all about that one of these days), and there I got a letter from my sister-in-law, a dear kind goose who likes interfering with other people s children because she s got none of her own. (We re dreadfully afraid that she s going to lose the sight of one of her eyes, and I always feel that our physical ailments are so apt to turn into mental ailments. I think Matthew Arnold says something of the same kind about Lord Byron.) But that s neither here nor there." The effect of these parentheses, whether they were introduced for that purpose or represented a natural instinct on Mrs. Hilbery s part to embellish the bareness of her discourse, gave Ralph time to perceive that she possessed all the facts of their situation and was come, somehow, in the capacity of ambassador. "I didn t come here to talk about Lord Byron," Mrs. Hilbery continued, with a little laugh, "though I know that both you and Katharine, unlike other young people of your generation, still find him worth reading." She paused. "I m so glad you ve made Katharine read poetry, Mr. Denham!" she exclaimed, "and feel poetry, and look poetry! She can t talk it yet, but she will oh, she will!" Ralph, whose hand was grasped and whose tongue almost refused to articulate, somehow contrived to say that there were moments when he felt hopeless, utterly hopeless, though he gave no reason for this statement on his part. "But you care for her?"<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery inquired.</|quote|>"Good God!" he exclaimed, with a vehemence which admitted of no question. "It s the Church of England service you both object to?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired innocently. "I don t care a damn what service it is," Ralph replied. "You would marry her in Westminster Abbey if the worst came to the worst?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired. "I would marry her in St. Paul s Cathedral," Ralph replied. His doubts upon this point, which were always roused by Katharine s presence, had vanished completely, and his strongest wish in the world was to be with her immediately, since every second he was away from her he imagined her slipping farther and farther from him into one of those states of mind in which he was unrepresented. He wished to dominate her, to possess her. "Thank God!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery. She thanked Him for a variety of blessings: for the conviction with which the young man spoke; and not least for the prospect that on her daughter s wedding-day the noble cadences, the stately periods, the ancient eloquence of the marriage service would resound over the heads of a distinguished congregation gathered together near the very spot where her father lay quiescent with the other poets of England. The tears filled her eyes; but she remembered simultaneously that her carriage was waiting, and with dim eyes she walked to the door. Denham followed her downstairs. It was a strange drive. For Denham it was without exception the most unpleasant he had ever taken. His only wish was to go as straightly and quickly as possible to Cheyne Walk; but it soon appeared that Mrs. Hilbery either ignored or thought fit to baffle this desire by interposing various errands of her own. She stopped the carriage at post-offices, and coffee-shops, and shops of inscrutable dignity where the aged attendants had to be greeted as old friends; and, catching sight of the dome of St. Paul s above the irregular spires of Ludgate Hill, she pulled the cord impulsively, and gave directions that Anderson should drive them there. But Anderson had reasons of his own for discouraging afternoon worship, and kept his horse s nose obstinately towards the west. After some minutes, Mrs. Hilbery realized the situation, and accepted it good-humoredly, apologizing to Ralph for his disappointment. "Never mind," she said, "we ll go to St. Paul s another day, and it may turn out, though
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Night And Day
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"A Powler."
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Mrs. Sparsit
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"Was ?" Mrs. Sparsit repeated,<|quote|>"A Powler."</|quote|>"Powler Family," said the stranger,
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pardon, really!" said the stranger. "Was ?" Mrs. Sparsit repeated,<|quote|>"A Powler."</|quote|>"Powler Family," said the stranger, after reflecting a few moments.
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a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler." "Beg your pardon, really!" said the stranger. "Was ?" Mrs. Sparsit repeated,<|quote|>"A Powler."</|quote|>"Powler Family," said the stranger, after reflecting a few moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. The stranger seemed a little more fatigued than before. "You must be very much bored here?" was the inference he drew from the communication. "I am the servant of circumstances, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "and I
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and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it's _always_ as black as this?" "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. "Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler." "Beg your pardon, really!" said the stranger. "Was ?" Mrs. Sparsit repeated,<|quote|>"A Powler."</|quote|>"Powler Family," said the stranger, after reflecting a few moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. The stranger seemed a little more fatigued than before. "You must be very much bored here?" was the inference he drew from the communication. "I am the servant of circumstances, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "and I have long adapted myself to the governing power of my life." "Very philosophical," returned the stranger, "and very exemplary and laudable, and" It seemed to be scarcely worth his while to finish the sentence, so he played with his watch-chain wearily. "May I be permitted to ask, sir," said Mrs.
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hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it's _always_ as black as this?" "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. "Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler." "Beg your pardon, really!" said the stranger. "Was ?" Mrs. Sparsit repeated,<|quote|>"A Powler."</|quote|>"Powler Family," said the stranger, after reflecting a few moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. The stranger seemed a little more fatigued than before. "You must be very much bored here?" was the inference he drew from the communication. "I am the servant of circumstances, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "and I have long adapted myself to the governing power of my life." "Very philosophical," returned the stranger, "and very exemplary and laudable, and" It seemed to be scarcely worth his while to finish the sentence, so he played with his watch-chain wearily. "May I be permitted to ask, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "to what I am indebted for the favour of" "Assuredly," said the stranger. "Much obliged to you for reminding me. I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to Mr. Bounderby, the banker. Walking through this extraordinarily black town, while they were getting dinner ready at the hotel, I asked a fellow whom I met; one of the working people; who appeared to have been taking a shower-bath of something fluffy, which I assume to be the raw material" Mrs. Sparsit inclined her head. "Raw material where Mr. Bounderby, the banker, might reside. Upon which, misled no doubt
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its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it's _always_ as black as this?" "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. "Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler." "Beg your pardon, really!" said the stranger. "Was ?" Mrs. Sparsit repeated,<|quote|>"A Powler."</|quote|>"Powler Family," said the stranger, after reflecting a few moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. The stranger seemed a little more fatigued than before. "You must be very much bored here?" was the inference he drew from the communication. "I am the servant of circumstances, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "and I have long adapted myself to the governing power of my life." "Very philosophical," returned the stranger, "and very exemplary and laudable, and" It seemed to be scarcely worth his while to finish the sentence, so he played with his watch-chain wearily. "May I be permitted to ask, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "to what I am indebted for the favour of" "Assuredly," said the stranger. "Much obliged to you for reminding me. I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to Mr. Bounderby, the banker. Walking through this extraordinarily black town, while they were getting dinner ready at the hotel, I asked a fellow whom I met; one of the working people; who appeared to have been taking a shower-bath of something fluffy, which I assume to be the raw material" Mrs. Sparsit inclined her head. "Raw material where Mr. Bounderby, the banker, might reside. Upon which, misled no doubt by the word Banker, he directed me to the Bank. Fact being, I presume, that Mr. Bounderby the Banker does _not_ reside in the edifice in which I have the honour of offering this explanation?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "he does not." "Thank you. I had no intention of delivering my letter at the present moment, nor have I. But strolling on to the Bank to kill time, and having the good fortune to observe at the window," towards which he languidly waved his hand, then slightly bowed, "a lady of a very superior and agreeable appearance, I considered that I could not do better than take the liberty of asking that lady where Mr. Bounderby the Banker _does_ live. Which I accordingly venture, with all suitable apologies, to do." The inattention and indolence of his manner were sufficiently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit's thinking, by a certain gallantry at ease, which offered her homage too. Here he was, for instance, at this moment, all but sitting on the table, and yet lazily bending over her, as if he acknowledged an attraction in her that made her charming in her way. "Banks, I know, are always suspicious, and officially must
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it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it's _always_ as black as this?" "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. "Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler." "Beg your pardon, really!" said the stranger. "Was ?" Mrs. Sparsit repeated,<|quote|>"A Powler."</|quote|>"Powler Family," said the stranger, after reflecting a few moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. The stranger seemed a little more fatigued than before. "You must be very much bored here?" was the inference he drew from the communication. "I am the servant of circumstances, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "and I have long adapted myself to the governing power of my life." "Very philosophical," returned the stranger, "and very exemplary and laudable, and" It seemed to be scarcely worth his while to finish the sentence, so he played with his watch-chain wearily. "May I be permitted to ask, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "to what I am indebted for the favour of" "Assuredly," said the stranger. "Much obliged to you for reminding me. I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to Mr. Bounderby, the banker. Walking through this extraordinarily black town, while they were getting dinner ready at the hotel, I asked a fellow whom I met; one of the working people; who appeared to have been taking a shower-bath of something fluffy, which I assume to be the raw material" Mrs. Sparsit inclined her head. "Raw material where Mr. Bounderby, the banker, might reside. Upon which, misled no doubt by the word Banker, he directed me to the Bank. Fact being, I presume, that Mr. Bounderby the Banker does _not_ reside in the edifice in which I have the honour of offering this explanation?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "he does not." "Thank you. I had no intention of delivering my letter at the present moment, nor have I. But strolling on to the Bank to kill time, and having the good fortune to observe at the window," towards which he languidly waved his hand, then slightly bowed, "a lady of a very superior and agreeable appearance, I considered that I could not do better than take the liberty of asking that lady where Mr. Bounderby the Banker _does_ live. Which I accordingly venture, with all suitable apologies, to do." The inattention and indolence of his manner were sufficiently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit's thinking, by a certain gallantry at ease, which offered her homage too. Here he was, for instance, at this moment, all but sitting on the table, and yet lazily bending over her, as if he acknowledged an attraction in her that made her charming in her way. "Banks, I know, are always suspicious, and officially must be," said the stranger, whose lightness and smoothness of speech were pleasant likewise; suggesting matter far more sensible and humorous than it ever contained which was perhaps a shrewd device of the founder of this numerous sect, whosoever may have been that great man: "therefore I may observe that my letter here it is is from the member for this place Gradgrind whom I have had the pleasure of knowing in London." Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bounderby's address, with all needful clues and directions in aid. "Thousand thanks," said the stranger. "Of course you know the Banker well?" "Yes, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. "In my dependent relation towards him, I have known him ten years." "Quite an eternity! I think he married Gradgrind's daughter?" "Yes," said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing her mouth, "he had that honour." "The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told?" "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "_Is_ she?" "Excuse my impertinent curiosity," pursued the stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit's eyebrows, with a propitiatory air, "but you know the family, and know the world. I am about to know the family, and may have much to do with them. Is the lady so very alarming? Her father gives her such a portentously hard-headed reputation, that I have a burning desire to know. Is she absolutely unapproachable? Repellently and stunningly clever? I see, by your meaning smile, you think not. You have poured balm into my anxious soul. As to age, now. Forty? Five and thirty?" Mrs. Sparsit laughed outright. "A chit," said she. "Not twenty when she was married." "I give you my honour, Mrs. Powler," returned the stranger, detaching himself from the table, "that I never was so astonished in my life!" It really did seem to impress him, to the utmost extent of his capacity of being impressed. He looked at his informant for full a quarter of a minute, and appeared to have the surprise in his mind all the time. "I assure you, Mrs. Powler," he then said, much exhausted, "that the father's manner prepared me for a grim and stony maturity. I am obliged to you, of all things, for correcting so absurd a mistake. Pray excuse my intrusion. Many thanks. Good day!" He bowed himself out; and Mrs. Sparsit, hiding in the window curtain, saw him languishing down the street
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Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it's _always_ as black as this?" "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. "Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler." "Beg your pardon, really!" said the stranger. "Was ?" Mrs. Sparsit repeated,<|quote|>"A Powler."</|quote|>"Powler Family," said the stranger, after reflecting a few moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. The stranger seemed a little more fatigued than before. "You must be very much bored here?" was the inference he drew from the communication. "I am the servant of circumstances, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "and I have long adapted myself to the governing power of my life." "Very philosophical," returned the stranger, "and very exemplary and laudable, and" It seemed to be scarcely worth his while to finish the sentence, so he played with his watch-chain wearily. "May I be permitted to ask, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "to what I am indebted for the favour of" "Assuredly," said the stranger. "Much obliged to you for reminding me. I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to Mr. Bounderby, the banker. Walking through this extraordinarily black town, while they were getting dinner ready at the hotel, I asked a fellow whom I met; one of the working people; who appeared to have been taking a shower-bath of something fluffy, which I assume to be the raw material" Mrs. Sparsit inclined her head. "Raw material where Mr. Bounderby, the banker, might reside. Upon which, misled no doubt by the word Banker, he directed me to the Bank. Fact being, I presume, that Mr. Bounderby the Banker does _not_ reside in the edifice in which I have the honour of offering this explanation?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "he does not." "Thank you. I had no intention of delivering my letter at the present moment, nor have I. But strolling on to the Bank to kill time, and having the good fortune to observe at the window," towards which he languidly waved his hand, then slightly bowed, "a lady of a very superior and agreeable appearance, I considered that I could not do better than take the liberty of asking that lady where Mr. Bounderby the Banker _does_ live. Which I accordingly venture, with all suitable apologies, to do." The inattention and indolence of his manner were sufficiently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit's
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Hard Times
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“Much better.”
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Nick
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gay time now?” she inquired.<|quote|>“Much better.”</|quote|>I turned again to my
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around and smiled. “Having a gay time now?” she inquired.<|quote|>“Much better.”</|quote|>I turned again to my new acquaintance. “This is an
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in the morning. “Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the Sound.” “What time?” “Any time that suits you best.” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jordan looked around and smiled. “Having a gay time now?” she inquired.<|quote|>“Much better.”</|quote|>I turned again to my new acquaintance. “This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over there—” I waved my hand at the invisible hedge in the distance, “and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.” For a moment he
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in the Sixteenth until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.” We talked for a moment about some wet, grey little villages in France. Evidently he lived in this vicinity, for he told me that he had just bought a hydroplane, and was going to try it out in the morning. “Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the Sound.” “What time?” “Any time that suits you best.” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jordan looked around and smiled. “Having a gay time now?” she inquired.<|quote|>“Much better.”</|quote|>I turned again to my new acquaintance. “This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over there—” I waved my hand at the invisible hedge in the distance, “and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.” For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand. “I’m Gatsby,” he said suddenly. “What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I beg your pardon.” “I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.” He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with
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lawn. I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man of about my age and a rowdy little girl, who gave way upon the slightest provocation to uncontrollable laughter. I was enjoying myself now. I had taken two finger-bowls of champagne, and the scene had changed before my eyes into something significant, elemental, and profound. At a lull in the entertainment the man looked at me and smiled. “Your face is familiar,” he said politely. “Weren’t you in the First Division during the war?” “Why yes. I was in the Twenty-eighth Infantry.” “I was in the Sixteenth until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.” We talked for a moment about some wet, grey little villages in France. Evidently he lived in this vicinity, for he told me that he had just bought a hydroplane, and was going to try it out in the morning. “Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the Sound.” “What time?” “Any time that suits you best.” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jordan looked around and smiled. “Having a gay time now?” she inquired.<|quote|>“Much better.”</|quote|>I turned again to my new acquaintance. “This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over there—” I waved my hand at the invisible hedge in the distance, “and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.” For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand. “I’m Gatsby,” he said suddenly. “What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I beg your pardon.” “I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.” He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favour. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it vanished—and I was looking at an elegant young roughneck, a year or
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a library.” “Has it?” “A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re—” “You told us.” We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors. There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously, fashionably, and keeping in the corners—and a great number of single girls dancing individually or relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz, and between the numbers people were doing “stunts” all over the garden, while happy, vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A pair of stage twins, who turned out to be the girls in yellow, did a baby act in costume, and champagne was served in glasses bigger than finger-bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the stiff, tinny drip of the banjoes on the lawn. I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man of about my age and a rowdy little girl, who gave way upon the slightest provocation to uncontrollable laughter. I was enjoying myself now. I had taken two finger-bowls of champagne, and the scene had changed before my eyes into something significant, elemental, and profound. At a lull in the entertainment the man looked at me and smiled. “Your face is familiar,” he said politely. “Weren’t you in the First Division during the war?” “Why yes. I was in the Twenty-eighth Infantry.” “I was in the Sixteenth until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.” We talked for a moment about some wet, grey little villages in France. Evidently he lived in this vicinity, for he told me that he had just bought a hydroplane, and was going to try it out in the morning. “Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the Sound.” “What time?” “Any time that suits you best.” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jordan looked around and smiled. “Having a gay time now?” she inquired.<|quote|>“Much better.”</|quote|>I turned again to my new acquaintance. “This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over there—” I waved my hand at the invisible hedge in the distance, “and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.” For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand. “I’m Gatsby,” he said suddenly. “What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I beg your pardon.” “I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.” He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favour. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it vanished—and I was looking at an elegant young roughneck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate formality of speech just missed being absurd. Some time before he introduced himself I’d got a strong impression that he was picking his words with care. Almost at the moment when Mr. Gatsby identified himself a butler hurried toward him with the information that Chicago was calling him on the wire. He excused himself with a small bow that included each of us in turn. “If you want anything just ask for it, old sport,” he urged me. “Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.” When he was gone I turned immediately to Jordan—constrained to assure her of my surprise. I had expected that Mr. Gatsby would be a florid and corpulent person in his middle years. “Who is he?” I demanded. “Do you know?” “He’s just a man named Gatsby.” “Where is he from, I mean? And what does he do?” “Now you’re started on the subject,” she answered with a wan smile. “Well, he told me once he was an Oxford man.” A dim background started to take shape behind him, but at her next remark it faded away. “However, I don’t believe it.” “Why not?” “I don’t know,” she insisted, “I just
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preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gaiety. “Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.” We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way. The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?” he demanded impetuously. “About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.” “The books?” He nodded. “Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.” Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures. “See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?” He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf, muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable to collapse. “Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.” Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering. “I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.” “Has it?” “A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re—” “You told us.” We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors. There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously, fashionably, and keeping in the corners—and a great number of single girls dancing individually or relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz, and between the numbers people were doing “stunts” all over the garden, while happy, vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A pair of stage twins, who turned out to be the girls in yellow, did a baby act in costume, and champagne was served in glasses bigger than finger-bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the stiff, tinny drip of the banjoes on the lawn. I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man of about my age and a rowdy little girl, who gave way upon the slightest provocation to uncontrollable laughter. I was enjoying myself now. I had taken two finger-bowls of champagne, and the scene had changed before my eyes into something significant, elemental, and profound. At a lull in the entertainment the man looked at me and smiled. “Your face is familiar,” he said politely. “Weren’t you in the First Division during the war?” “Why yes. I was in the Twenty-eighth Infantry.” “I was in the Sixteenth until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.” We talked for a moment about some wet, grey little villages in France. Evidently he lived in this vicinity, for he told me that he had just bought a hydroplane, and was going to try it out in the morning. “Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the Sound.” “What time?” “Any time that suits you best.” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jordan looked around and smiled. “Having a gay time now?” she inquired.<|quote|>“Much better.”</|quote|>I turned again to my new acquaintance. “This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over there—” I waved my hand at the invisible hedge in the distance, “and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.” For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand. “I’m Gatsby,” he said suddenly. “What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I beg your pardon.” “I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.” He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favour. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it vanished—and I was looking at an elegant young roughneck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate formality of speech just missed being absurd. Some time before he introduced himself I’d got a strong impression that he was picking his words with care. Almost at the moment when Mr. Gatsby identified himself a butler hurried toward him with the information that Chicago was calling him on the wire. He excused himself with a small bow that included each of us in turn. “If you want anything just ask for it, old sport,” he urged me. “Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.” When he was gone I turned immediately to Jordan—constrained to assure her of my surprise. I had expected that Mr. Gatsby would be a florid and corpulent person in his middle years. “Who is he?” I demanded. “Do you know?” “He’s just a man named Gatsby.” “Where is he from, I mean? And what does he do?” “Now you’re started on the subject,” she answered with a wan smile. “Well, he told me once he was an Oxford man.” A dim background started to take shape behind him, but at her next remark it faded away. “However, I don’t believe it.” “Why not?” “I don’t know,” she insisted, “I just don’t think he went there.” Something in her tone reminded me of the other girl’s “I think he killed a man,” and had the effect of stimulating my curiosity. I would have accepted without question the information that Gatsby sprang from the swamps of Louisiana or from the lower East Side of New York. That was comprehensible. But young men didn’t—at least in my provincial inexperience I believed they didn’t—drift coolly out of nowhere and buy a palace on Long Island Sound. “Anyhow, he gives large parties,” said Jordan, changing the subject with an urban distaste for the concrete. “And I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.” There was the boom of a bass drum, and the voice of the orchestra leader rang out suddenly above the echolalia of the garden. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried. “At the request of Mr. Gatsby we are going to play for you Mr. Vladmir Tostoff’s latest work, which attracted so much attention at Carnegie Hall last May. If you read the papers you know there was a big sensation.” He smiled with jovial condescension, and added: “Some sensation!” Whereupon everybody laughed. “The piece is known,” he concluded lustily, “as ‘Vladmir Tostoff’s Jazz History of the World!’ ” The nature of Mr. Tostoff’s composition eluded me, because just as it began my eyes fell on Gatsby, standing alone on the marble steps and looking from one group to another with approving eyes. His tanned skin was drawn attractively tight on his face and his short hair looked as though it were trimmed every day. I could see nothing sinister about him. I wondered if the fact that he was not drinking helped to set him off from his guests, for it seemed to me that he grew more correct as the fraternal hilarity increased. When the “Jazz History of the World” was over, girls were putting their heads on men’s shoulders in a puppyish, convivial way, girls were swooning backward playfully into men’s arms, even into groups, knowing that someone would arrest their falls—but no one swooned backward on Gatsby, and no French bob touched Gatsby’s shoulder, and no singing quartets were formed with Gatsby’s head for one link. “I beg your pardon.” Gatsby’s butler was suddenly standing beside us. “Miss Baker?” he inquired. “I beg your pardon, but Mr. Gatsby would like to speak to you
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a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.” “Has it?” “A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re—” “You told us.” We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors. There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously, fashionably, and keeping in the corners—and a great number of single girls dancing individually or relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz, and between the numbers people were doing “stunts” all over the garden, while happy, vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A pair of stage twins, who turned out to be the girls in yellow, did a baby act in costume, and champagne was served in glasses bigger than finger-bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the stiff, tinny drip of the banjoes on the lawn. I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man of about my age and a rowdy little girl, who gave way upon the slightest provocation to uncontrollable laughter. I was enjoying myself now. I had taken two finger-bowls of champagne, and the scene had changed before my eyes into something significant, elemental, and profound. At a lull in the entertainment the man looked at me and smiled. “Your face is familiar,” he said politely. “Weren’t you in the First Division during the war?” “Why yes. I was in the Twenty-eighth Infantry.” “I was in the Sixteenth until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.” We talked for a moment about some wet, grey little villages in France. Evidently he lived in this vicinity, for he told me that he had just bought a hydroplane, and was going to try it out in the morning. “Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the Sound.” “What time?” “Any time that suits you best.” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jordan looked around and smiled. “Having a gay time now?” she inquired.<|quote|>“Much better.”</|quote|>I turned again to my new acquaintance. “This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over there—” I waved my hand at the invisible hedge in the distance, “and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.” For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand. “I’m Gatsby,” he said suddenly. “What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I beg your pardon.” “I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.” He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favour. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it vanished—and I was looking at an elegant young roughneck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate formality of speech just missed being absurd. Some time before he introduced himself I’d got a strong impression that he was picking his words with care. Almost at the moment when Mr. Gatsby identified himself a butler hurried toward him with the information that Chicago was calling him on the wire. He excused himself with a small bow that included each of us in turn. “If you want anything just ask for it, old sport,” he urged me. “Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.” When he was gone I turned immediately to Jordan—constrained to assure her of my surprise. I had expected that Mr. Gatsby would be a florid and corpulent person in his middle years. “Who is he?” I demanded. “Do you know?” “He’s just a man named Gatsby.” “Where is he from, I mean? And what does he do?” “Now you’re started on the subject,” she answered with a wan smile. “Well, he told me once he was an Oxford man.” A dim background started to take shape behind him, but at her next remark it faded away. “However, I don’t believe it.” “Why not?” “I don’t know,” she insisted, “I just don’t think he went there.” Something in her tone reminded me of the other girl’s “I think he killed a man,” and had the effect of stimulating my curiosity. I would have accepted without question the information that Gatsby sprang from the swamps of Louisiana or from the lower East Side of New York. That was comprehensible. But young men didn’t—at least in my provincial inexperience I believed they didn’t—drift coolly out of nowhere and buy a palace on Long Island Sound. “Anyhow, he gives large parties,” said Jordan, changing the subject with an urban distaste for the concrete. “And I like large parties. They’re so intimate.
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The Great Gatsby
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"I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets."
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Mr. Beebe
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stirred her up by saying:<|quote|>"I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets."</|quote|>"Violets? Oh, dear! Who told
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Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying:<|quote|>"I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets."</|quote|>"Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How
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for herself. "No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?" The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying:<|quote|>"I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets."</|quote|>"Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed.
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one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling." "Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know." Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself. "No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?" The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying:<|quote|>"I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets."</|quote|>"Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice." Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly
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"Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all University men, except one who was in the army, who always made a point of talking to commercial travellers." "Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, who had returned. "Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, everyone, and finally said:" 'I shall go alone.' "She went. At the end of five minutes she returned unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began playing patience." "Whatever happened?" cried Lucy. "No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling." "Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know." Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself. "No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?" The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying:<|quote|>"I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets."</|quote|>"Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice." Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl: he would rather it
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table before the cheese, saying as she did so:" 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who can confute you better than I,' "and pointed to that beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson. Then Miss Lavish said:" 'Tut! The early Victorians.' "Just imagine! 'Tut! The early Victorians.' My sister had gone, and I felt bound to speak. I said" : 'Miss Lavish, I am an early Victorian; at least, that is to say, I will hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen.' "It was horrible speaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep voice:" 'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman for her Irish visit.' "The woman! I tell things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were in by this time, all on account of S. having been mentioned in the first place. But that was not all. After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up and said:" 'Miss Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to talk to those two nice men. Come, too.' "Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all University men, except one who was in the army, who always made a point of talking to commercial travellers." "Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, who had returned. "Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, everyone, and finally said:" 'I shall go alone.' "She went. At the end of five minutes she returned unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began playing patience." "Whatever happened?" cried Lucy. "No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling." "Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know." Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself. "No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?" The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying:<|quote|>"I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets."</|quote|>"Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice." Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively. "Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course." "Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their level." Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left--some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories. Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There
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are, and meanwhile the Grotto fell roaring on to the beach, and the saddest thing of all is that she cannot remember what she has written. The poor thing was very ill after it, and so got tempted into cigarettes. It is a great secret, but I am glad to say that she is writing another novel. She told Teresa and Miss Pole the other day that she had got up all the local colour--this novel is to be about modern Italy; the other was historical--but that she could not start till she had an idea. First she tried Perugia for an inspiration, then she came here--this must on no account get round. And so cheerful through it all! I cannot help thinking that there is something to admire in everyone, even if you do not approve of them." Miss Alan was always thus being charitable against her better judgement. A delicate pathos perfumed her disconnected remarks, giving them unexpected beauty, just as in the decaying autumn woods there sometimes rise odours reminiscent of spring. She felt she had made almost too many allowances, and apologized hurriedly for her toleration. "All the same, she is a little too--I hardly like to say unwomanly, but she behaved most strangely when the Emersons arrived." Mr. Beebe smiled as Miss Alan plunged into an anecdote which he knew she would be unable to finish in the presence of a gentleman. "I don't know, Miss Honeychurch, if you have noticed that Miss Pole, the lady who has so much yellow hair, takes lemonade. That old Mr. Emerson, who puts things very strangely--" Her jaw dropped. She was silent. Mr. Beebe, whose social resources were endless, went out to order some tea, and she continued to Lucy in a hasty whisper: "Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stomach-acidity, he called it--and he may have meant to be kind. I must say I forgot myself and laughed; it was so sudden. As Teresa truly said, it was no laughing matter. But the point is that Miss Lavish was positively ATTRACTED by his mentioning S., and said she liked plain speaking, and meeting different grades of thought. She thought they were commercial travellers--" 'drummers' "was the word she used--and all through dinner she tried to prove that England, our great and beloved country, rests on nothing but commerce. Teresa was very much annoyed, and left the table before the cheese, saying as she did so:" 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who can confute you better than I,' "and pointed to that beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson. Then Miss Lavish said:" 'Tut! The early Victorians.' "Just imagine! 'Tut! The early Victorians.' My sister had gone, and I felt bound to speak. I said" : 'Miss Lavish, I am an early Victorian; at least, that is to say, I will hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen.' "It was horrible speaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep voice:" 'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman for her Irish visit.' "The woman! I tell things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were in by this time, all on account of S. having been mentioned in the first place. But that was not all. After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up and said:" 'Miss Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to talk to those two nice men. Come, too.' "Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all University men, except one who was in the army, who always made a point of talking to commercial travellers." "Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, who had returned. "Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, everyone, and finally said:" 'I shall go alone.' "She went. At the end of five minutes she returned unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began playing patience." "Whatever happened?" cried Lucy. "No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling." "Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know." Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself. "No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?" The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying:<|quote|>"I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets."</|quote|>"Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice." Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively. "Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course." "Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their level." Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left--some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories. Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few streaks of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery light upon the earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun. "Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. "All the galleries are shut." "I think I shall go out," said Lucy. "I want to go round the town in the circular tram--on the platform by the driver." Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say: "I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won't you be better on your feet?" "Italians, dear, you know," said Miss Alan. "Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!" But they still looked disapproval, and she so far conceded to Mr. Beebe as to say that she would only go for a little walk, and keep to the street frequented by tourists. "She oughtn't really to go at all," said Mr. Beebe, as they watched her from the window, "and she knows it. I put it down to too much Beethoven." Chapter IV: Fourth Chapter Mr. Beebe was right. Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as after music. She had not really appreciated the clergyman's wit, nor the suggestive twitterings of Miss Alan. Conversation was tedious; she wanted something big, and she believed that it would have come to her on the wind-swept platform of an electric tram. This she might not attempt. It was unladylike. Why? Why were most big things unladylike? Charlotte had once explained to her why. It was not that ladies were inferior to men; it was that they were different. Their mission was to inspire others to achievement rather than to achieve themselves. Indirectly, by means of tact and a spotless name, a lady could accomplish much. But if she rushed into the fray herself she would be first censured, then despised, and finally ignored. Poems had been written to illustrate this point. There is much that is immortal in this medieval lady. The dragons have gone, and so have the knights, but still she lingers in our midst. She reigned in many an early Victorian castle, and was Queen of much early Victorian song. It is sweet to protect her in the intervals of business, sweet
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can confute you better than I,' "and pointed to that beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson. Then Miss Lavish said:" 'Tut! The early Victorians.' "Just imagine! 'Tut! The early Victorians.' My sister had gone, and I felt bound to speak. I said" : 'Miss Lavish, I am an early Victorian; at least, that is to say, I will hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen.' "It was horrible speaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep voice:" 'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman for her Irish visit.' "The woman! I tell things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were in by this time, all on account of S. having been mentioned in the first place. But that was not all. After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up and said:" 'Miss Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to talk to those two nice men. Come, too.' "Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all University men, except one who was in the army, who always made a point of talking to commercial travellers." "Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, who had returned. "Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, everyone, and finally said:" 'I shall go alone.' "She went. At the end of five minutes she returned unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began playing patience." "Whatever happened?" cried Lucy. "No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling." "Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know." Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself. "No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?" The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying:<|quote|>"I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets."</|quote|>"Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice." Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively. "Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course." "Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their level." Mr. Beebe rather felt
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A Room With A View
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"I am going on to the other place,"
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Dorian Gray
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wanted to escape from himself.<|quote|>"I am going on to the other place,"</|quote|>he said after a pause.
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know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself.<|quote|>"I am going on to the other place,"</|quote|>he said after a pause. "On the wharf?" "Yes." "That
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soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of Basil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The presence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no one would know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself.<|quote|>"I am going on to the other place,"</|quote|>he said after a pause. "On the wharf?" "Yes." "That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won t have her in this place now." Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I am sick of women who love one. Women who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better."
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gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in what strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were teaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he was. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of Basil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The presence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no one would know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself.<|quote|>"I am going on to the other place,"</|quote|>he said after a pause. "On the wharf?" "Yes." "That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won t have her in this place now." Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I am sick of women who love one. Women who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better." "Much the same." "I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have something." "I don t want anything," murmured the young man. "Never mind." Adrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned
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here, Adrian?" muttered Dorian. "Where else should I be?" he answered, listlessly. "None of the chaps will speak to me now." "I thought you had left England." "Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at last. George doesn t speak to me either.... I don t care," he added with a sigh. "As long as one has this stuff, one doesn t want friends. I think I have had too many friends." Dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such fantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in what strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were teaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he was. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of Basil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The presence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no one would know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself.<|quote|>"I am going on to the other place,"</|quote|>he said after a pause. "On the wharf?" "Yes." "That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won t have her in this place now." Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I am sick of women who love one. Women who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better." "Much the same." "I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have something." "I don t want anything," murmured the young man. "Never mind." Adrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of them. The women sidled up and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back on them and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton. A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of the women. "We are very proud to-night," she sneered. "For God s sake don t talk to me," cried Dorian, stamping his foot on the ground. "What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don t ever talk to me again." Two red sparks flashed
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backed them, making quivering disks of light. The floor was covered with ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and stained with dark rings of spilled liquor. Some Malays were crouching by a little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters and showing their white teeth as they chattered. In one corner, with his head buried in his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily painted bar that ran across one complete side stood two haggard women, mocking an old man who was brushing the sleeves of his coat with an expression of disgust. "He thinks he s got red ants on him," laughed one of them, as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her in terror and began to whimper. At the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a darkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the heavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils quivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man with smooth yellow hair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a long thin pipe, looked up at him and nodded in a hesitating manner. "You here, Adrian?" muttered Dorian. "Where else should I be?" he answered, listlessly. "None of the chaps will speak to me now." "I thought you had left England." "Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at last. George doesn t speak to me either.... I don t care," he added with a sigh. "As long as one has this stuff, one doesn t want friends. I think I have had too many friends." Dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such fantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in what strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were teaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he was. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of Basil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The presence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no one would know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself.<|quote|>"I am going on to the other place,"</|quote|>he said after a pause. "On the wharf?" "Yes." "That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won t have her in this place now." Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I am sick of women who love one. Women who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better." "Much the same." "I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have something." "I don t want anything," murmured the young man. "Never mind." Adrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of them. The women sidled up and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back on them and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton. A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of the women. "We are very proud to-night," she sneered. "For God s sake don t talk to me," cried Dorian, stamping his foot on the ground. "What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don t ever talk to me again." Two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman s sodden eyes, then flickered out and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head and raked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion watched her enviously. "It s no use," sighed Adrian Singleton. "I don t care to go back. What does it matter? I am quite happy here." "You will write to me if you want anything, won t you?" said Dorian, after a pause. "Perhaps." "Good night, then." "Good night," answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping his parched mouth with a handkerchief. Dorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drew the curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the woman who had taken his money. "There goes the devil s bargain!" she hiccoughed, in a hoarse voice. "Curse you!" he answered, "don t call me that." She snapped her fingers. "Prince Charming is what you like to be called, ain t it?" she yelled after him. The drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly round. The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on
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the one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible of all man s appetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre. Ugliness that had once been hateful to him because it made things real, became dear to him now for that very reason. Ugliness was the one reality. The coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of disordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were more vivid, in their intense actuality of impression, than all the gracious shapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song. They were what he needed for forgetfulness. In three days he would be free. Suddenly the man drew up with a jerk at the top of a dark lane. Over the low roofs and jagged chimney-stacks of the houses rose the black masts of ships. Wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly sails to the yards. "Somewhere about here, sir, ain t it?" he asked huskily through the trap. Dorian started and peered round. "This will do," he answered, and having got out hastily and given the driver the extra fare he had promised him, he walked quickly in the direction of the quay. Here and there a lantern gleamed at the stern of some huge merchantman. The light shook and splintered in the puddles. A red glare came from an outward-bound steamer that was coaling. The slimy pavement looked like a wet mackintosh. He hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see if he was being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he reached a small shabby house that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. In one of the top-windows stood a lamp. He stopped and gave a peculiar knock. After a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain being unhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a word to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the shadow as he passed. At the end of the hall hung a tattered green curtain that swayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed him in from the street. He dragged it aside and entered a long low room which looked as if it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. Shrill flaring gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that faced them, were ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors of ribbed tin backed them, making quivering disks of light. The floor was covered with ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and stained with dark rings of spilled liquor. Some Malays were crouching by a little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters and showing their white teeth as they chattered. In one corner, with his head buried in his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily painted bar that ran across one complete side stood two haggard women, mocking an old man who was brushing the sleeves of his coat with an expression of disgust. "He thinks he s got red ants on him," laughed one of them, as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her in terror and began to whimper. At the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a darkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the heavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils quivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man with smooth yellow hair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a long thin pipe, looked up at him and nodded in a hesitating manner. "You here, Adrian?" muttered Dorian. "Where else should I be?" he answered, listlessly. "None of the chaps will speak to me now." "I thought you had left England." "Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at last. George doesn t speak to me either.... I don t care," he added with a sigh. "As long as one has this stuff, one doesn t want friends. I think I have had too many friends." Dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such fantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in what strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were teaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he was. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of Basil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The presence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no one would know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself.<|quote|>"I am going on to the other place,"</|quote|>he said after a pause. "On the wharf?" "Yes." "That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won t have her in this place now." Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I am sick of women who love one. Women who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better." "Much the same." "I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have something." "I don t want anything," murmured the young man. "Never mind." Adrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of them. The women sidled up and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back on them and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton. A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of the women. "We are very proud to-night," she sneered. "For God s sake don t talk to me," cried Dorian, stamping his foot on the ground. "What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don t ever talk to me again." Two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman s sodden eyes, then flickered out and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head and raked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion watched her enviously. "It s no use," sighed Adrian Singleton. "I don t care to go back. What does it matter? I am quite happy here." "You will write to me if you want anything, won t you?" said Dorian, after a pause. "Perhaps." "Good night, then." "Good night," answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping his parched mouth with a handkerchief. Dorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drew the curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the woman who had taken his money. "There goes the devil s bargain!" she hiccoughed, in a hoarse voice. "Curse you!" he answered, "don t call me that." She snapped her fingers. "Prince Charming is what you like to be called, ain t it?" she yelled after him. The drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly round. The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. He rushed out as if in pursuit. Dorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. His meeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered if the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, as Basil Hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. He bit his lip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. Yet, after all, what did it matter to him? One s days were too brief to take the burden of another s errors on one s shoulders. Each man lived his own life and paid his own price for living it. The only pity was one had to pay so often for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, indeed. In her dealings with man, destiny never closed her accounts. There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or for what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre of the body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful impulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will. They move to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice is taken from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, lives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience its charm. For all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of disobedience. When that high spirit, that morning star of evil, fell from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell. Callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for rebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but as he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a short cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself suddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself, he was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his throat. He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the tightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver, and saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head, and the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him. "What do you want?" he gasped.
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gave a peculiar knock. After a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain being unhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a word to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the shadow as he passed. At the end of the hall hung a tattered green curtain that swayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed him in from the street. He dragged it aside and entered a long low room which looked as if it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. Shrill flaring gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that faced them, were ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors of ribbed tin backed them, making quivering disks of light. The floor was covered with ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and stained with dark rings of spilled liquor. Some Malays were crouching by a little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters and showing their white teeth as they chattered. In one corner, with his head buried in his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily painted bar that ran across one complete side stood two haggard women, mocking an old man who was brushing the sleeves of his coat with an expression of disgust. "He thinks he s got red ants on him," laughed one of them, as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her in terror and began to whimper. At the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a darkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the heavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils quivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man with smooth yellow hair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a long thin pipe, looked up at him and nodded in a hesitating manner. "You here, Adrian?" muttered Dorian. "Where else should I be?" he answered, listlessly. "None of the chaps will speak to me now." "I thought you had left England." "Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at last. George doesn t speak to me either.... I don t care," he added with a sigh. "As long as one has this stuff, one doesn t want friends. I think I have had too many friends." Dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such fantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in what strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were teaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he was. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of Basil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The presence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no one would know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself.<|quote|>"I am going on to the other place,"</|quote|>he said after a pause. "On the wharf?" "Yes." "That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won t have her in this place now." Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I am sick of women who love one. Women who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better." "Much the same." "I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have something." "I don t want anything," murmured the young man. "Never mind." Adrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of them. The women sidled up and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back on them and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton. A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of the women. "We are very proud to-night," she sneered. "For God s sake don t talk to me," cried Dorian, stamping his foot on the ground. "What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don t ever talk to me again." Two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman s sodden eyes, then flickered out and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head and raked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion watched her enviously. "It s no use," sighed Adrian Singleton. "I don t care to go back. What does it matter? I am quite happy here." "You will write to me if you want anything, won t you?" said Dorian, after a pause. "Perhaps." "Good night, then." "Good night," answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping his parched mouth with a handkerchief. Dorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drew the curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the woman who had taken his money. "There goes the devil s bargain!" she hiccoughed, in a hoarse voice. "Curse you!" he answered, "don t call me that." She snapped her fingers. "Prince Charming is what you like to be called, ain t it?" she yelled after him. The drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly round. The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. He rushed out as if in pursuit. Dorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. His meeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered if the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, as Basil Hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. He bit his lip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. Yet, after all, what did it matter to him? One s days were too brief to take the burden of another s errors on one s shoulders. Each man lived his own life and paid his own
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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To which she added more gravely:
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No speaker
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“on so short an acquaintance.”<|quote|>To which she added more gravely:</|quote|>“I leave you the situation--but
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good of me,” she smiled, “on so short an acquaintance.”<|quote|>To which she added more gravely:</|quote|>“I leave you the situation--but I’m willing to let you
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treated to the sweet chance to guess a conundrum--which he gave up. “I really don’t see any, Lady Sandgate. But,” he a little inconsistently said, “I’m greatly obliged to you for telling me.” “Don’t mention it!--though I think it _is_ good of me,” she smiled, “on so short an acquaintance.”<|quote|>To which she added more gravely:</|quote|>“I leave you the situation--but I’m willing to let you know that I’m all on Grace’s side.” “So am I, _rather!_--please let me frankly say.” He clearly refreshed, he even almost charmed her. “It’s the very least you can say!--though I’m not sure whether you say it as the simplest
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he didn’t find. “I’m sorry to hear such things, but where’s the connection with me?” “Ah, you know best yourself, and if you don’t see any---!” In that case, Lady Sandgate’s motion implied, she washed her hands of it. Hugh had for a moment the air of a young man treated to the sweet chance to guess a conundrum--which he gave up. “I really don’t see any, Lady Sandgate. But,” he a little inconsistently said, “I’m greatly obliged to you for telling me.” “Don’t mention it!--though I think it _is_ good of me,” she smiled, “on so short an acquaintance.”<|quote|>To which she added more gravely:</|quote|>“I leave you the situation--but I’m willing to let you know that I’m all on Grace’s side.” “So am I, _rather!_--please let me frankly say.” He clearly refreshed, he even almost charmed her. “It’s the very least you can say!--though I’m not sure whether you say it as the simplest or as the very subtlest of men. But in case you don’t know as I do how little the particular candidate I’ve named----” “Had a right or a claim to succeed with her?” he broke in--all quick intelligence here at least. “No, I don’t perhaps know as well as you
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your talk with Lord Theign, who had every confidence in her accepting him. But you came, Mr. Crimble, you went; and when her suitor reappeared, just after you _had_ gone, for his answer--” “She wouldn’t have him?” Hugh asked with a precipitation of interest. But Lady Sandgate could humour almost any curiosity. “She wouldn’t look at him.” He bethought himself. “But had she said she would?” “So her father indignantly considers.” “That’s the _ground_ of his indignation?” “He had his reasons for counting on her, and it has determined a painful crisis.” Hugh Crimble turned this over--feeling apparently for something he didn’t find. “I’m sorry to hear such things, but where’s the connection with me?” “Ah, you know best yourself, and if you don’t see any---!” In that case, Lady Sandgate’s motion implied, she washed her hands of it. Hugh had for a moment the air of a young man treated to the sweet chance to guess a conundrum--which he gave up. “I really don’t see any, Lady Sandgate. But,” he a little inconsistently said, “I’m greatly obliged to you for telling me.” “Don’t mention it!--though I think it _is_ good of me,” she smiled, “on so short an acquaintance.”<|quote|>To which she added more gravely:</|quote|>“I leave you the situation--but I’m willing to let you know that I’m all on Grace’s side.” “So am I, _rather!_--please let me frankly say.” He clearly refreshed, he even almost charmed her. “It’s the very least you can say!--though I’m not sure whether you say it as the simplest or as the very subtlest of men. But in case you don’t know as I do how little the particular candidate I’ve named----” “Had a right or a claim to succeed with her?” he broke in--all quick intelligence here at least. “No, I don’t perhaps know as well as you do--but I think I know as well as I just yet require.” “There you are then! And if you did prevent,” his hostess maturely pursued, “what wouldn’t have been--well, good or nice, I’m quite on your side too.” Our young man seemed to feel the shade of ambiguity, but he reached at a meaning. “You’re with me in my plea for our defending at any cost of effort or ingenuity--” “The precious picture Lord Theign exposes?” --she took his presumed sense faster than he had taken hers. But she hung fire a moment with her reply to it. “Well, will
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at it. “I shall have it best if you’ll be so good as to tell me first--well,” he faltered, “what it is that, to my great disquiet, you’ve further alluded to; what it is that has occurred.” Lady Sandgate took her time, but her good-nature and other sentiments pronounced. “Haven’t you at least guessed that she has fallen under her father’s extreme reprobation?” “Yes, so much as that--that she must have greatly annoyed him--I have been supposing. But isn’t it by her having asked me to act for her? I mean about the Mantovano--which I _have_ done.” Lady Sandgate wondered. “You’ve ‘acted’?” “It’s what I’ve come to tell her at last--and I’m all impatience.” “I see, I see” --she had caught a clue. “He hated that--yes; but you haven’t really made out,” she put to him, “the _other_ effect of your hour at Dedborough?” She recognised, however, while she spoke, that his divination had failed, and she didn’t trouble him to confess it. “Directly you had gone she ‘turned down’ Lord John. Declined, I mean, the offer of his hand in marriage.” Hugh was clearly as much mystified as anything else. “He proposed there--?” “He had spoken, that day, _before_--before your talk with Lord Theign, who had every confidence in her accepting him. But you came, Mr. Crimble, you went; and when her suitor reappeared, just after you _had_ gone, for his answer--” “She wouldn’t have him?” Hugh asked with a precipitation of interest. But Lady Sandgate could humour almost any curiosity. “She wouldn’t look at him.” He bethought himself. “But had she said she would?” “So her father indignantly considers.” “That’s the _ground_ of his indignation?” “He had his reasons for counting on her, and it has determined a painful crisis.” Hugh Crimble turned this over--feeling apparently for something he didn’t find. “I’m sorry to hear such things, but where’s the connection with me?” “Ah, you know best yourself, and if you don’t see any---!” In that case, Lady Sandgate’s motion implied, she washed her hands of it. Hugh had for a moment the air of a young man treated to the sweet chance to guess a conundrum--which he gave up. “I really don’t see any, Lady Sandgate. But,” he a little inconsistently said, “I’m greatly obliged to you for telling me.” “Don’t mention it!--though I think it _is_ good of me,” she smiled, “on so short an acquaintance.”<|quote|>To which she added more gravely:</|quote|>“I leave you the situation--but I’m willing to let you know that I’m all on Grace’s side.” “So am I, _rather!_--please let me frankly say.” He clearly refreshed, he even almost charmed her. “It’s the very least you can say!--though I’m not sure whether you say it as the simplest or as the very subtlest of men. But in case you don’t know as I do how little the particular candidate I’ve named----” “Had a right or a claim to succeed with her?” he broke in--all quick intelligence here at least. “No, I don’t perhaps know as well as you do--but I think I know as well as I just yet require.” “There you are then! And if you did prevent,” his hostess maturely pursued, “what wouldn’t have been--well, good or nice, I’m quite on your side too.” Our young man seemed to feel the shade of ambiguity, but he reached at a meaning. “You’re with me in my plea for our defending at any cost of effort or ingenuity--” “The precious picture Lord Theign exposes?” --she took his presumed sense faster than he had taken hers. But she hung fire a moment with her reply to it. “Well, will you keep the secret of everything I’ve said or say?” “To the death, to the stake, Lady Sandgate!” “Then,” she momentously returned, “I only want, too, to make Bender impossible. If you ask me,” she pursued, “how I arrange that with my deep loyalty to Lord Theign----” “I don’t ask you anything of the sort,” he interrupted-- “I wouldn’t ask you for the world; and my own bright plan for achieving the _coup_ you mention------” “You’ll have time, at the most,” she said, consulting afresh her bracelet watch, “to explain to Lady Grace.” She reached an electric bell, which she touched--facing then her visitor again with an abrupt and slightly embarrassed change of tone. “You do think _my_ great portrait splendid?” He had strayed far from it and all too languidly came back. “Your Lawrence there? As I said, magnificent.” But the butler had come in, interrupting, straight from the lobby; of whom she made her request. “Let her ladyship know--Mr. Crimble.” Gotch looked hard at Hugh and the crumpled hat--almost as if having an option. But he resigned himself to repeating, with a distinctness that scarce fell short of the invidious, “Mr. Crimble,” and departed on his errand. Lady
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turned on him her thick lustre. “I wanted to see how much _you’d_ tell.” She waited even as for more, but this not coming she helped herself. “Once again at dinner?” “Yes, but alas not near her!” “Once then at a private view?--when, with the squash they usually are, you might have been very near her indeed!” The young man, his hilarity quickened, took but a moment for the truth. “Yes--it _was_ a squash!” “And once,” his hostess pursued, “in the lobby of the opera?” “After ‘Tristan’--yes; but with some awful grand people I didn’t know.” She recognised; she estimated the grandeur. “Oh, the Pennimans are nobody! But now,” she asked, “you’ve come, you say, on ‘business’?” “Very important, please--which accounts for the hour I’ve ventured and the appearance I present.” “I don’t ask you too much to ‘account,’” Lady Sandgate kindly said; “but I can’t not wonder if she hasn’t told you what things have happened.” He cast about. “She has had no chance to tell me anything--beyond the fact of her being here.” “Without the reason?” “‘The reason’?” he echoed. She gave it up, going straighter. “She’s with me then as an old firm friend. Under my care and protection.” “I see” --he took it, with more penetration than enthusiasm, as a hint in respect to himself. “She puts you on your guard.” Lady Sandgate expressed it more graciously. “She puts me on my honour--or at least her father does.” “As to her seeing _me_” “As to _my_ seeing at least--what may happen to her.” “Because--you say--things _have_ happened?” His companion fairly sounded him. “You’ve only talked--when you’ve met--of ‘art’?” “Well,” he smiled, “‘art is long’!” “Then I hope it may see you through! But you should know first that Lord Theign is presently due--” “_Here_, back already from abroad?” --he was all alert. “He has not yet gone--he comes up this morning to start.” “And stops here on his way?” “To take the _train de luxe_ this afternoon to his annual Salsomaggiore. But with so little time to spare,” she went on reassuringly, “that, to simplify--as he wired me an hour ago from Dedborough--he has given rendezvous here to Mr. Bender, who is particularly to wait for him.” “And who may therefore arrive at any moment?” She looked at her bracelet watch. “Scarcely before noon. So you’ll just have your chance--” “Thank the powers then!” --Hugh grasped at it. “I shall have it best if you’ll be so good as to tell me first--well,” he faltered, “what it is that, to my great disquiet, you’ve further alluded to; what it is that has occurred.” Lady Sandgate took her time, but her good-nature and other sentiments pronounced. “Haven’t you at least guessed that she has fallen under her father’s extreme reprobation?” “Yes, so much as that--that she must have greatly annoyed him--I have been supposing. But isn’t it by her having asked me to act for her? I mean about the Mantovano--which I _have_ done.” Lady Sandgate wondered. “You’ve ‘acted’?” “It’s what I’ve come to tell her at last--and I’m all impatience.” “I see, I see” --she had caught a clue. “He hated that--yes; but you haven’t really made out,” she put to him, “the _other_ effect of your hour at Dedborough?” She recognised, however, while she spoke, that his divination had failed, and she didn’t trouble him to confess it. “Directly you had gone she ‘turned down’ Lord John. Declined, I mean, the offer of his hand in marriage.” Hugh was clearly as much mystified as anything else. “He proposed there--?” “He had spoken, that day, _before_--before your talk with Lord Theign, who had every confidence in her accepting him. But you came, Mr. Crimble, you went; and when her suitor reappeared, just after you _had_ gone, for his answer--” “She wouldn’t have him?” Hugh asked with a precipitation of interest. But Lady Sandgate could humour almost any curiosity. “She wouldn’t look at him.” He bethought himself. “But had she said she would?” “So her father indignantly considers.” “That’s the _ground_ of his indignation?” “He had his reasons for counting on her, and it has determined a painful crisis.” Hugh Crimble turned this over--feeling apparently for something he didn’t find. “I’m sorry to hear such things, but where’s the connection with me?” “Ah, you know best yourself, and if you don’t see any---!” In that case, Lady Sandgate’s motion implied, she washed her hands of it. Hugh had for a moment the air of a young man treated to the sweet chance to guess a conundrum--which he gave up. “I really don’t see any, Lady Sandgate. But,” he a little inconsistently said, “I’m greatly obliged to you for telling me.” “Don’t mention it!--though I think it _is_ good of me,” she smiled, “on so short an acquaintance.”<|quote|>To which she added more gravely:</|quote|>“I leave you the situation--but I’m willing to let you know that I’m all on Grace’s side.” “So am I, _rather!_--please let me frankly say.” He clearly refreshed, he even almost charmed her. “It’s the very least you can say!--though I’m not sure whether you say it as the simplest or as the very subtlest of men. But in case you don’t know as I do how little the particular candidate I’ve named----” “Had a right or a claim to succeed with her?” he broke in--all quick intelligence here at least. “No, I don’t perhaps know as well as you do--but I think I know as well as I just yet require.” “There you are then! And if you did prevent,” his hostess maturely pursued, “what wouldn’t have been--well, good or nice, I’m quite on your side too.” Our young man seemed to feel the shade of ambiguity, but he reached at a meaning. “You’re with me in my plea for our defending at any cost of effort or ingenuity--” “The precious picture Lord Theign exposes?” --she took his presumed sense faster than he had taken hers. But she hung fire a moment with her reply to it. “Well, will you keep the secret of everything I’ve said or say?” “To the death, to the stake, Lady Sandgate!” “Then,” she momentously returned, “I only want, too, to make Bender impossible. If you ask me,” she pursued, “how I arrange that with my deep loyalty to Lord Theign----” “I don’t ask you anything of the sort,” he interrupted-- “I wouldn’t ask you for the world; and my own bright plan for achieving the _coup_ you mention------” “You’ll have time, at the most,” she said, consulting afresh her bracelet watch, “to explain to Lady Grace.” She reached an electric bell, which she touched--facing then her visitor again with an abrupt and slightly embarrassed change of tone. “You do think _my_ great portrait splendid?” He had strayed far from it and all too languidly came back. “Your Lawrence there? As I said, magnificent.” But the butler had come in, interrupting, straight from the lobby; of whom she made her request. “Let her ladyship know--Mr. Crimble.” Gotch looked hard at Hugh and the crumpled hat--almost as if having an option. But he resigned himself to repeating, with a distinctness that scarce fell short of the invidious, “Mr. Crimble,” and departed on his errand. Lady Sandgate’s fair flush of diplomacy had meanwhile not faded. “Couldn’t you, with your immense cleverness and power, get the Government to do something?” “About your picture?” Hugh betrayed on this head a graceless detachment. “You too then want to sell?” Oh she righted herself. “Never to a private party!” “Mr. Bender’s not after it?” he asked--though scarce lighting his reluctant interest with a forced smile. “Most intensely after it. But never,” cried the proprietress, “to a bloated alien!” “Then I applaud your patriotism. Only why not,” he asked, “carrying that magnanimity a little further, set us all an example as splendid as the object itself?” “Give it you for nothing?” She threw up shocked hands. “Because I’m an aged female pauper and can’t make _every_ sacrifice.” Hugh pretended--none too convincingly--to think. “Will you let them have it very cheap?” “Yes--for less than such a bribe as Bender’s.” “Ah,” he said expressively, “that might be, and still----!” “Well,” she had a flare of fond confidence. “I’ll find out what he’ll offer--if you’ll on your side do what you can--and then ask them a third less.” And she followed it up--as if suddenly conceiving him a prig. “See here, Mr. Crimble, I’ve been--and this very first time I--charming to you.” “You have indeed,” he returned; “but you throw back on it a lurid light if it has all been for _that!_” “It has been--well, to keep things as I want them; and if I’ve given you precious information mightn’t you on your side--” “Estimate its value in cash?” --Hugh sharply took her up. “Ah, Lady Sandgate, I _am_ in your debt, but if you really bargain for your precious information I’d rather we assume that I haven’t enjoyed it.” She made him, however, in reply, a sign for silence; she had heard Lady Grace enter the other room from the back landing, and, reaching the nearer door, she disposed of the question with high gay bravery. “I won’t bargain with the Treasury!” --she had passed out by the time Lady Grace arrived. II As Hugh recognised in this friend’s entrance and face the light of welcome he went, full of his subject, straight to their main affair. “I haven’t been able to wait, I’ve wanted so much to tell you--I mean how I’ve just come back from Brussels, where I saw Pappen-dick, who was free and ready, by the happiest chance, to
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him. “You’ve only talked--when you’ve met--of ‘art’?” “Well,” he smiled, “‘art is long’!” “Then I hope it may see you through! But you should know first that Lord Theign is presently due--” “_Here_, back already from abroad?” --he was all alert. “He has not yet gone--he comes up this morning to start.” “And stops here on his way?” “To take the _train de luxe_ this afternoon to his annual Salsomaggiore. But with so little time to spare,” she went on reassuringly, “that, to simplify--as he wired me an hour ago from Dedborough--he has given rendezvous here to Mr. Bender, who is particularly to wait for him.” “And who may therefore arrive at any moment?” She looked at her bracelet watch. “Scarcely before noon. So you’ll just have your chance--” “Thank the powers then!” --Hugh grasped at it. “I shall have it best if you’ll be so good as to tell me first--well,” he faltered, “what it is that, to my great disquiet, you’ve further alluded to; what it is that has occurred.” Lady Sandgate took her time, but her good-nature and other sentiments pronounced. “Haven’t you at least guessed that she has fallen under her father’s extreme reprobation?” “Yes, so much as that--that she must have greatly annoyed him--I have been supposing. But isn’t it by her having asked me to act for her? I mean about the Mantovano--which I _have_ done.” Lady Sandgate wondered. “You’ve ‘acted’?” “It’s what I’ve come to tell her at last--and I’m all impatience.” “I see, I see” --she had caught a clue. “He hated that--yes; but you haven’t really made out,” she put to him, “the _other_ effect of your hour at Dedborough?” She recognised, however, while she spoke, that his divination had failed, and she didn’t trouble him to confess it. “Directly you had gone she ‘turned down’ Lord John. Declined, I mean, the offer of his hand in marriage.” Hugh was clearly as much mystified as anything else. “He proposed there--?” “He had spoken, that day, _before_--before your talk with Lord Theign, who had every confidence in her accepting him. But you came, Mr. Crimble, you went; and when her suitor reappeared, just after you _had_ gone, for his answer--” “She wouldn’t have him?” Hugh asked with a precipitation of interest. But Lady Sandgate could humour almost any curiosity. “She wouldn’t look at him.” He bethought himself. “But had she said she would?” “So her father indignantly considers.” “That’s the _ground_ of his indignation?” “He had his reasons for counting on her, and it has determined a painful crisis.” Hugh Crimble turned this over--feeling apparently for something he didn’t find. “I’m sorry to hear such things, but where’s the connection with me?” “Ah, you know best yourself, and if you don’t see any---!” In that case, Lady Sandgate’s motion implied, she washed her hands of it. Hugh had for a moment the air of a young man treated to the sweet chance to guess a conundrum--which he gave up. “I really don’t see any, Lady Sandgate. But,” he a little inconsistently said, “I’m greatly obliged to you for telling me.” “Don’t mention it!--though I think it _is_ good of me,” she smiled, “on so short an acquaintance.”<|quote|>To which she added more gravely:</|quote|>“I leave you the situation--but I’m willing to let you know that I’m all on Grace’s side.” “So am I, _rather!_--please let me frankly say.” He clearly refreshed, he even almost charmed her. “It’s the very least you can say!--though I’m not sure whether you say it as the simplest or as the very subtlest of men. But in case you don’t know as I do how little the particular candidate I’ve named----” “Had a right or a claim to succeed with her?” he broke in--all quick intelligence here at least. “No, I don’t perhaps know as well as you do--but I think I know as well as I just yet require.” “There you are then! And if you did prevent,” his hostess maturely pursued, “what wouldn’t have been--well, good or nice, I’m quite on your side too.” Our young man seemed to feel the shade of ambiguity, but he reached at a meaning. “You’re with me in my plea for our defending at any cost of effort or ingenuity--” “The precious picture Lord Theign exposes?” --she took his presumed sense faster than he had taken hers. But she hung fire a moment with her reply to it. “Well, will you keep the secret of everything I’ve said or say?” “To the death, to the stake, Lady Sandgate!” “Then,” she momentously returned, “I only want, too, to make Bender impossible. If you ask me,” she pursued, “how I arrange that with my deep loyalty to Lord Theign----” “I don’t ask you anything of the sort,” he interrupted-- “I wouldn’t ask you for the world; and my own bright plan for achieving the _coup_ you mention------” “You’ll have time, at the most,” she said, consulting afresh her bracelet watch, “to explain to Lady Grace.” She reached an electric bell, which she touched--facing then her visitor again with an abrupt and slightly embarrassed change of tone. “You do think _my_ great portrait splendid?” He had strayed far from it and all too languidly came back. “Your Lawrence there? As I said, magnificent.” But the butler had come in, interrupting, straight from the lobby; of whom she made her request. “Let her ladyship know--Mr. Crimble.” Gotch looked hard at Hugh and the crumpled hat--almost as if having an option. But he resigned himself to repeating, with a distinctness that scarce fell short of the invidious, “Mr. Crimble,” and departed on his errand. Lady Sandgate’s fair flush of diplomacy had meanwhile not faded. “Couldn’t you, with your immense cleverness and power, get the Government to do something?” “About your picture?” Hugh betrayed on this head a graceless detachment. “You too then want to sell?” Oh she righted herself. “Never to a private party!” “Mr. Bender’s not after it?” he asked--though scarce lighting his reluctant interest with a forced smile. “Most intensely after it. But never,” cried the proprietress, “to a bloated alien!” “Then I applaud your patriotism. Only why not,” he asked, “carrying that magnanimity a little further, set us all an example as splendid as the object itself?” “Give it you for nothing?” She threw up shocked hands. “Because I’m an aged female pauper and can’t make _every_ sacrifice.” Hugh pretended--none too convincingly--to think. “Will you let them
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The Outcry
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She crossed herself.
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No speaker
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did you say to him?"<|quote|>She crossed herself.</|quote|>"Hardly anything," said Lilia and
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she heard the account. "What did you say to him?"<|quote|>She crossed herself.</|quote|>"Hardly anything," said Lilia and crossed herself also. Thus did
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Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up, and he turned away and went to his room without a word. "What has happened?" cried Lilia, nearly fainting. "He is ill--ill." Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account. "What did you say to him?"<|quote|>She crossed herself.</|quote|>"Hardly anything," said Lilia and crossed herself also. Thus did the two women pay homage to their outraged male. It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her for money. But he had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt. His return was terrifying,
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away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged round the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the chair between them, too frightened to speak or to move. He looked at her with round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand. Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up, and he turned away and went to his room without a word. "What has happened?" cried Lilia, nearly fainting. "He is ill--ill." Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account. "What did you say to him?"<|quote|>She crossed herself.</|quote|>"Hardly anything," said Lilia and crossed herself also. Thus did the two women pay homage to their outraged male. It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her for money. But he had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt. His return was terrifying, for he was frightened too, imploring her pardon, lying at her feet, embracing her, murmuring "It was not I," striving to define things which he did not understand. He stopped in the house for three days, positively ill with physical collapse. But for all his suffering he had tamed her,
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said, "And I ve got the money." He looked horrified. Now was the moment to assert herself. She made the statement again. He got up from his chair. "And you d better mend your manners," she continued, "for you d find it awkward if I stopped drawing cheques." She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed. As she said to Perfetta afterwards, "None of his clothes seemed to fit--too big in one place, too small in another." His figure rather than his face altered, the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the back and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged round the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the chair between them, too frightened to speak or to move. He looked at her with round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand. Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up, and he turned away and went to his room without a word. "What has happened?" cried Lilia, nearly fainting. "He is ill--ill." Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account. "What did you say to him?"<|quote|>She crossed herself.</|quote|>"Hardly anything," said Lilia and crossed herself also. Thus did the two women pay homage to their outraged male. It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her for money. But he had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt. His return was terrifying, for he was frightened too, imploring her pardon, lying at her feet, embracing her, murmuring "It was not I," striving to define things which he did not understand. He stopped in the house for three days, positively ill with physical collapse. But for all his suffering he had tamed her, and she never threatened to cut off supplies again. Perhaps he kept her even closer than convention demanded. But he was very young, and he could not bear it to be said of him that he did not know how to treat a lady--or to manage a wife. And his own social position was uncertain. Even in England a dentist is a troublesome creature, whom careful people find difficult to class. He hovers between the professions and the trades; he may be only a little lower than the doctors, or he may be down among the chemists, or even beneath
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spring. As Mrs. Herriton had often observed, Lilia had no resources. She did not like music, or reading, or work. Her one qualification for life was rather blowsy high spirits, which turned querulous or boisterous according to circumstances. She was not obedient, but she was cowardly, and in the most gentle way, which Mrs. Herriton might have envied, Gino made her do what he wanted. At first it had been rather fun to let him get the upper hand. But it was galling to discover that he could not do otherwise. He had a good strong will when he chose to use it, and would not have had the least scruple in using bolts and locks to put it into effect. There was plenty of brutality deep down in him, and one day Lilia nearly touched it. It was the old question of going out alone. "I always do it in England." "This is Italy." "Yes, but I m older than you, and I ll settle." "I am your husband," he said, smiling. They had finished their mid-day meal, and he wanted to go and sleep. Nothing would rouse him up, until at last Lilia, getting more and more angry, said, "And I ve got the money." He looked horrified. Now was the moment to assert herself. She made the statement again. He got up from his chair. "And you d better mend your manners," she continued, "for you d find it awkward if I stopped drawing cheques." She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed. As she said to Perfetta afterwards, "None of his clothes seemed to fit--too big in one place, too small in another." His figure rather than his face altered, the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the back and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged round the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the chair between them, too frightened to speak or to move. He looked at her with round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand. Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up, and he turned away and went to his room without a word. "What has happened?" cried Lilia, nearly fainting. "He is ill--ill." Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account. "What did you say to him?"<|quote|>She crossed herself.</|quote|>"Hardly anything," said Lilia and crossed herself also. Thus did the two women pay homage to their outraged male. It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her for money. But he had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt. His return was terrifying, for he was frightened too, imploring her pardon, lying at her feet, embracing her, murmuring "It was not I," striving to define things which he did not understand. He stopped in the house for three days, positively ill with physical collapse. But for all his suffering he had tamed her, and she never threatened to cut off supplies again. Perhaps he kept her even closer than convention demanded. But he was very young, and he could not bear it to be said of him that he did not know how to treat a lady--or to manage a wife. And his own social position was uncertain. Even in England a dentist is a troublesome creature, whom careful people find difficult to class. He hovers between the professions and the trades; he may be only a little lower than the doctors, or he may be down among the chemists, or even beneath them. The son of the Italian dentist felt this too. For himself nothing mattered; he made friends with the people he liked, for he was that glorious invariable creature, a man. But his wife should visit nowhere rather than visit wrongly: seclusion was both decent and safe. The social ideals of North and South had had their brief contention, and this time the South had won. It would have been well if he had been as strict over his own behaviour as he was over hers. But the incongruity never occurred to him for a moment. His morality was that of the average Latin, and as he was suddenly placed in the position of a gentleman, he did not see why he should not behave as such. Of course, had Lilia been different--had she asserted herself and got a grip on his character--he might possibly--though not probably--have been made a better husband as well as a better man, and at all events he could have adopted the attitude of the Englishman, whose standard is higher even when his practice is the same. But had Lilia been different she might not have married him. The discovery of his infidelity--which she made
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nature and began to reflect. She reflected chiefly about her marriage. The ceremony had been hasty and expensive, and the rites, whatever they were, were not those of the Church of England. Lilia had no religion in her; but for hours at a time she would be seized with a vulgar fear that she was not "married properly," and that her social position in the next world might be as obscure as it was in this. It might be safer to do the thing thoroughly, and one day she took the advice of Spiridione and joined the Roman Catholic Church, or as she called it, "Santa Deodata s." Gino approved; he, too, thought it safer, and it was fun confessing, though the priest was a stupid old man, and the whole thing was a good slap in the face for the people at home. The people at home took the slap very soberly; indeed, there were few left for her to give it to. The Herritons were out of the question; they would not even let her write to Irma, though Irma was occasionally allowed to write to her. Mrs. Theobald was rapidly subsiding into dotage, and, as far as she could be definite about anything, had definitely sided with the Herritons. And Miss Abbott did likewise. Night after night did Lilia curse this false friend, who had agreed with her that the marriage would "do," and that the Herritons would come round to it, and then, at the first hint of opposition, had fled back to England shrieking and distraught. Miss Abbott headed the long list of those who should never be written to, and who should never be forgiven. Almost the only person who was not on that list was Mr. Kingcroft, who had unexpectedly sent an affectionate and inquiring letter. He was quite sure never to cross the Channel, and Lilia drew freely on her fancy in the reply. At first she had seen a few English people, for Monteriano was not the end of the earth. One or two inquisitive ladies, who had heard at home of her quarrel with the Herritons, came to call. She was very sprightly, and they thought her quite unconventional, and Gino a charming boy, so all that was to the good. But by May the season, such as it was, had finished, and there would be no one till next spring. As Mrs. Herriton had often observed, Lilia had no resources. She did not like music, or reading, or work. Her one qualification for life was rather blowsy high spirits, which turned querulous or boisterous according to circumstances. She was not obedient, but she was cowardly, and in the most gentle way, which Mrs. Herriton might have envied, Gino made her do what he wanted. At first it had been rather fun to let him get the upper hand. But it was galling to discover that he could not do otherwise. He had a good strong will when he chose to use it, and would not have had the least scruple in using bolts and locks to put it into effect. There was plenty of brutality deep down in him, and one day Lilia nearly touched it. It was the old question of going out alone. "I always do it in England." "This is Italy." "Yes, but I m older than you, and I ll settle." "I am your husband," he said, smiling. They had finished their mid-day meal, and he wanted to go and sleep. Nothing would rouse him up, until at last Lilia, getting more and more angry, said, "And I ve got the money." He looked horrified. Now was the moment to assert herself. She made the statement again. He got up from his chair. "And you d better mend your manners," she continued, "for you d find it awkward if I stopped drawing cheques." She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed. As she said to Perfetta afterwards, "None of his clothes seemed to fit--too big in one place, too small in another." His figure rather than his face altered, the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the back and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged round the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the chair between them, too frightened to speak or to move. He looked at her with round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand. Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up, and he turned away and went to his room without a word. "What has happened?" cried Lilia, nearly fainting. "He is ill--ill." Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account. "What did you say to him?"<|quote|>She crossed herself.</|quote|>"Hardly anything," said Lilia and crossed herself also. Thus did the two women pay homage to their outraged male. It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her for money. But he had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt. His return was terrifying, for he was frightened too, imploring her pardon, lying at her feet, embracing her, murmuring "It was not I," striving to define things which he did not understand. He stopped in the house for three days, positively ill with physical collapse. But for all his suffering he had tamed her, and she never threatened to cut off supplies again. Perhaps he kept her even closer than convention demanded. But he was very young, and he could not bear it to be said of him that he did not know how to treat a lady--or to manage a wife. And his own social position was uncertain. Even in England a dentist is a troublesome creature, whom careful people find difficult to class. He hovers between the professions and the trades; he may be only a little lower than the doctors, or he may be down among the chemists, or even beneath them. The son of the Italian dentist felt this too. For himself nothing mattered; he made friends with the people he liked, for he was that glorious invariable creature, a man. But his wife should visit nowhere rather than visit wrongly: seclusion was both decent and safe. The social ideals of North and South had had their brief contention, and this time the South had won. It would have been well if he had been as strict over his own behaviour as he was over hers. But the incongruity never occurred to him for a moment. His morality was that of the average Latin, and as he was suddenly placed in the position of a gentleman, he did not see why he should not behave as such. Of course, had Lilia been different--had she asserted herself and got a grip on his character--he might possibly--though not probably--have been made a better husband as well as a better man, and at all events he could have adopted the attitude of the Englishman, whose standard is higher even when his practice is the same. But had Lilia been different she might not have married him. The discovery of his infidelity--which she made by accident--destroyed such remnants of self-satisfaction as her life might yet possess. She broke down utterly and sobbed and cried in Perfetta s arms. Perfetta was kind and even sympathetic, but cautioned her on no account to speak to Gino, who would be furious if he was suspected. And Lilia agreed, partly because she was afraid of him, partly because it was, after all, the best and most dignified thing to do. She had given up everything for him--her daughter, her relatives, her friends, all the little comforts and luxuries of a civilized life--and even if she had the courage to break away, there was no one who would receive her now. The Herritons had been almost malignant in their efforts against her, and all her friends had one by one fallen off. So it was better to live on humbly, trying not to feel, endeavouring by a cheerful demeanour to put things right. "Perhaps," she thought, "if I have a child he will be different. I know he wants a son." Lilia had achieved pathos despite herself, for there are some situations in which vulgarity counts no longer. Not Cordelia nor Imogen more deserves our tears. She herself cried frequently, making herself look plain and old, which distressed her husband. He was particularly kind to her when he hardly ever saw her, and she accepted his kindness without resentment, even with gratitude, so docile had she become. She did not hate him, even as she had never loved him; with her it was only when she was excited that the semblance of either passion arose. People said she was headstrong, but really her weak brain left her cold. Suffering, however, is more independent of temperament, and the wisest of women could hardly have suffered more. As for Gino, he was quite as boyish as ever, and carried his iniquities like a feather. A favourite speech of his was, "Ah, one ought to marry! Spiridione is wrong; I must persuade him. Not till marriage does one realize the pleasures and the possibilities of life." So saying, he would take down his felt hat, strike it in the right place as infallibly as a German strikes his in the wrong place, and leave her. One evening, when he had gone out thus, Lilia could stand it no longer. It was September. Sawston would be just filling up after the summer holidays.
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could be definite about anything, had definitely sided with the Herritons. And Miss Abbott did likewise. Night after night did Lilia curse this false friend, who had agreed with her that the marriage would "do," and that the Herritons would come round to it, and then, at the first hint of opposition, had fled back to England shrieking and distraught. Miss Abbott headed the long list of those who should never be written to, and who should never be forgiven. Almost the only person who was not on that list was Mr. Kingcroft, who had unexpectedly sent an affectionate and inquiring letter. He was quite sure never to cross the Channel, and Lilia drew freely on her fancy in the reply. At first she had seen a few English people, for Monteriano was not the end of the earth. One or two inquisitive ladies, who had heard at home of her quarrel with the Herritons, came to call. She was very sprightly, and they thought her quite unconventional, and Gino a charming boy, so all that was to the good. But by May the season, such as it was, had finished, and there would be no one till next spring. As Mrs. Herriton had often observed, Lilia had no resources. She did not like music, or reading, or work. Her one qualification for life was rather blowsy high spirits, which turned querulous or boisterous according to circumstances. She was not obedient, but she was cowardly, and in the most gentle way, which Mrs. Herriton might have envied, Gino made her do what he wanted. At first it had been rather fun to let him get the upper hand. But it was galling to discover that he could not do otherwise. He had a good strong will when he chose to use it, and would not have had the least scruple in using bolts and locks to put it into effect. There was plenty of brutality deep down in him, and one day Lilia nearly touched it. It was the old question of going out alone. "I always do it in England." "This is Italy." "Yes, but I m older than you, and I ll settle." "I am your husband," he said, smiling. They had finished their mid-day meal, and he wanted to go and sleep. Nothing would rouse him up, until at last Lilia, getting more and more angry, said, "And I ve got the money." He looked horrified. Now was the moment to assert herself. She made the statement again. He got up from his chair. "And you d better mend your manners," she continued, "for you d find it awkward if I stopped drawing cheques." She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed. As she said to Perfetta afterwards, "None of his clothes seemed to fit--too big in one place, too small in another." His figure rather than his face altered, the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the back and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged round the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the chair between them, too frightened to speak or to move. He looked at her with round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand. Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up, and he turned away and went to his room without a word. "What has happened?" cried Lilia, nearly fainting. "He is ill--ill." Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account. "What did you say to him?"<|quote|>She crossed herself.</|quote|>"Hardly anything," said Lilia and crossed herself also. Thus did the two women pay homage to their outraged male. It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her for money. But he had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt. His return was terrifying, for he was frightened too, imploring her pardon, lying at her feet, embracing her, murmuring "It was not I," striving to define things which he did not understand. He stopped in the house for three days, positively ill with physical collapse. But for all his suffering he had tamed her, and she never threatened to cut off supplies again. Perhaps he kept her even closer than convention demanded. But he was very young, and he could not bear it to be said of him that he did not know how to treat a lady--or to manage a wife. And his own social position was uncertain. Even in England a dentist is a troublesome creature, whom careful people find difficult to class. He hovers between the professions and the trades; he may be only a little lower than the doctors, or he may be down among the chemists, or even beneath them. The son of the Italian dentist felt this too. For himself nothing mattered; he made friends with the people he liked, for he was that glorious invariable creature, a man. But his wife should visit nowhere rather than visit wrongly: seclusion was both decent and safe. The social ideals of North and South had had their brief contention, and this time the South had won. It would have been well if he had been as strict over his own behaviour as he was over hers. But the incongruity never occurred to him for a moment. His morality was that of the average Latin, and as he was suddenly placed in the position of a gentleman, he did not see why he should not behave as such. Of course, had Lilia been different--had she asserted herself and got a grip on his character--he might possibly--though not probably--have been made a better husband as well as a better man, and at all events he could have adopted the attitude of the Englishman, whose standard is higher even when his practice is the same. But had Lilia been different she might not have married him. The discovery of his infidelity--which she made by accident--destroyed such remnants of self-satisfaction as her life might yet possess. She broke down utterly and sobbed and cried in Perfetta s arms. Perfetta was kind and even sympathetic, but cautioned her on no account to speak to Gino, who would be furious if he was suspected. And Lilia agreed, partly because she was afraid of him, partly because it was, after all, the best and most dignified thing to do. She had given up everything for him--her daughter, her relatives, her friends, all the little comforts and luxuries of a civilized life--and even if she had the courage to break away, there was no one who would receive her now. The Herritons had been almost malignant in their efforts
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Where Angels Fear To Tread
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Her tone and her look still enveloped her in a soft inaccessibility, and Archer groaned out again:
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No speaker
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where there's always a light."<|quote|>Her tone and her look still enveloped her in a soft inaccessibility, and Archer groaned out again:</|quote|>"I don't understand you!" "Yet
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at night into a room where there's always a light."<|quote|>Her tone and her look still enveloped her in a soft inaccessibility, and Archer groaned out again:</|quote|>"I don't understand you!" "Yet you understand May!" He reddened
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friends." She smiled a little under her wet lashes. "I shan't be lonely now. I WAS lonely; I WAS afraid. But the emptiness and the darkness are gone; when I turn back into myself now I'm like a child going at night into a room where there's always a light."<|quote|>Her tone and her look still enveloped her in a soft inaccessibility, and Archer groaned out again:</|quote|>"I don't understand you!" "Yet you understand May!" He reddened under the retort, but kept his eyes on her. "May is ready to give me up." "What! Three days after you've entreated her on your knees to hasten your marriage?" "She's refused; that gives me the right--" "Ah, you've taught
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evening; tell the carriage to go and fetch the Signora Marchesa," she said when the maid came. After the door had closed again Archer continued to look at her with bitter eyes. "Why this sacrifice? Since you tell me that you're lonely I've no right to keep you from your friends." She smiled a little under her wet lashes. "I shan't be lonely now. I WAS lonely; I WAS afraid. But the emptiness and the darkness are gone; when I turn back into myself now I'm like a child going at night into a room where there's always a light."<|quote|>Her tone and her look still enveloped her in a soft inaccessibility, and Archer groaned out again:</|quote|>"I don't understand you!" "Yet you understand May!" He reddened under the retort, but kept his eyes on her. "May is ready to give me up." "What! Three days after you've entreated her on your knees to hasten your marriage?" "She's refused; that gives me the right--" "Ah, you've taught me what an ugly word that is," she said. He turned away with a sense of utter weariness. He felt as though he had been struggling for hours up the face of a steep precipice, and now, just as he had fought his way to the top, his hold had
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her words had created. Then, abruptly, his anger overflowed. "And Beaufort? Is he to replace me?" As the words sprang out he was prepared for an answering flare of anger; and he would have welcomed it as fuel for his own. But Madame Olenska only grew a shade paler, and stood with her arms hanging down before her, and her head slightly bent, as her way was when she pondered a question. "He's waiting for you now at Mrs. Struthers's; why don't you go to him?" Archer sneered. She turned to ring the bell. "I shall not go out this evening; tell the carriage to go and fetch the Signora Marchesa," she said when the maid came. After the door had closed again Archer continued to look at her with bitter eyes. "Why this sacrifice? Since you tell me that you're lonely I've no right to keep you from your friends." She smiled a little under her wet lashes. "I shan't be lonely now. I WAS lonely; I WAS afraid. But the emptiness and the darkness are gone; when I turn back into myself now I'm like a child going at night into a room where there's always a light."<|quote|>Her tone and her look still enveloped her in a soft inaccessibility, and Archer groaned out again:</|quote|>"I don't understand you!" "Yet you understand May!" He reddened under the retort, but kept his eyes on her. "May is ready to give me up." "What! Three days after you've entreated her on your knees to hasten your marriage?" "She's refused; that gives me the right--" "Ah, you've taught me what an ugly word that is," she said. He turned away with a sense of utter weariness. He felt as though he had been struggling for hours up the face of a steep precipice, and now, just as he had fought his way to the top, his hold had given way and he was pitching down headlong into darkness. If he could have got her in his arms again he might have swept away her arguments; but she still held him at a distance by something inscrutably aloof in her look and attitude, and by his own awed sense of her sincerity. At length he began to plead again. "If we do this now it will be worse afterward--worse for every one--" "No--no--no!" she almost screamed, as if he frightened her. At that moment the bell sent a long tinkle through the house. They had heard no carriage stopping
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good people didn't convince me; I felt they'd never been tempted. But you knew; you understood; you had felt the world outside tugging at one with all its golden hands--and yet you hated the things it asks of one; you hated happiness bought by disloyalty and cruelty and indifference. That was what I'd never known before--and it's better than anything I've known." She spoke in a low even voice, without tears or visible agitation; and each word, as it dropped from her, fell into his breast like burning lead. He sat bowed over, his head between his hands, staring at the hearthrug, and at the tip of the satin shoe that showed under her dress. Suddenly he knelt down and kissed the shoe. She bent over him, laying her hands on his shoulders, and looking at him with eyes so deep that he remained motionless under her gaze. "Ah, don't let us undo what you've done!" she cried. "I can't go back now to that other way of thinking. I can't love you unless I give you up." His arms were yearning up to her; but she drew away, and they remained facing each other, divided by the distance that her words had created. Then, abruptly, his anger overflowed. "And Beaufort? Is he to replace me?" As the words sprang out he was prepared for an answering flare of anger; and he would have welcomed it as fuel for his own. But Madame Olenska only grew a shade paler, and stood with her arms hanging down before her, and her head slightly bent, as her way was when she pondered a question. "He's waiting for you now at Mrs. Struthers's; why don't you go to him?" Archer sneered. She turned to ring the bell. "I shall not go out this evening; tell the carriage to go and fetch the Signora Marchesa," she said when the maid came. After the door had closed again Archer continued to look at her with bitter eyes. "Why this sacrifice? Since you tell me that you're lonely I've no right to keep you from your friends." She smiled a little under her wet lashes. "I shan't be lonely now. I WAS lonely; I WAS afraid. But the emptiness and the darkness are gone; when I turn back into myself now I'm like a child going at night into a room where there's always a light."<|quote|>Her tone and her look still enveloped her in a soft inaccessibility, and Archer groaned out again:</|quote|>"I don't understand you!" "Yet you understand May!" He reddened under the retort, but kept his eyes on her. "May is ready to give me up." "What! Three days after you've entreated her on your knees to hasten your marriage?" "She's refused; that gives me the right--" "Ah, you've taught me what an ugly word that is," she said. He turned away with a sense of utter weariness. He felt as though he had been struggling for hours up the face of a steep precipice, and now, just as he had fought his way to the top, his hold had given way and he was pitching down headlong into darkness. If he could have got her in his arms again he might have swept away her arguments; but she still held him at a distance by something inscrutably aloof in her look and attitude, and by his own awed sense of her sincerity. At length he began to plead again. "If we do this now it will be worse afterward--worse for every one--" "No--no--no!" she almost screamed, as if he frightened her. At that moment the bell sent a long tinkle through the house. They had heard no carriage stopping at the door, and they stood motionless, looking at each other with startled eyes. Outside, Nastasia's step crossed the hall, the outer door opened, and a moment later she came in carrying a telegram which she handed to the Countess Olenska. "The lady was very happy at the flowers," Nastasia said, smoothing her apron. "She thought it was her signor marito who had sent them, and she cried a little and said it was a folly." Her mistress smiled and took the yellow envelope. She tore it open and carried it to the lamp; then, when the door had closed again, she handed the telegram to Archer. It was dated from St. Augustine, and addressed to the Countess Olenska. In it he read: "Granny's telegram successful. Papa and Mamma agree marriage after Easter. Am telegraphing Newland. Am too happy for words and love you dearly. Your grateful May." Half an hour later, when Archer unlocked his own front-door, he found a similar envelope on the hall-table on top of his pile of notes and letters. The message inside the envelope was also from May Welland, and ran as follows: "Parents consent wedding Tuesday after Easter at twelve Grace Church eight
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she said, looking down at him in her turn from the hearth. "It alters the whole of life for me." "No, no--it mustn't, it can't. You're engaged to May Welland; and I'm married." He stood up too, flushed and resolute. "Nonsense! It's too late for that sort of thing. We've no right to lie to other people or to ourselves. We won't talk of your marriage; but do you see me marrying May after this?" She stood silent, resting her thin elbows on the mantelpiece, her profile reflected in the glass behind her. One of the locks of her chignon had become loosened and hung on her neck; she looked haggard and almost old. "I don't see you," she said at length, "putting that question to May. Do you?" He gave a reckless shrug. "It's too late to do anything else." "You say that because it's the easiest thing to say at this moment--not because it's true. In reality it's too late to do anything but what we'd both decided on." "Ah, I don't understand you!" She forced a pitiful smile that pinched her face instead of smoothing it. "You don't understand because you haven't yet guessed how you've changed things for me: oh, from the first--long before I knew all you'd done." "All I'd done?" "Yes. I was perfectly unconscious at first that people here were shy of me--that they thought I was a dreadful sort of person. It seems they had even refused to meet me at dinner. I found that out afterward; and how you'd made your mother go with you to the van der Luydens'; and how you'd insisted on announcing your engagement at the Beaufort ball, so that I might have two families to stand by me instead of one--" At that he broke into a laugh. "Just imagine," she said, "how stupid and unobservant I was! I knew nothing of all this till Granny blurted it out one day. New York simply meant peace and freedom to me: it was coming home. And I was so happy at being among my own people that every one I met seemed kind and good, and glad to see me. But from the very beginning," she continued, "I felt there was no one as kind as you; no one who gave me reasons that I understood for doing what at first seemed so hard and--unnecessary. The very good people didn't convince me; I felt they'd never been tempted. But you knew; you understood; you had felt the world outside tugging at one with all its golden hands--and yet you hated the things it asks of one; you hated happiness bought by disloyalty and cruelty and indifference. That was what I'd never known before--and it's better than anything I've known." She spoke in a low even voice, without tears or visible agitation; and each word, as it dropped from her, fell into his breast like burning lead. He sat bowed over, his head between his hands, staring at the hearthrug, and at the tip of the satin shoe that showed under her dress. Suddenly he knelt down and kissed the shoe. She bent over him, laying her hands on his shoulders, and looking at him with eyes so deep that he remained motionless under her gaze. "Ah, don't let us undo what you've done!" she cried. "I can't go back now to that other way of thinking. I can't love you unless I give you up." His arms were yearning up to her; but she drew away, and they remained facing each other, divided by the distance that her words had created. Then, abruptly, his anger overflowed. "And Beaufort? Is he to replace me?" As the words sprang out he was prepared for an answering flare of anger; and he would have welcomed it as fuel for his own. But Madame Olenska only grew a shade paler, and stood with her arms hanging down before her, and her head slightly bent, as her way was when she pondered a question. "He's waiting for you now at Mrs. Struthers's; why don't you go to him?" Archer sneered. She turned to ring the bell. "I shall not go out this evening; tell the carriage to go and fetch the Signora Marchesa," she said when the maid came. After the door had closed again Archer continued to look at her with bitter eyes. "Why this sacrifice? Since you tell me that you're lonely I've no right to keep you from your friends." She smiled a little under her wet lashes. "I shan't be lonely now. I WAS lonely; I WAS afraid. But the emptiness and the darkness are gone; when I turn back into myself now I'm like a child going at night into a room where there's always a light."<|quote|>Her tone and her look still enveloped her in a soft inaccessibility, and Archer groaned out again:</|quote|>"I don't understand you!" "Yet you understand May!" He reddened under the retort, but kept his eyes on her. "May is ready to give me up." "What! Three days after you've entreated her on your knees to hasten your marriage?" "She's refused; that gives me the right--" "Ah, you've taught me what an ugly word that is," she said. He turned away with a sense of utter weariness. He felt as though he had been struggling for hours up the face of a steep precipice, and now, just as he had fought his way to the top, his hold had given way and he was pitching down headlong into darkness. If he could have got her in his arms again he might have swept away her arguments; but she still held him at a distance by something inscrutably aloof in her look and attitude, and by his own awed sense of her sincerity. At length he began to plead again. "If we do this now it will be worse afterward--worse for every one--" "No--no--no!" she almost screamed, as if he frightened her. At that moment the bell sent a long tinkle through the house. They had heard no carriage stopping at the door, and they stood motionless, looking at each other with startled eyes. Outside, Nastasia's step crossed the hall, the outer door opened, and a moment later she came in carrying a telegram which she handed to the Countess Olenska. "The lady was very happy at the flowers," Nastasia said, smoothing her apron. "She thought it was her signor marito who had sent them, and she cried a little and said it was a folly." Her mistress smiled and took the yellow envelope. She tore it open and carried it to the lamp; then, when the door had closed again, she handed the telegram to Archer. It was dated from St. Augustine, and addressed to the Countess Olenska. In it he read: "Granny's telegram successful. Papa and Mamma agree marriage after Easter. Am telegraphing Newland. Am too happy for words and love you dearly. Your grateful May." Half an hour later, when Archer unlocked his own front-door, he found a similar envelope on the hall-table on top of his pile of notes and letters. The message inside the envelope was also from May Welland, and ran as follows: "Parents consent wedding Tuesday after Easter at twelve Grace Church eight bridesmaids please see Rector so happy love May." Archer crumpled up the yellow sheet as if the gesture could annihilate the news it contained. Then he pulled out a small pocket-diary and turned over the pages with trembling fingers; but he did not find what he wanted, and cramming the telegram into his pocket he mounted the stairs. A light was shining through the door of the little hall-room which served Janey as a dressing-room and boudoir, and her brother rapped impatiently on the panel. The door opened, and his sister stood before him in her immemorial purple flannel dressing-gown, with her hair "on pins." Her face looked pale and apprehensive. "Newland! I hope there's no bad news in that telegram? I waited on purpose, in case--" (No item of his correspondence was safe from Janey.) He took no notice of her question. "Look here--what day is Easter this year?" She looked shocked at such unchristian ignorance. "Easter? Newland! Why, of course, the first week in April. Why?" "The first week?" He turned again to the pages of his diary, calculating rapidly under his breath. "The first week, did you say?" He threw back his head with a long laugh. "For mercy's sake what's the matter?" "Nothing's the matter, except that I'm going to be married in a month." Janey fell upon his neck and pressed him to her purple flannel breast. "Oh Newland, how wonderful! I'm so glad! But, dearest, why do you keep on laughing? Do hush, or you'll wake Mamma." Book II XIX. The day was fresh, with a lively spring wind full of dust. All the old ladies in both families had got out their faded sables and yellowing ermines, and the smell of camphor from the front pews almost smothered the faint spring scent of the lilies banking the altar. Newland Archer, at a signal from the sexton, had come out of the vestry and placed himself with his best man on the chancel step of Grace Church. The signal meant that the brougham bearing the bride and her father was in sight; but there was sure to be a considerable interval of adjustment and consultation in the lobby, where the bridesmaids were already hovering like a cluster of Easter blossoms. During this unavoidable lapse of time the bridegroom, in proof of his eagerness, was expected to expose himself alone to the gaze of the
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till Granny blurted it out one day. New York simply meant peace and freedom to me: it was coming home. And I was so happy at being among my own people that every one I met seemed kind and good, and glad to see me. But from the very beginning," she continued, "I felt there was no one as kind as you; no one who gave me reasons that I understood for doing what at first seemed so hard and--unnecessary. The very good people didn't convince me; I felt they'd never been tempted. But you knew; you understood; you had felt the world outside tugging at one with all its golden hands--and yet you hated the things it asks of one; you hated happiness bought by disloyalty and cruelty and indifference. That was what I'd never known before--and it's better than anything I've known." She spoke in a low even voice, without tears or visible agitation; and each word, as it dropped from her, fell into his breast like burning lead. He sat bowed over, his head between his hands, staring at the hearthrug, and at the tip of the satin shoe that showed under her dress. Suddenly he knelt down and kissed the shoe. She bent over him, laying her hands on his shoulders, and looking at him with eyes so deep that he remained motionless under her gaze. "Ah, don't let us undo what you've done!" she cried. "I can't go back now to that other way of thinking. I can't love you unless I give you up." His arms were yearning up to her; but she drew away, and they remained facing each other, divided by the distance that her words had created. Then, abruptly, his anger overflowed. "And Beaufort? Is he to replace me?" As the words sprang out he was prepared for an answering flare of anger; and he would have welcomed it as fuel for his own. But Madame Olenska only grew a shade paler, and stood with her arms hanging down before her, and her head slightly bent, as her way was when she pondered a question. "He's waiting for you now at Mrs. Struthers's; why don't you go to him?" Archer sneered. She turned to ring the bell. "I shall not go out this evening; tell the carriage to go and fetch the Signora Marchesa," she said when the maid came. After the door had closed again Archer continued to look at her with bitter eyes. "Why this sacrifice? Since you tell me that you're lonely I've no right to keep you from your friends." She smiled a little under her wet lashes. "I shan't be lonely now. I WAS lonely; I WAS afraid. But the emptiness and the darkness are gone; when I turn back into myself now I'm like a child going at night into a room where there's always a light."<|quote|>Her tone and her look still enveloped her in a soft inaccessibility, and Archer groaned out again:</|quote|>"I don't understand you!" "Yet you understand May!" He reddened under the retort, but kept his eyes on her. "May is ready to give me up." "What! Three days after you've entreated her on your knees to hasten your marriage?" "She's refused; that gives me the right--" "Ah, you've taught me what an ugly word that is," she said. He turned away with a sense of utter weariness. He felt as though he had been struggling for hours up the face of a steep precipice, and now, just as he had fought his way to the top, his hold had given way and he was pitching down headlong into darkness. If he could have got her in his arms again he might have swept away her arguments; but she still held him at a distance by something inscrutably aloof in her look and attitude, and by his own awed sense of her sincerity. At length he began to plead again. "If we do this now it will be worse afterward--worse for every one--" "No--no--no!" she almost screamed, as if he frightened her. At that moment the bell sent a long tinkle through the house. They had heard no carriage stopping at the door, and they stood motionless, looking at each other with startled eyes. Outside, Nastasia's step crossed the hall, the outer door opened, and a moment later she came in carrying a telegram which she handed to the Countess Olenska. "The lady was very happy at the flowers," Nastasia said, smoothing her apron. "She thought it was her signor marito who had sent them, and she cried a little and said it was a folly." Her mistress smiled and took the yellow envelope. She tore it open and carried it to the lamp; then, when the door had closed again, she handed the
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The Age Of Innocence
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Mary asked.
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No speaker
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"Have you been dining out?"<|quote|>Mary asked.</|quote|>"Are you working?" Katharine inquired
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down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?"<|quote|>Mary asked.</|quote|>"Are you working?" Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook
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go on immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?"<|quote|>Mary asked.</|quote|>"Are you working?" Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us
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and, as there was no time for explanations, Katharine walked straight into the sitting-room, and found herself in the presence of a young man who was lying back in a chair and holding a sheet of paper in his hand, at which he was looking as if he expected to go on immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?"<|quote|>Mary asked.</|quote|>"Are you working?" Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party." Mary had a ruffled appearance, as if she had been running her fingers through her hair in the course of her conversation; she was dressed more or less like a Russian peasant girl. She sat down again in a chair which looked as if it had been
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light and speed, and the sense of being out of doors alone, and the knowledge that she would reach Mary in her high, lonely room at the end of the drive. She climbed the stone steps quickly, remarking the queer look of her blue silk skirt and blue shoes upon the stone, dusty with the boots of the day, under the light of an occasional jet of flickering gas. The door was opened in a second by Mary herself, whose face showed not only surprise at the sight of her visitor, but some degree of embarrassment. She greeted her cordially, and, as there was no time for explanations, Katharine walked straight into the sitting-room, and found herself in the presence of a young man who was lying back in a chair and holding a sheet of paper in his hand, at which he was looking as if he expected to go on immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?"<|quote|>Mary asked.</|quote|>"Are you working?" Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party." Mary had a ruffled appearance, as if she had been running her fingers through her hair in the course of her conversation; she was dressed more or less like a Russian peasant girl. She sat down again in a chair which looked as if it had been her seat for some hours; the saucer which stood upon the arm contained the ashes of many cigarettes. Mr. Basnett, a very young man with a fresh complexion and a high forehead from which the hair was combed straight back, was one of that group of "very able young men" suspected by Mr. Clacton, justly as it turned out, of an influence upon Mary Datchet. He had come down from one of the Universities not long ago, and was now charged with the reformation of society. In connection with the rest of the group of very able young men he
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rats and off I go. The illusion fades. But I accept my fate. I make hay while the sun shines." Cassandra looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Here s Katharine talking about rats, and hay, and all sorts of odd things," she said, as William returned to them. He had been quick. "Can you make her out?" Katharine perceived from his little frown and hesitation that he did not find that particular problem to his taste at present. She stood upright at once and said in a different tone: "I really am off, though. I wish you d explain if they say anything, William. I shan t be late, but I ve got to see some one." "At this time of night?" Cassandra exclaimed. "Whom have you got to see?" William demanded. "A friend," she remarked, half turning her head towards him. She knew that he wished her to stay, not, indeed, with them, but in their neighborhood, in case of need. "Katharine has a great many friends," said William rather lamely, sitting down once more, as Katharine left the room. She was soon driving quickly, as she had wished to drive, through the lamp-lit streets. She liked both light and speed, and the sense of being out of doors alone, and the knowledge that she would reach Mary in her high, lonely room at the end of the drive. She climbed the stone steps quickly, remarking the queer look of her blue silk skirt and blue shoes upon the stone, dusty with the boots of the day, under the light of an occasional jet of flickering gas. The door was opened in a second by Mary herself, whose face showed not only surprise at the sight of her visitor, but some degree of embarrassment. She greeted her cordially, and, as there was no time for explanations, Katharine walked straight into the sitting-room, and found herself in the presence of a young man who was lying back in a chair and holding a sheet of paper in his hand, at which he was looking as if he expected to go on immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?"<|quote|>Mary asked.</|quote|>"Are you working?" Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party." Mary had a ruffled appearance, as if she had been running her fingers through her hair in the course of her conversation; she was dressed more or less like a Russian peasant girl. She sat down again in a chair which looked as if it had been her seat for some hours; the saucer which stood upon the arm contained the ashes of many cigarettes. Mr. Basnett, a very young man with a fresh complexion and a high forehead from which the hair was combed straight back, was one of that group of "very able young men" suspected by Mr. Clacton, justly as it turned out, of an influence upon Mary Datchet. He had come down from one of the Universities not long ago, and was now charged with the reformation of society. In connection with the rest of the group of very able young men he had drawn up a scheme for the education of labor, for the amalgamation of the middle class and the working class, and for a joint assault of the two bodies, combined in the Society for the Education of Democracy, upon Capital. The scheme had already reached the stage in which it was permissible to hire an office and engage a secretary, and he had been deputed to expound the scheme to Mary, and make her an offer of the Secretaryship, to which, as a matter of principle, a small salary was attached. Since seven o clock that evening he had been reading out loud the document in which the faith of the new reformers was expounded, but the reading was so frequently interrupted by discussion, and it was so often necessary to inform Mary "in strictest confidence" of the private characters and evil designs of certain individuals and societies that they were still only half-way through the manuscript. Neither of them realized that the talk had already lasted three hours. In their absorption they had forgotten even to feed the fire, and yet both Mr. Basnett in his exposition, and Mary in her interrogation, carefully preserved a kind of formality
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possess, to love, to struggle. And yet her melancholy brought her no serenity. She still heard the voices within the room. She was still tormented by desires. She wished to be beyond their range. She wished inconsistently enough that she could find herself driving rapidly through the streets; she was even anxious to be with some one who, after a moment s groping, took a definite shape and solidified into the person of Mary Datchet. She drew the curtains so that the draperies met in deep folds in the middle of the window. "Ah, there she is," said Mr. Hilbery, who was standing swaying affably from side to side, with his back to the fire. "Come here, Katharine. I couldn t see where you d got to our children," he observed parenthetically, "have their uses I want you to go to my study, Katharine; go to the third shelf on the right-hand side of the door; take down Trelawny s Recollections of Shelley ; bring it to me. Then, Peyton, you will have to admit to the assembled company that you have been mistaken." "Trelawny s Recollections of Shelley. The third shelf on the right of the door," Katharine repeated. After all, one does not check children in their play, or rouse sleepers from their dreams. She passed William and Cassandra on her way to the door. "Stop, Katharine," said William, speaking almost as if he were conscious of her against his will. "Let me go." He rose, after a second s hesitation, and she understood that it cost him an effort. She knelt one knee upon the sofa where Cassandra sat, looking down at her cousin s face, which still moved with the speed of what she had been saying. "Are you happy?" she asked. "Oh, my dear!" Cassandra exclaimed, as if no further words were needed. "Of course, we disagree about every subject under the sun," she exclaimed, "but I think he s the cleverest man I ve ever met and you re the most beautiful woman," she added, looking at Katharine, and as she looked her face lost its animation and became almost melancholy in sympathy with Katharine s melancholy, which seemed to Cassandra the last refinement of her distinction. "Ah, but it s only ten o clock," said Katharine darkly. "As late as that! Well ?" She did not understand. "At twelve my horses turn into rats and off I go. The illusion fades. But I accept my fate. I make hay while the sun shines." Cassandra looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Here s Katharine talking about rats, and hay, and all sorts of odd things," she said, as William returned to them. He had been quick. "Can you make her out?" Katharine perceived from his little frown and hesitation that he did not find that particular problem to his taste at present. She stood upright at once and said in a different tone: "I really am off, though. I wish you d explain if they say anything, William. I shan t be late, but I ve got to see some one." "At this time of night?" Cassandra exclaimed. "Whom have you got to see?" William demanded. "A friend," she remarked, half turning her head towards him. She knew that he wished her to stay, not, indeed, with them, but in their neighborhood, in case of need. "Katharine has a great many friends," said William rather lamely, sitting down once more, as Katharine left the room. She was soon driving quickly, as she had wished to drive, through the lamp-lit streets. She liked both light and speed, and the sense of being out of doors alone, and the knowledge that she would reach Mary in her high, lonely room at the end of the drive. She climbed the stone steps quickly, remarking the queer look of her blue silk skirt and blue shoes upon the stone, dusty with the boots of the day, under the light of an occasional jet of flickering gas. The door was opened in a second by Mary herself, whose face showed not only surprise at the sight of her visitor, but some degree of embarrassment. She greeted her cordially, and, as there was no time for explanations, Katharine walked straight into the sitting-room, and found herself in the presence of a young man who was lying back in a chair and holding a sheet of paper in his hand, at which he was looking as if he expected to go on immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?"<|quote|>Mary asked.</|quote|>"Are you working?" Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party." Mary had a ruffled appearance, as if she had been running her fingers through her hair in the course of her conversation; she was dressed more or less like a Russian peasant girl. She sat down again in a chair which looked as if it had been her seat for some hours; the saucer which stood upon the arm contained the ashes of many cigarettes. Mr. Basnett, a very young man with a fresh complexion and a high forehead from which the hair was combed straight back, was one of that group of "very able young men" suspected by Mr. Clacton, justly as it turned out, of an influence upon Mary Datchet. He had come down from one of the Universities not long ago, and was now charged with the reformation of society. In connection with the rest of the group of very able young men he had drawn up a scheme for the education of labor, for the amalgamation of the middle class and the working class, and for a joint assault of the two bodies, combined in the Society for the Education of Democracy, upon Capital. The scheme had already reached the stage in which it was permissible to hire an office and engage a secretary, and he had been deputed to expound the scheme to Mary, and make her an offer of the Secretaryship, to which, as a matter of principle, a small salary was attached. Since seven o clock that evening he had been reading out loud the document in which the faith of the new reformers was expounded, but the reading was so frequently interrupted by discussion, and it was so often necessary to inform Mary "in strictest confidence" of the private characters and evil designs of certain individuals and societies that they were still only half-way through the manuscript. Neither of them realized that the talk had already lasted three hours. In their absorption they had forgotten even to feed the fire, and yet both Mr. Basnett in his exposition, and Mary in her interrogation, carefully preserved a kind of formality calculated to check the desire of the human mind for irrelevant discussion. Her questions frequently began, "Am I to understand " and his replies invariably represented the views of some one called "we." By this time Mary was almost persuaded that she, too, was included in the "we," and agreed with Mr. Basnett in believing that "our" views, "our" society, "our" policy, stood for something quite definitely segregated from the main body of society in a circle of superior illumination. The appearance of Katharine in this atmosphere was extremely incongruous, and had the effect of making Mary remember all sorts of things that she had been glad to forget. "You ve been dining out?" she asked again, looking, with a little smile, at the blue silk and the pearl-sewn shoes. "No, at home. Are you starting something new?" Katharine hazarded, rather hesitatingly, looking at the papers. "We are," Mr. Basnett replied. He said no more. "I m thinking of leaving our friends in Russell Square," Mary explained. "I see. And then you will do something else." "Well, I m afraid I like working," said Mary. "Afraid," said Mr. Basnett, conveying the impression that, in his opinion, no sensible person could be afraid of liking to work. "Yes," said Katharine, as if he had stated this opinion aloud. "I should like to start something something off one s own bat that s what I should like." "Yes, that s the fun," said Mr. Basnett, looking at her for the first time rather keenly, and refilling his pipe. "But you can t limit work that s what I mean," said Mary. "I mean there are other sorts of work. No one works harder than a woman with little children." "Quite so," said Mr. Basnett. "It s precisely the women with babies we want to get hold of." He glanced at his document, rolled it into a cylinder between his fingers, and gazed into the fire. Katharine felt that in this company anything that one said would be judged upon its merits; one had only to say what one thought, rather barely and tersely, with a curious assumption that the number of things that could properly be thought about was strictly limited. And Mr. Basnett was only stiff upon the surface; there was an intelligence in his face which attracted her intelligence. "When will the public know?" she asked. "What d you mean
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woman," she added, looking at Katharine, and as she looked her face lost its animation and became almost melancholy in sympathy with Katharine s melancholy, which seemed to Cassandra the last refinement of her distinction. "Ah, but it s only ten o clock," said Katharine darkly. "As late as that! Well ?" She did not understand. "At twelve my horses turn into rats and off I go. The illusion fades. But I accept my fate. I make hay while the sun shines." Cassandra looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Here s Katharine talking about rats, and hay, and all sorts of odd things," she said, as William returned to them. He had been quick. "Can you make her out?" Katharine perceived from his little frown and hesitation that he did not find that particular problem to his taste at present. She stood upright at once and said in a different tone: "I really am off, though. I wish you d explain if they say anything, William. I shan t be late, but I ve got to see some one." "At this time of night?" Cassandra exclaimed. "Whom have you got to see?" William demanded. "A friend," she remarked, half turning her head towards him. She knew that he wished her to stay, not, indeed, with them, but in their neighborhood, in case of need. "Katharine has a great many friends," said William rather lamely, sitting down once more, as Katharine left the room. She was soon driving quickly, as she had wished to drive, through the lamp-lit streets. She liked both light and speed, and the sense of being out of doors alone, and the knowledge that she would reach Mary in her high, lonely room at the end of the drive. She climbed the stone steps quickly, remarking the queer look of her blue silk skirt and blue shoes upon the stone, dusty with the boots of the day, under the light of an occasional jet of flickering gas. The door was opened in a second by Mary herself, whose face showed not only surprise at the sight of her visitor, but some degree of embarrassment. She greeted her cordially, and, as there was no time for explanations, Katharine walked straight into the sitting-room, and found herself in the presence of a young man who was lying back in a chair and holding a sheet of paper in his hand, at which he was looking as if he expected to go on immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?"<|quote|>Mary asked.</|quote|>"Are you working?" Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party." Mary had a ruffled appearance, as if she had been running her fingers through her hair in the course of her conversation; she was dressed more or less like a Russian peasant girl. She sat down again in a chair which looked as if it had been her seat for some hours; the saucer which stood upon the arm contained the ashes of many cigarettes. Mr. Basnett, a very young man with a fresh complexion and a high forehead from which the hair was combed straight back, was one of that group of "very able young men" suspected by Mr. Clacton, justly as it turned out, of an influence upon Mary Datchet. He had come down from one of the Universities not long ago, and was now charged with the reformation of society. In connection with the rest of the group of very able young men he had drawn up a scheme for the education of labor, for the amalgamation of the middle class and the working class, and for a joint assault of the two bodies, combined in the Society for the Education of Democracy, upon Capital. The scheme had already reached the stage in which it was permissible to hire an office and engage a secretary, and he had been deputed to expound the scheme to Mary, and make her an offer of the Secretaryship, to which, as a matter of principle, a small salary was attached. Since seven o clock that evening he had been reading out loud the document in which
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Night And Day
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"Perhaps,"
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Elinor
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now to draw their cards.<|quote|>"Perhaps,"</|quote|>continued Elinor, "if I should
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heard." The remaining five were now to draw their cards.<|quote|>"Perhaps,"</|quote|>continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I
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a speech. "Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma am," said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever heard." The remaining five were now to draw their cards.<|quote|>"Perhaps,"</|quote|>continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish
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to excuse _me_ you know I detest cards. I shall go to the piano-forte; I have not touched it since it was tuned." And without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument. Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that _she_ had never made so rude a speech. "Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma am," said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever heard." The remaining five were now to draw their cards.<|quote|>"Perhaps,"</|quote|>continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it." "Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried Lucy, "for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was; and it
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disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon having it done." Lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child. Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others. No one made any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms of general civility, exclaimed, "Your Ladyship will have the goodness to excuse _me_ you know I detest cards. I shall go to the piano-forte; I have not touched it since it was tuned." And without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument. Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that _she_ had never made so rude a speech. "Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma am," said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever heard." The remaining five were now to draw their cards.<|quote|>"Perhaps,"</|quote|>continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it." "Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried Lucy, "for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria after all." "Oh! that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele. "Dear little soul, how I do love her!" "You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor; "and as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?" Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same
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only with the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then placed, and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the park. They all rose up in preparation for a round game. "I am glad," said Lady Middleton to Lucy, "you are not going to finish poor little Annamaria s basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I hope she will not much mind it." This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied, "Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have been at my filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am resolved to finish the basket after supper." "You are very good, I hope it won t hurt your eyes will you ring the bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon having it done." Lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child. Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others. No one made any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms of general civility, exclaimed, "Your Ladyship will have the goodness to excuse _me_ you know I detest cards. I shall go to the piano-forte; I have not touched it since it was tuned." And without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument. Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that _she_ had never made so rude a speech. "Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma am," said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever heard." The remaining five were now to draw their cards.<|quote|>"Perhaps,"</|quote|>continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it." "Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried Lucy, "for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria after all." "Oh! that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele. "Dear little soul, how I do love her!" "You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor; "and as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?" Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same time. Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The pianoforte at which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself, was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table. CHAPTER XXIV. In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began. "I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with, if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its subject. I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again." "Thank you," cried Lucy warmly, "for breaking the ice; you have set my heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended you by what I told you that Monday." "Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Elinor spoke it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be
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composure. But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take advantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine enough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at least every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of conversation. Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady Middleton s head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse. They met for the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards, or consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy. One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they would all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone, except her mother and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation; Margaret, with her mother s permission, was equally compliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise. The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting than the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while they remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of engaging Lucy s attention to attempt it. They quitted it only with the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then placed, and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the park. They all rose up in preparation for a round game. "I am glad," said Lady Middleton to Lucy, "you are not going to finish poor little Annamaria s basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I hope she will not much mind it." This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied, "Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have been at my filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am resolved to finish the basket after supper." "You are very good, I hope it won t hurt your eyes will you ring the bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon having it done." Lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child. Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others. No one made any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms of general civility, exclaimed, "Your Ladyship will have the goodness to excuse _me_ you know I detest cards. I shall go to the piano-forte; I have not touched it since it was tuned." And without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument. Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that _she_ had never made so rude a speech. "Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma am," said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever heard." The remaining five were now to draw their cards.<|quote|>"Perhaps,"</|quote|>continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it." "Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried Lucy, "for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria after all." "Oh! that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele. "Dear little soul, how I do love her!" "You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor; "and as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?" Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same time. Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The pianoforte at which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself, was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table. CHAPTER XXIV. In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began. "I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with, if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its subject. I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again." "Thank you," cried Lucy warmly, "for breaking the ice; you have set my heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended you by what I told you that Monday." "Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Elinor spoke it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my intention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?" "And yet I do assure you," replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of meaning, "there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your manner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not blame me. If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am sure." "Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you, to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall never have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one; you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have need of all your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr. Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother." "He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother might give him if he married to please her. We must wait, it may be for many years. With almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward s affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of I know." "That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in your s. If the strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under many circumstances it naturally would during a four years engagement, your situation would have been pitiable, indeed." Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was
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and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation; Margaret, with her mother s permission, was equally compliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise. The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting than the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while they remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of engaging Lucy s attention to attempt it. They quitted it only with the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then placed, and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the park. They all rose up in preparation for a round game. "I am glad," said Lady Middleton to Lucy, "you are not going to finish poor little Annamaria s basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I hope she will not much mind it." This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied, "Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have been at my filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am resolved to finish the basket after supper." "You are very good, I hope it won t hurt your eyes will you ring the bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon having it done." Lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child. Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others. No one made any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms of general civility, exclaimed, "Your Ladyship will have the goodness to excuse _me_ you know I detest cards. I shall go to the piano-forte; I have not touched it since it was tuned." And without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument. Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that _she_ had never made so rude a speech. "Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma am," said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever heard." The remaining five were now to draw their cards.<|quote|>"Perhaps,"</|quote|>continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it." "Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried Lucy, "for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria after all." "Oh! that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele. "Dear little soul, how I do love her!" "You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor; "and as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?" Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same time. Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The pianoforte at which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself, was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table. CHAPTER XXIV. In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began. "I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with, if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its subject. I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again." "Thank you," cried Lucy warmly, "for breaking the ice; you have set my heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended you by what I told you that Monday." "Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Elinor spoke it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my intention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for the trust, that was
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Sense And Sensibility
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Cassandra, too, gave an indescribably slight movement which seemed to draw the three of them into alliance together. Katharine s tone and glance made Mr. Hilbery once more feel completely at a loss, and in addition, painfully and angrily obsolete; but in spite of an awful inner hollowness he was outwardly composed.
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No speaker
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am concerned I and Cassandra."<|quote|>Cassandra, too, gave an indescribably slight movement which seemed to draw the three of them into alliance together. Katharine s tone and glance made Mr. Hilbery once more feel completely at a loss, and in addition, painfully and angrily obsolete; but in spite of an awful inner hollowness he was outwardly composed.</|quote|>"Cassandra and Rodney have a
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all, it is I who am concerned I and Cassandra."<|quote|>Cassandra, too, gave an indescribably slight movement which seemed to draw the three of them into alliance together. Katharine s tone and glance made Mr. Hilbery once more feel completely at a loss, and in addition, painfully and angrily obsolete; but in spite of an awful inner hollowness he was outwardly composed.</|quote|>"Cassandra and Rodney have a perfect right to settle their
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Hilbery returned. "But you forget me," said Katharine. She moved a little towards Rodney, and her movement seemed to testify mutely to her respect for him, and her alliance with him. "I think William has behaved perfectly rightly, and, after all, it is I who am concerned I and Cassandra."<|quote|>Cassandra, too, gave an indescribably slight movement which seemed to draw the three of them into alliance together. Katharine s tone and glance made Mr. Hilbery once more feel completely at a loss, and in addition, painfully and angrily obsolete; but in spite of an awful inner hollowness he was outwardly composed.</|quote|>"Cassandra and Rodney have a perfect right to settle their own affairs according to their own wishes; but I see no reason why they should do so either in my room or in my house.... I wish to be quite clear on this point, however; you are no longer engaged
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eyes upon the ground, nevertheless expressed an astonishing amount of resolution. "I am quite aware what you must think of me," he brought out, looking Mr. Hilbery directly in the eyes for the first time. "I could express my views on the subject more fully if we were alone," Mr. Hilbery returned. "But you forget me," said Katharine. She moved a little towards Rodney, and her movement seemed to testify mutely to her respect for him, and her alliance with him. "I think William has behaved perfectly rightly, and, after all, it is I who am concerned I and Cassandra."<|quote|>Cassandra, too, gave an indescribably slight movement which seemed to draw the three of them into alliance together. Katharine s tone and glance made Mr. Hilbery once more feel completely at a loss, and in addition, painfully and angrily obsolete; but in spite of an awful inner hollowness he was outwardly composed.</|quote|>"Cassandra and Rodney have a perfect right to settle their own affairs according to their own wishes; but I see no reason why they should do so either in my room or in my house.... I wish to be quite clear on this point, however; you are no longer engaged to Rodney." He paused, and his pause seemed to signify that he was extremely thankful for his daughter s deliverance. Cassandra turned to Katharine, who drew her breath as if to speak and checked herself; Rodney, too, seemed to await some movement on her part; her father glanced at her
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the truth!" She flung herself between Rodney and her uncle, as if she sought to intercept their blows. As her uncle stood perfectly still, looking very large and imposing, and as nobody spoke, she shrank back a little, and looked first at Katharine and then at Rodney. "You must know the truth," she said, a little lamely. "You have the impudence to tell me this in Katharine s presence?" Mr. Hilbery continued, speaking with complete disregard of Cassandra s interruption. "I am aware, quite aware" Rodney s words, which were broken in sense, spoken after a pause, and with his eyes upon the ground, nevertheless expressed an astonishing amount of resolution. "I am quite aware what you must think of me," he brought out, looking Mr. Hilbery directly in the eyes for the first time. "I could express my views on the subject more fully if we were alone," Mr. Hilbery returned. "But you forget me," said Katharine. She moved a little towards Rodney, and her movement seemed to testify mutely to her respect for him, and her alliance with him. "I think William has behaved perfectly rightly, and, after all, it is I who am concerned I and Cassandra."<|quote|>Cassandra, too, gave an indescribably slight movement which seemed to draw the three of them into alliance together. Katharine s tone and glance made Mr. Hilbery once more feel completely at a loss, and in addition, painfully and angrily obsolete; but in spite of an awful inner hollowness he was outwardly composed.</|quote|>"Cassandra and Rodney have a perfect right to settle their own affairs according to their own wishes; but I see no reason why they should do so either in my room or in my house.... I wish to be quite clear on this point, however; you are no longer engaged to Rodney." He paused, and his pause seemed to signify that he was extremely thankful for his daughter s deliverance. Cassandra turned to Katharine, who drew her breath as if to speak and checked herself; Rodney, too, seemed to await some movement on her part; her father glanced at her as if he half anticipated some further revelation. She remained perfectly silent. In the silence they heard distinctly steps descending the staircase, and Katharine went straight to the door. "Wait," Mr. Hilbery commanded. "I wish to speak to you alone," he added. She paused, holding the door ajar. "I ll come back," she said, and as she spoke she opened the door and went out. They could hear her immediately speak to some one outside, though the words were inaudible. Mr. Hilbery was left confronting the guilty couple, who remained standing as if they did not accept their dismissal, and
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and fundamentally other than Mr. Hilbery thought him. Everything was against him. Even the Sunday evening and the fire and the tranquil library scene were against him. Mr. Hilbery s appeal to him as a man of the world was terribly against him. He was no longer a man of any world that Mr. Hilbery cared to recognize. But some power compelled him, as it had compelled him to come downstairs, to make his stand here and now, alone and unhelped by any one, without prospect of reward. He fumbled with various phrases; and then jerked out: "I love Cassandra." Mr. Hilbery s face turned a curious dull purple. He looked at his daughter. He nodded his head, as if to convey his silent command to her to leave the room; but either she did not notice it or preferred not to obey. "You have the impudence" Mr. Hilbery began, in a dull, low voice that he himself had never heard before, when there was a scuffling and exclaiming in the hall, and Cassandra, who appeared to be insisting against some dissuasion on the part of another, burst into the room. "Uncle Trevor," she exclaimed, "I insist upon telling you the truth!" She flung herself between Rodney and her uncle, as if she sought to intercept their blows. As her uncle stood perfectly still, looking very large and imposing, and as nobody spoke, she shrank back a little, and looked first at Katharine and then at Rodney. "You must know the truth," she said, a little lamely. "You have the impudence to tell me this in Katharine s presence?" Mr. Hilbery continued, speaking with complete disregard of Cassandra s interruption. "I am aware, quite aware" Rodney s words, which were broken in sense, spoken after a pause, and with his eyes upon the ground, nevertheless expressed an astonishing amount of resolution. "I am quite aware what you must think of me," he brought out, looking Mr. Hilbery directly in the eyes for the first time. "I could express my views on the subject more fully if we were alone," Mr. Hilbery returned. "But you forget me," said Katharine. She moved a little towards Rodney, and her movement seemed to testify mutely to her respect for him, and her alliance with him. "I think William has behaved perfectly rightly, and, after all, it is I who am concerned I and Cassandra."<|quote|>Cassandra, too, gave an indescribably slight movement which seemed to draw the three of them into alliance together. Katharine s tone and glance made Mr. Hilbery once more feel completely at a loss, and in addition, painfully and angrily obsolete; but in spite of an awful inner hollowness he was outwardly composed.</|quote|>"Cassandra and Rodney have a perfect right to settle their own affairs according to their own wishes; but I see no reason why they should do so either in my room or in my house.... I wish to be quite clear on this point, however; you are no longer engaged to Rodney." He paused, and his pause seemed to signify that he was extremely thankful for his daughter s deliverance. Cassandra turned to Katharine, who drew her breath as if to speak and checked herself; Rodney, too, seemed to await some movement on her part; her father glanced at her as if he half anticipated some further revelation. She remained perfectly silent. In the silence they heard distinctly steps descending the staircase, and Katharine went straight to the door. "Wait," Mr. Hilbery commanded. "I wish to speak to you alone," he added. She paused, holding the door ajar. "I ll come back," she said, and as she spoke she opened the door and went out. They could hear her immediately speak to some one outside, though the words were inaudible. Mr. Hilbery was left confronting the guilty couple, who remained standing as if they did not accept their dismissal, and the disappearance of Katharine had brought some change into the situation. So, in his secret heart, Mr. Hilbery felt that it had, for he could not explain his daughter s behavior to his own satisfaction. "Uncle Trevor," Cassandra exclaimed impulsively, "don t be angry, please. I couldn t help it; I do beg you to forgive me." Her uncle still refused to acknowledge her identity, and still talked over her head as if she did not exist. "I suppose you have communicated with the Otways," he said to Rodney grimly. "Uncle Trevor, we wanted to tell you," Cassandra replied for him. "We waited" she looked appealingly at Rodney, who shook his head ever so slightly. "Yes? What were you waiting for?" her uncle asked sharply, looking at her at last. The words died on her lips. It was apparent that she was straining her ears as if to catch some sound outside the room that would come to her help. He received no answer. He listened, too. "This is a most unpleasant business for all parties," he concluded, sinking into his chair again, hunching his shoulders and regarding the flames. He seemed to speak to himself, and Rodney and Cassandra
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utmost stiffness. "Has this been arrived at by your joint desire?" After a perceptible pause William bent his head, and Katharine said, as if by an afterthought: "Oh, yes." Mr. Hilbery swayed to and fro, and moved his lips as if to utter remarks which remained unspoken. "I can only suggest that you should postpone any decision until the effect of this misunderstanding has had time to wear off. You have now known each other" he began. "There s been no misunderstanding," Katharine interposed. "Nothing at all." She moved a few paces across the room, as if she intended to leave them. Her preoccupied naturalness was in strange contrast to her father s pomposity and to William s military rigidity. He had not once raised his eyes. Katharine s glance, on the other hand, ranged past the two gentlemen, along the books, over the tables, towards the door. She was paying the least possible attention, it seemed, to what was happening. Her father looked at her with a sudden clouding and troubling of his expression. Somehow his faith in her stability and sense was queerly shaken. He no longer felt that he could ultimately entrust her with the whole conduct of her own affairs after a superficial show of directing them. He felt, for the first time in many years, responsible for her. "Look here, we must get to the bottom of this," he said, dropping his formal manner and addressing Rodney as if Katharine were not present. "You ve had some difference of opinion, eh? Take my word for it, most people go through this sort of thing when they re engaged. I ve seen more trouble come from long engagements than from any other form of human folly. Take my advice and put the whole matter out of your minds both of you. I prescribe a complete abstinence from emotion. Visit some cheerful seaside resort, Rodney." He was struck by William s appearance, which seemed to him to indicate profound feeling resolutely held in check. No doubt, he reflected, Katharine had been very trying, unconsciously trying, and had driven him to take up a position which was none of his willing. Mr. Hilbery certainly did not overrate William s sufferings. No minutes in his life had hitherto extorted from him such intensity of anguish. He was now facing the consequences of his insanity. He must confess himself entirely and fundamentally other than Mr. Hilbery thought him. Everything was against him. Even the Sunday evening and the fire and the tranquil library scene were against him. Mr. Hilbery s appeal to him as a man of the world was terribly against him. He was no longer a man of any world that Mr. Hilbery cared to recognize. But some power compelled him, as it had compelled him to come downstairs, to make his stand here and now, alone and unhelped by any one, without prospect of reward. He fumbled with various phrases; and then jerked out: "I love Cassandra." Mr. Hilbery s face turned a curious dull purple. He looked at his daughter. He nodded his head, as if to convey his silent command to her to leave the room; but either she did not notice it or preferred not to obey. "You have the impudence" Mr. Hilbery began, in a dull, low voice that he himself had never heard before, when there was a scuffling and exclaiming in the hall, and Cassandra, who appeared to be insisting against some dissuasion on the part of another, burst into the room. "Uncle Trevor," she exclaimed, "I insist upon telling you the truth!" She flung herself between Rodney and her uncle, as if she sought to intercept their blows. As her uncle stood perfectly still, looking very large and imposing, and as nobody spoke, she shrank back a little, and looked first at Katharine and then at Rodney. "You must know the truth," she said, a little lamely. "You have the impudence to tell me this in Katharine s presence?" Mr. Hilbery continued, speaking with complete disregard of Cassandra s interruption. "I am aware, quite aware" Rodney s words, which were broken in sense, spoken after a pause, and with his eyes upon the ground, nevertheless expressed an astonishing amount of resolution. "I am quite aware what you must think of me," he brought out, looking Mr. Hilbery directly in the eyes for the first time. "I could express my views on the subject more fully if we were alone," Mr. Hilbery returned. "But you forget me," said Katharine. She moved a little towards Rodney, and her movement seemed to testify mutely to her respect for him, and her alliance with him. "I think William has behaved perfectly rightly, and, after all, it is I who am concerned I and Cassandra."<|quote|>Cassandra, too, gave an indescribably slight movement which seemed to draw the three of them into alliance together. Katharine s tone and glance made Mr. Hilbery once more feel completely at a loss, and in addition, painfully and angrily obsolete; but in spite of an awful inner hollowness he was outwardly composed.</|quote|>"Cassandra and Rodney have a perfect right to settle their own affairs according to their own wishes; but I see no reason why they should do so either in my room or in my house.... I wish to be quite clear on this point, however; you are no longer engaged to Rodney." He paused, and his pause seemed to signify that he was extremely thankful for his daughter s deliverance. Cassandra turned to Katharine, who drew her breath as if to speak and checked herself; Rodney, too, seemed to await some movement on her part; her father glanced at her as if he half anticipated some further revelation. She remained perfectly silent. In the silence they heard distinctly steps descending the staircase, and Katharine went straight to the door. "Wait," Mr. Hilbery commanded. "I wish to speak to you alone," he added. She paused, holding the door ajar. "I ll come back," she said, and as she spoke she opened the door and went out. They could hear her immediately speak to some one outside, though the words were inaudible. Mr. Hilbery was left confronting the guilty couple, who remained standing as if they did not accept their dismissal, and the disappearance of Katharine had brought some change into the situation. So, in his secret heart, Mr. Hilbery felt that it had, for he could not explain his daughter s behavior to his own satisfaction. "Uncle Trevor," Cassandra exclaimed impulsively, "don t be angry, please. I couldn t help it; I do beg you to forgive me." Her uncle still refused to acknowledge her identity, and still talked over her head as if she did not exist. "I suppose you have communicated with the Otways," he said to Rodney grimly. "Uncle Trevor, we wanted to tell you," Cassandra replied for him. "We waited" she looked appealingly at Rodney, who shook his head ever so slightly. "Yes? What were you waiting for?" her uncle asked sharply, looking at her at last. The words died on her lips. It was apparent that she was straining her ears as if to catch some sound outside the room that would come to her help. He received no answer. He listened, too. "This is a most unpleasant business for all parties," he concluded, sinking into his chair again, hunching his shoulders and regarding the flames. He seemed to speak to himself, and Rodney and Cassandra looked at him in silence. "Why don t you sit down?" he said suddenly. He spoke gruffly, but the force of his anger was evidently spent, or some preoccupation had turned his mood to other regions. While Cassandra accepted his invitation, Rodney remained standing. "I think Cassandra can explain matters better in my absence," he said, and left the room, Mr. Hilbery giving his assent by a slight nod of the head. Meanwhile, in the dining-room next door, Denham and Katharine were once more seated at the mahogany table. They seemed to be continuing a conversation broken off in the middle, as if each remembered the precise point at which they had been interrupted, and was eager to go on as quickly as possible. Katharine, having interposed a short account of the interview with her father, Denham made no comment, but said: "Anyhow, there s no reason why we shouldn t see each other." "Or stay together. It s only marriage that s out of the question," Katharine replied. "But if I find myself coming to want you more and more?" "If our lapses come more and more often?" He sighed impatiently, and said nothing for a moment. "But at least," he renewed, "we ve established the fact that my lapses are still in some odd way connected with you; yours have nothing to do with me. Katharine," he added, his assumption of reason broken up by his agitation, "I assure you that we are in love what other people call love. Remember that night. We had no doubts whatever then. We were absolutely happy for half an hour. You had no lapse until the day after; I had no lapse until yesterday morning. We ve been happy at intervals all day until I went off my head, and you, quite naturally, were bored." "Ah," she exclaimed, as if the subject chafed her, "I can t make you understand. It s not boredom I m never bored. Reality reality," she ejaculated, tapping her finger upon the table as if to emphasize and perhaps explain her isolated utterance of this word. "I cease to be real to you. It s the faces in a storm again the vision in a hurricane. We come together for a moment and we part. It s my fault, too. I m as bad as you are worse, perhaps." They were trying to explain, not for
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to him to indicate profound feeling resolutely held in check. No doubt, he reflected, Katharine had been very trying, unconsciously trying, and had driven him to take up a position which was none of his willing. Mr. Hilbery certainly did not overrate William s sufferings. No minutes in his life had hitherto extorted from him such intensity of anguish. He was now facing the consequences of his insanity. He must confess himself entirely and fundamentally other than Mr. Hilbery thought him. Everything was against him. Even the Sunday evening and the fire and the tranquil library scene were against him. Mr. Hilbery s appeal to him as a man of the world was terribly against him. He was no longer a man of any world that Mr. Hilbery cared to recognize. But some power compelled him, as it had compelled him to come downstairs, to make his stand here and now, alone and unhelped by any one, without prospect of reward. He fumbled with various phrases; and then jerked out: "I love Cassandra." Mr. Hilbery s face turned a curious dull purple. He looked at his daughter. He nodded his head, as if to convey his silent command to her to leave the room; but either she did not notice it or preferred not to obey. "You have the impudence" Mr. Hilbery began, in a dull, low voice that he himself had never heard before, when there was a scuffling and exclaiming in the hall, and Cassandra, who appeared to be insisting against some dissuasion on the part of another, burst into the room. "Uncle Trevor," she exclaimed, "I insist upon telling you the truth!" She flung herself between Rodney and her uncle, as if she sought to intercept their blows. As her uncle stood perfectly still, looking very large and imposing, and as nobody spoke, she shrank back a little, and looked first at Katharine and then at Rodney. "You must know the truth," she said, a little lamely. "You have the impudence to tell me this in Katharine s presence?" Mr. Hilbery continued, speaking with complete disregard of Cassandra s interruption. "I am aware, quite aware" Rodney s words, which were broken in sense, spoken after a pause, and with his eyes upon the ground, nevertheless expressed an astonishing amount of resolution. "I am quite aware what you must think of me," he brought out, looking Mr. Hilbery directly in the eyes for the first time. "I could express my views on the subject more fully if we were alone," Mr. Hilbery returned. "But you forget me," said Katharine. She moved a little towards Rodney, and her movement seemed to testify mutely to her respect for him, and her alliance with him. "I think William has behaved perfectly rightly, and, after all, it is I who am concerned I and Cassandra."<|quote|>Cassandra, too, gave an indescribably slight movement which seemed to draw the three of them into alliance together. Katharine s tone and glance made Mr. Hilbery once more feel completely at a loss, and in addition, painfully and angrily obsolete; but in spite of an awful inner hollowness he was outwardly composed.</|quote|>"Cassandra and Rodney have a perfect right to settle their own affairs according to their own wishes; but I see no reason why they should do so either in my room or in my house.... I wish to be quite clear on this point, however; you are no longer engaged to Rodney." He paused, and his pause seemed to signify that he was extremely thankful for his daughter s deliverance. Cassandra turned to Katharine, who drew her breath as if to speak and checked herself; Rodney, too, seemed to await some movement on her part; her father glanced at her as if he half anticipated some further revelation. She remained perfectly silent. In the silence they heard distinctly steps descending the staircase, and Katharine went straight to the door. "Wait," Mr. Hilbery commanded. "I wish to speak to you alone," he added. She paused, holding the door ajar. "I ll come back," she said, and as she spoke she opened the door and went out. They could hear her immediately speak to some one outside, though the words were inaudible. Mr. Hilbery was left confronting the guilty couple, who remained standing as if they did not accept their dismissal, and the disappearance of Katharine had brought some change into the situation. So, in his secret heart, Mr. Hilbery felt that it had, for he could not explain his daughter s behavior to his own satisfaction. "Uncle Trevor," Cassandra exclaimed impulsively, "don t be angry, please. I couldn t help it; I do beg you to forgive me." Her uncle still refused to acknowledge her identity, and still talked over her head as if she did not exist. "I suppose you have communicated with the Otways," he said to Rodney grimly. "Uncle Trevor, we wanted to tell you," Cassandra replied for him. "We waited" she looked appealingly at Rodney, who shook his head ever so slightly. "Yes? What were you waiting for?" her uncle asked sharply, looking at her at last. The words died on her lips. It was apparent that she was straining her ears as if to catch some sound outside the room that would come to her help. He received no answer. He listened, too. "This is a most unpleasant business for all parties," he concluded, sinking into his chair again, hunching his shoulders and regarding the flames. He seemed to speak to himself, and Rodney and Cassandra looked at him in silence. "Why don t you sit down?" he said suddenly. He spoke gruffly, but the force of his anger was evidently spent, or some preoccupation had turned his mood to other regions. While Cassandra accepted his invitation, Rodney remained standing. "I think Cassandra can explain matters better in my absence," he said, and left the room, Mr. Hilbery giving his assent by a slight nod of the head. Meanwhile, in the dining-room next door, Denham and Katharine were once more seated at the mahogany table. They seemed to be continuing a conversation broken off in the middle, as if each remembered the precise point at which they had been interrupted, and was eager to go on as quickly as possible. Katharine, having interposed a short account of the interview with her father, Denham made no comment, but said: "Anyhow, there s no reason why we shouldn t see each other." "Or stay together. It s only marriage that s out
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Night And Day
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"They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his good name. You don t want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind you, I don t believe these rumours at all. At least, I can t believe them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man s face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices. There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even. Somebody I won t mention his name, but you know him came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth I can t believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don t know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent s only son and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James s Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him?"
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Basil Hallward
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got the charm of novelty."<|quote|>"They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his good name. You don t want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind you, I don t believe these rumours at all. At least, I can t believe them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man s face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices. There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even. Somebody I won t mention his name, but you know him came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth I can t believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don t know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent s only son and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James s Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him?"</|quote|>"Stop, Basil. You are talking
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interest me. They have not got the charm of novelty."<|quote|>"They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his good name. You don t want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind you, I don t believe these rumours at all. At least, I can t believe them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man s face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices. There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even. Somebody I won t mention his name, but you know him came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth I can t believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don t know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent s only son and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James s Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him?"</|quote|>"Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you
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think it right that you should know that the most dreadful things are being said against you in London." "I don t wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don t interest me. They have not got the charm of novelty."<|quote|>"They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his good name. You don t want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind you, I don t believe these rumours at all. At least, I can t believe them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man s face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices. There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even. Somebody I won t mention his name, but you know him came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth I can t believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don t know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent s only son and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James s Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him?"</|quote|>"Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing," said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt in his voice. "You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It is because I know everything about his life, not
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deep voice, "and I must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour." Dorian sighed and lit a cigarette. "Half an hour!" he murmured. "It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own sake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that the most dreadful things are being said against you in London." "I don t wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don t interest me. They have not got the charm of novelty."<|quote|>"They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his good name. You don t want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind you, I don t believe these rumours at all. At least, I can t believe them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man s face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices. There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even. Somebody I won t mention his name, but you know him came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth I can t believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don t know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent s only son and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James s Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him?"</|quote|>"Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing," said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt in his voice. "You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows anything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could his record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent s silly son takes his wife
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I won t have anything more," said the painter, taking his cap and coat off and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the corner. "And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously. Don t frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me." "What is it all about?" cried Dorian in his petulant way, flinging himself down on the sofa. "I hope it is not about myself. I am tired of myself to-night. I should like to be somebody else." "It is about yourself," answered Hallward in his grave deep voice, "and I must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour." Dorian sighed and lit a cigarette. "Half an hour!" he murmured. "It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own sake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that the most dreadful things are being said against you in London." "I don t wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don t interest me. They have not got the charm of novelty."<|quote|>"They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his good name. You don t want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind you, I don t believe these rumours at all. At least, I can t believe them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man s face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices. There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even. Somebody I won t mention his name, but you know him came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth I can t believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don t know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent s only son and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James s Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him?"</|quote|>"Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing," said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt in his voice. "You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows anything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could his record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent s silly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If Adrian Singleton writes his friend s name across a bill, am I his keeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with the people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. And what sort of lives
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followed Dorian into the library. There was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open hearth. The lamps were lit, and an open Dutch silver spirit-case stood, with some siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on a little marqueterie table. "You see your servant made me quite at home, Dorian. He gave me everything I wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. He is a most hospitable creature. I like him much better than the Frenchman you used to have. What has become of the Frenchman, by the bye?" Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I believe he married Lady Radley s maid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker. _Anglomanie_ is very fashionable over there now, I hear. It seems silly of the French, doesn t it? But do you know? he was not at all a bad servant. I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about. One often imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really very devoted to me and seemed quite sorry when he went away. Have another brandy-and-soda? Or would you like hock-and-seltzer? I always take hock-and-seltzer myself. There is sure to be some in the next room." "Thanks, I won t have anything more," said the painter, taking his cap and coat off and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the corner. "And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously. Don t frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me." "What is it all about?" cried Dorian in his petulant way, flinging himself down on the sofa. "I hope it is not about myself. I am tired of myself to-night. I should like to be somebody else." "It is about yourself," answered Hallward in his grave deep voice, "and I must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour." Dorian sighed and lit a cigarette. "Half an hour!" he murmured. "It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own sake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that the most dreadful things are being said against you in London." "I don t wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don t interest me. They have not got the charm of novelty."<|quote|>"They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his good name. You don t want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind you, I don t believe these rumours at all. At least, I can t believe them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man s face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices. There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even. Somebody I won t mention his name, but you know him came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth I can t believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don t know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent s only son and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James s Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him?"</|quote|>"Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing," said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt in his voice. "You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows anything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could his record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent s silly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If Adrian Singleton writes his friend s name across a bill, am I his keeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with the people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite." "Dorian," cried Hallward, "that is not the question. England is bad enough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to judge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to lose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You led them there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are smiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry are inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not have made his sister s name a by-word." "Take care, Basil. You go too far." "I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met Lady Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a single decent woman in London now who would drive with
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him first stopping on the pavement and then hurrying after him. In a few moments, his hand was on his arm. "Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for you in your library ever since nine o clock. Finally I took pity on your tired servant and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. I am off to Paris by the midnight train, and I particularly wanted to see you before I left. I thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as you passed me. But I wasn t quite sure. Didn t you recognize me?" "In this fog, my dear Basil? Why, I can t even recognize Grosvenor Square. I believe my house is somewhere about here, but I don t feel at all certain about it. I am sorry you are going away, as I have not seen you for ages. But I suppose you will be back soon?" "No: I am going to be out of England for six months. I intend to take a studio in Paris and shut myself up till I have finished a great picture I have in my head. However, it wasn t about myself I wanted to talk. Here we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I have something to say to you." "I shall be charmed. But won t you miss your train?" said Dorian Gray languidly as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his latch-key. The lamplight struggled out through the fog, and Hallward looked at his watch. "I have heaps of time," he answered. "The train doesn t go till twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. In fact, I was on my way to the club to look for you, when I met you. You see, I shan t have any delay about luggage, as I have sent on my heavy things. All I have with me is in this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria in twenty minutes." Dorian looked at him and smiled. "What a way for a fashionable painter to travel! A Gladstone bag and an ulster! Come in, or the fog will get into the house. And mind you don t talk about anything serious. Nothing is serious nowadays. At least nothing should be." Hallward shook his head, as he entered, and followed Dorian into the library. There was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open hearth. The lamps were lit, and an open Dutch silver spirit-case stood, with some siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on a little marqueterie table. "You see your servant made me quite at home, Dorian. He gave me everything I wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. He is a most hospitable creature. I like him much better than the Frenchman you used to have. What has become of the Frenchman, by the bye?" Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I believe he married Lady Radley s maid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker. _Anglomanie_ is very fashionable over there now, I hear. It seems silly of the French, doesn t it? But do you know? he was not at all a bad servant. I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about. One often imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really very devoted to me and seemed quite sorry when he went away. Have another brandy-and-soda? Or would you like hock-and-seltzer? I always take hock-and-seltzer myself. There is sure to be some in the next room." "Thanks, I won t have anything more," said the painter, taking his cap and coat off and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the corner. "And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously. Don t frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me." "What is it all about?" cried Dorian in his petulant way, flinging himself down on the sofa. "I hope it is not about myself. I am tired of myself to-night. I should like to be somebody else." "It is about yourself," answered Hallward in his grave deep voice, "and I must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour." Dorian sighed and lit a cigarette. "Half an hour!" he murmured. "It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own sake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that the most dreadful things are being said against you in London." "I don t wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don t interest me. They have not got the charm of novelty."<|quote|>"They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his good name. You don t want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind you, I don t believe these rumours at all. At least, I can t believe them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man s face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices. There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even. Somebody I won t mention his name, but you know him came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth I can t believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don t know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent s only son and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James s Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him?"</|quote|>"Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing," said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt in his voice. "You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows anything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could his record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent s silly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If Adrian Singleton writes his friend s name across a bill, am I his keeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with the people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite." "Dorian," cried Hallward, "that is not the question. England is bad enough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to judge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to lose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You led them there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are smiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry are inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not have made his sister s name a by-word." "Take care, Basil. You go too far." "I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met Lady Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a single decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the park? Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then there are other stories stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest dens in London. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard them, I laughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What about your country-house and the life that is led there? Dorian, you don t know what is said about you. I won t tell you that I don t want to preach to you. I remember Harry saying once that every man who turned himself into an amateur curate for the moment always began by saying that, and then proceeded to break his word. I do want to preach to you. I want you to lead such a life as will make the world respect you. I want you to have a clean name and a fair record. I want you to get rid of the dreadful people you associate with. Don t shrug your shoulders like that. Don t be so indifferent. You have a wonderful influence. Let it be for good, not for evil. They say that you corrupt every one with whom you become intimate, and that it is quite sufficient for you to enter a house for shame of some kind to follow after. I don t know whether it is so or not. How should I know? But it is said of you. I am told things that it seems impossible to doubt. Lord Gloucester was one of my greatest friends at Oxford. He showed me a letter that his wife had written to him when she was dying alone in her villa at Mentone. Your name was implicated in the most terrible confession I ever read. I told him that it was absurd that I knew you thoroughly and that you were incapable of anything of the kind. Know you? I wonder do I know you? Before I could answer that, I should have to see your soul." "To see my soul!" muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa and turning almost white from fear. "Yes," answered Hallward gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in his voice, "to see your soul. But only God can do that." A bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of
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he married Lady Radley s maid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker. _Anglomanie_ is very fashionable over there now, I hear. It seems silly of the French, doesn t it? But do you know? he was not at all a bad servant. I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about. One often imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really very devoted to me and seemed quite sorry when he went away. Have another brandy-and-soda? Or would you like hock-and-seltzer? I always take hock-and-seltzer myself. There is sure to be some in the next room." "Thanks, I won t have anything more," said the painter, taking his cap and coat off and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the corner. "And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously. Don t frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me." "What is it all about?" cried Dorian in his petulant way, flinging himself down on the sofa. "I hope it is not about myself. I am tired of myself to-night. I should like to be somebody else." "It is about yourself," answered Hallward in his grave deep voice, "and I must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour." Dorian sighed and lit a cigarette. "Half an hour!" he murmured. "It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own sake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that the most dreadful things are being said against you in London." "I don t wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don t interest me. They have not got the charm of novelty."<|quote|>"They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his good name. You don t want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind you, I don t believe these rumours at all. At least, I can t believe them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man s face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices. There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even. Somebody I won t mention his name, but you know him came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth I can t believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don t know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent s only son and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James s Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him?"</|quote|>"Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing," said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt in his voice. "You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows anything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could his record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent s silly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If Adrian Singleton writes his friend s name across a bill, am I his keeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with the people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite." "Dorian," cried Hallward, "that is not the question. England is bad enough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to judge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to lose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You led them there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are smiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry are inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not have made his sister s name a by-word." "Take care, Basil. You go too far." "I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met Lady Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a single decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the park? Why,
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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She is silent. Then she asks gently:
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No speaker
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from there one Sunday, perhaps."<|quote|>She is silent. Then she asks gently:</|quote|>"Are you very much afraid?"
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camp. I may come over from there one Sunday, perhaps."<|quote|>She is silent. Then she asks gently:</|quote|>"Are you very much afraid?" "No, mother." "I would like
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just wakened up. "Go and sleep, mother, you will catch cold here." "I can sleep enough later," she says. I sit up. "I don't go straight back to the front, mother. I have to do four weeks at the training camp. I may come over from there one Sunday, perhaps."<|quote|>She is silent. Then she asks gently:</|quote|>"Are you very much afraid?" "No, mother." "I would like to tell you to be on your guard against the women out in France. They are no good." Ah! Mother, Mother! You still think I am a child--why can I not put my head in your lap and weep? Why
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room. She thinks I am asleep, and I pretend to be so. To talk, to stay awake with one another, it is too hard. She sits long into the night although she is in pain and often writhes. At last I can bear it no longer, and pretend I have just wakened up. "Go and sleep, mother, you will catch cold here." "I can sleep enough later," she says. I sit up. "I don't go straight back to the front, mother. I have to do four weeks at the training camp. I may come over from there one Sunday, perhaps."<|quote|>She is silent. Then she asks gently:</|quote|>"Are you very much afraid?" "No, mother." "I would like to tell you to be on your guard against the women out in France. They are no good." Ah! Mother, Mother! You still think I am a child--why can I not put my head in your lap and weep? Why have I always to be strong and self-controlled? I would like to weep and be comforted, too, indeed I am little more than a child; in the wardrobe still hang my short, boy's trousers--it is such a little time ago, why is it over? "Where we are there aren't any
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As I leave she kisses me and gives me a picture of him. In his recruit's uniform he leans on a round rustic table with legs made of birch branches. Behind him a wood is painted on a curtain, and on the table stands a mug of beer. * * It is the last evening at home. Everyone is silent. I go to bed early, I seize the pillow, press it against myself and bury my head in it. Who knows if I will ever lie in a feather bed again? Late in the night my mother comes into my room. She thinks I am asleep, and I pretend to be so. To talk, to stay awake with one another, it is too hard. She sits long into the night although she is in pain and often writhes. At last I can bear it no longer, and pretend I have just wakened up. "Go and sleep, mother, you will catch cold here." "I can sleep enough later," she says. I sit up. "I don't go straight back to the front, mother. I have to do four weeks at the training camp. I may come over from there one Sunday, perhaps."<|quote|>She is silent. Then she asks gently:</|quote|>"Are you very much afraid?" "No, mother." "I would like to tell you to be on your guard against the women out in France. They are no good." Ah! Mother, Mother! You still think I am a child--why can I not put my head in your lap and weep? Why have I always to be strong and self-controlled? I would like to weep and be comforted, too, indeed I am little more than a child; in the wardrobe still hang my short, boy's trousers--it is such a little time ago, why is it over? "Where we are there aren't any women, mother," I say as calmly as I can. "And be very careful at the front, Paul." Ah, Mother, Mother! Why do I not take you in my arms and die with you. What poor wretches we are! "Yes, mother, I will." "I will pray for you every day, Paul." Ah! Mother, Mother! Let us rise up and go out, back through the years, where the burden of all this misery lies on us no more, back to you and me alone, Mother! "Perhaps you can get a job that is not so dangerous." "Yes, mother, perhaps I can get
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though it will be terrible, it will be far better than what I have to think if you don't." I will never tell her, she can make mincemeat out of me first. I console her, but she strikes me as rather stupid all the same. Why doesn't she stop worrying? Kemmerich will stay dead whether she knows about it or not. When a man has seen so many dead he cannot understand any longer why there should be so much anguish over a single individual. So I say rather impatiently: "He died immediately. He felt absolutely nothing at all. His face was quite calm." She is silent. Then she says slowly: "Will you swear it?" "Yes." "By everything that is sacred to you?" Good God, what is there that is sacred to me?--such things change pretty quickly with us. "Yes, he died at once." "Are you willing never to come back yourself, if it isn't true?" "May I never come back if he wasn't killed instantaneously." I would swear to anything. But she seems to believe me. She moans and weeps steadily. I have to tell how it happened so I invent a story and I almost believe it myself. As I leave she kisses me and gives me a picture of him. In his recruit's uniform he leans on a round rustic table with legs made of birch branches. Behind him a wood is painted on a curtain, and on the table stands a mug of beer. * * It is the last evening at home. Everyone is silent. I go to bed early, I seize the pillow, press it against myself and bury my head in it. Who knows if I will ever lie in a feather bed again? Late in the night my mother comes into my room. She thinks I am asleep, and I pretend to be so. To talk, to stay awake with one another, it is too hard. She sits long into the night although she is in pain and often writhes. At last I can bear it no longer, and pretend I have just wakened up. "Go and sleep, mother, you will catch cold here." "I can sleep enough later," she says. I sit up. "I don't go straight back to the front, mother. I have to do four weeks at the training camp. I may come over from there one Sunday, perhaps."<|quote|>She is silent. Then she asks gently:</|quote|>"Are you very much afraid?" "No, mother." "I would like to tell you to be on your guard against the women out in France. They are no good." Ah! Mother, Mother! You still think I am a child--why can I not put my head in your lap and weep? Why have I always to be strong and self-controlled? I would like to weep and be comforted, too, indeed I am little more than a child; in the wardrobe still hang my short, boy's trousers--it is such a little time ago, why is it over? "Where we are there aren't any women, mother," I say as calmly as I can. "And be very careful at the front, Paul." Ah, Mother, Mother! Why do I not take you in my arms and die with you. What poor wretches we are! "Yes, mother, I will." "I will pray for you every day, Paul." Ah! Mother, Mother! Let us rise up and go out, back through the years, where the burden of all this misery lies on us no more, back to you and me alone, Mother! "Perhaps you can get a job that is not so dangerous." "Yes, mother, perhaps I can get into the cook-house, that can easily be done." "You do it then, and if the others say anything----" "That won't worry me, mother----" She sighs. Her face is a white gleam in the darkness. "Now you must go to sleep, mother." She does not reply. I get up and wrap my cover round her shoulders. She supports herself on my arm, she is in pain. And so I take her to her room. I stay with her a little while. "And you must get well again, mother, before I come back." "Yes, yes, my child." "You ought not to send your things to me, mother. We have plenty to eat out there. You can make much better use of them here." How destitute she lies there in her bed, she, that loves me more than all the world. As I am about to leave, she says hastily: "I have two pairs of under-pants for you. They are all wool. They will keep you warm. You must not forget to put them in your pack." Ah! Mother! I know what these underpants have cost you in waiting, and walking, and begging! Ah! Mother, Mother! how can it be that I must
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mess up the examination for you." "I don't care," says Mittelstaedt calmly. "Besides, his complaint came to nothing because I could show that he had had hardly anything but light duty." "Couldn't you polish him up a bit?" I ask. "He's too stupid, I couldn't be bothered," answers Mittelstaedt contemptuously. * * What is leave?--A pause that only makes everything after it so much worse. Already the sense of parting begins to intrude itself. My mother watches me silently,--I know she counts the days;--every morning she is sad. It is one day less. She has put away my pack, she does not want to be reminded by it. The hours pass quickly if a man broods. I pull myself together, and go with my sister to the butcher's to get a pound of bones. That is a great luxury and people line up early in the morning and stand waiting. Many of them faint. We have no luck. After waiting by turns for three hours the queue disperses. The bones have not lasted out. It is a good thing I get my rations. I bring them to my mother and in that way we all get something decent to eat. The days grow ever more strained and my mother's eyes more sorrowful. Four days left now. I must go and see Kemmerich's mother. * * I cannot write that down. This quaking, sobbing woman who shakes me and cries out on me: "Why are you living then, when he is dead?" --who drowns me in tears and calls out: "What are you there for at all, child, when you----" --who drops into a chair and wails: "Did you see him? Did you see him then? How did he die?" I tell her he was shot through the heart and died instantaneously. She looks at me, she doubts me: "You lie. I know better. I have felt how terribly he died. I have heard his voice at night, I have felt his anguish--tell the truth, I want to know it, I must know it." "No," I say, "I was beside him. He died at once." She pleads with me gently: "Tell me. You must tell me. I know you want to comfort me, but don't you see, you torment me far more than if you told me the truth? I cannot bear the uncertainty. Tell me how it was and even though it will be terrible, it will be far better than what I have to think if you don't." I will never tell her, she can make mincemeat out of me first. I console her, but she strikes me as rather stupid all the same. Why doesn't she stop worrying? Kemmerich will stay dead whether she knows about it or not. When a man has seen so many dead he cannot understand any longer why there should be so much anguish over a single individual. So I say rather impatiently: "He died immediately. He felt absolutely nothing at all. His face was quite calm." She is silent. Then she says slowly: "Will you swear it?" "Yes." "By everything that is sacred to you?" Good God, what is there that is sacred to me?--such things change pretty quickly with us. "Yes, he died at once." "Are you willing never to come back yourself, if it isn't true?" "May I never come back if he wasn't killed instantaneously." I would swear to anything. But she seems to believe me. She moans and weeps steadily. I have to tell how it happened so I invent a story and I almost believe it myself. As I leave she kisses me and gives me a picture of him. In his recruit's uniform he leans on a round rustic table with legs made of birch branches. Behind him a wood is painted on a curtain, and on the table stands a mug of beer. * * It is the last evening at home. Everyone is silent. I go to bed early, I seize the pillow, press it against myself and bury my head in it. Who knows if I will ever lie in a feather bed again? Late in the night my mother comes into my room. She thinks I am asleep, and I pretend to be so. To talk, to stay awake with one another, it is too hard. She sits long into the night although she is in pain and often writhes. At last I can bear it no longer, and pretend I have just wakened up. "Go and sleep, mother, you will catch cold here." "I can sleep enough later," she says. I sit up. "I don't go straight back to the front, mother. I have to do four weeks at the training camp. I may come over from there one Sunday, perhaps."<|quote|>She is silent. Then she asks gently:</|quote|>"Are you very much afraid?" "No, mother." "I would like to tell you to be on your guard against the women out in France. They are no good." Ah! Mother, Mother! You still think I am a child--why can I not put my head in your lap and weep? Why have I always to be strong and self-controlled? I would like to weep and be comforted, too, indeed I am little more than a child; in the wardrobe still hang my short, boy's trousers--it is such a little time ago, why is it over? "Where we are there aren't any women, mother," I say as calmly as I can. "And be very careful at the front, Paul." Ah, Mother, Mother! Why do I not take you in my arms and die with you. What poor wretches we are! "Yes, mother, I will." "I will pray for you every day, Paul." Ah! Mother, Mother! Let us rise up and go out, back through the years, where the burden of all this misery lies on us no more, back to you and me alone, Mother! "Perhaps you can get a job that is not so dangerous." "Yes, mother, perhaps I can get into the cook-house, that can easily be done." "You do it then, and if the others say anything----" "That won't worry me, mother----" She sighs. Her face is a white gleam in the darkness. "Now you must go to sleep, mother." She does not reply. I get up and wrap my cover round her shoulders. She supports herself on my arm, she is in pain. And so I take her to her room. I stay with her a little while. "And you must get well again, mother, before I come back." "Yes, yes, my child." "You ought not to send your things to me, mother. We have plenty to eat out there. You can make much better use of them here." How destitute she lies there in her bed, she, that loves me more than all the world. As I am about to leave, she says hastily: "I have two pairs of under-pants for you. They are all wool. They will keep you warm. You must not forget to put them in your pack." Ah! Mother! I know what these underpants have cost you in waiting, and walking, and begging! Ah! Mother, Mother! how can it be that I must part from you? Who else is there that has any claim on me but you. Here I sit and there you are lying, and we have so much to say, that we could never say it. "Good-night, mother." "Good-night, my child." The room is dark. I hear my mother's breathing, and the ticking of the clock. Outside the window the wind blows and the chestnut trees rustle. On the landing I stumble over my pack which lies there already made up, because I have to leave early in the morning. I bite into my pillow. I grasp the iron rods of my bed with my fists. I ought never to have come here. Out there I was indifferent and often hopeless;--I will never be able to be so again. I was a soldier, and now I am nothing but an agony for myself, for my mother, for everything that is so comfortless and without end. I ought never to have come on leave. CHAPTER VIII I already know the camp on the moors. It was here that Himmelstoss gave Tjaden his education. But now I know hardly anyone here; as ever, all is altered. There are only a few people that I have occasionally met before. I go through the routine mechanically. In the evenings I generally go to the Soldiers' Home, where the newspapers are laid out, but which I do not read; still, there is a piano there that I am glad enough to play on. Two girls are in attendance, one of them is young. The camp is surrounded with high barbed-wire fences. If we come back late from the Soldiers' Home we have to show passes. But those who are on good terms with the guard can get through, of course. Between the junipers and the birch trees on the moor we practice company-drill each day. It is bearable if one expects nothing better. We advance at a run, fling ourselves down, and our panting breath moves the stalks of the grasses and the flowers of the heather to and fro. Looked at so closely one sees the fine sand is composed of millions of the tiniest pebbles as clear as if they had been made in a laboratory It is strangely inviting to dig one's hands into it. But most beautiful are the woods with their line of birch trees. Their colour changes with every
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know it." "No," I say, "I was beside him. He died at once." She pleads with me gently: "Tell me. You must tell me. I know you want to comfort me, but don't you see, you torment me far more than if you told me the truth? I cannot bear the uncertainty. Tell me how it was and even though it will be terrible, it will be far better than what I have to think if you don't." I will never tell her, she can make mincemeat out of me first. I console her, but she strikes me as rather stupid all the same. Why doesn't she stop worrying? Kemmerich will stay dead whether she knows about it or not. When a man has seen so many dead he cannot understand any longer why there should be so much anguish over a single individual. So I say rather impatiently: "He died immediately. He felt absolutely nothing at all. His face was quite calm." She is silent. Then she says slowly: "Will you swear it?" "Yes." "By everything that is sacred to you?" Good God, what is there that is sacred to me?--such things change pretty quickly with us. "Yes, he died at once." "Are you willing never to come back yourself, if it isn't true?" "May I never come back if he wasn't killed instantaneously." I would swear to anything. But she seems to believe me. She moans and weeps steadily. I have to tell how it happened so I invent a story and I almost believe it myself. As I leave she kisses me and gives me a picture of him. In his recruit's uniform he leans on a round rustic table with legs made of birch branches. Behind him a wood is painted on a curtain, and on the table stands a mug of beer. * * It is the last evening at home. Everyone is silent. I go to bed early, I seize the pillow, press it against myself and bury my head in it. Who knows if I will ever lie in a feather bed again? Late in the night my mother comes into my room. She thinks I am asleep, and I pretend to be so. To talk, to stay awake with one another, it is too hard. She sits long into the night although she is in pain and often writhes. At last I can bear it no longer, and pretend I have just wakened up. "Go and sleep, mother, you will catch cold here." "I can sleep enough later," she says. I sit up. "I don't go straight back to the front, mother. I have to do four weeks at the training camp. I may come over from there one Sunday, perhaps."<|quote|>She is silent. Then she asks gently:</|quote|>"Are you very much afraid?" "No, mother." "I would like to tell you to be on your guard against the women out in France. They are no good." Ah! Mother, Mother! You still think I am a child--why can I not put my head in your lap and weep? Why have I always to be strong and self-controlled? I would like to weep and be comforted, too, indeed I am little more than a child; in the wardrobe still hang my short, boy's trousers--it is such a little time ago, why is it over? "Where we are there aren't any women, mother," I say as calmly as I can. "And be very careful at the front, Paul." Ah, Mother, Mother! Why do I not take you in my arms and die with you. What poor wretches we are! "Yes, mother, I will." "I will pray for you every day, Paul." Ah! Mother, Mother! Let us rise up and go out, back through the years, where the burden of all this misery lies on us no more, back to you and me alone, Mother! "Perhaps you can get a job that is not so dangerous." "Yes, mother, perhaps I can get into the cook-house, that can easily be done." "You do it then, and if the others say anything----" "That won't worry me, mother----" She sighs. Her face is a white gleam in the darkness. "Now you must go to sleep, mother." She does not reply. I get up and wrap my cover round her shoulders. She supports herself on my arm, she is in pain. And so I take her to her room. I stay with her a little while. "And you must get well again, mother, before I come back." "Yes, yes, my child." "You ought not to send your things to me, mother. We have plenty to eat out there. You can make much better use of them here." How destitute she lies there in her bed, she, that loves me more than all the world. As I am about to leave, she says hastily: "I have two pairs of under-pants for you. They are all wool. They will keep you warm. You must not forget to put them in your pack." Ah! Mother! I know what these underpants have cost you in waiting, and walking, and begging! Ah! Mother, Mother! how can it be that I must part from you? Who else is there that has any claim on me but you. Here I sit and there you are lying, and we have so much to say, that we could never say it. "Good-night, mother." "Good-night, my child." The room is dark. I hear my mother's breathing, and the ticking of the clock. Outside the window the wind blows and the chestnut trees rustle. On the landing I stumble over my pack which lies there already made up, because I have to leave early in the morning. I bite into my pillow. I grasp the iron rods of my bed with my fists. I ought never to have come here. Out there I was indifferent and often hopeless;--I will never be able to be so again. I was a soldier, and now I am nothing but an agony for myself, for my mother, for everything that is so comfortless and without end. I
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All Quiet on the Western Front
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"Are you not diverted?"
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Mr. Bennet
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so little agreeable to her.<|quote|>"Are you not diverted?"</|quote|>"Oh! yes. Pray read on."
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been directed in a manner so little agreeable to her.<|quote|>"Are you not diverted?"</|quote|>"Oh! yes. Pray read on." "After mentioning the likelihood of
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any woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at _you_ in his life! It is admirable!" Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so little agreeable to her.<|quote|>"Are you not diverted?"</|quote|>"Oh! yes. Pray read on." "After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some family objections on the part of my cousin, she would
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"_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_ surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man, within the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at _you_ in his life! It is admirable!" Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so little agreeable to her.<|quote|>"Are you not diverted?"</|quote|>"Oh! yes. Pray read on." "After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run hastily into a marriage which has
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every thing the heart of mortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur, by a precipitate closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be inclined to take immediate advantage of." "Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out." "My motive for cautioning you, is as follows. We have reason to imagine that his aunt, lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with a friendly eye." "_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_ surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man, within the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at _you_ in his life! It is admirable!" Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so little agreeable to her.<|quote|>"Are you not diverted?"</|quote|>"Oh! yes. Pray read on." "After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned." "Mr. Collins moreover adds," "I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their living together before the marriage took place, should be so generally known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain from declaring my amazement, at hearing that you received the young couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to
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ladies have great penetration in such matters as these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to discover the name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins." "From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?" "Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of which it seems he has been told, by some of the good-natured, gossiping Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says on that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows." "Having thus offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another: of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate, may be reasonably looked up to, as one of the most illustrious personages in this land."" "Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?" "This young gentleman is blessed in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of mortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur, by a precipitate closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be inclined to take immediate advantage of." "Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out." "My motive for cautioning you, is as follows. We have reason to imagine that his aunt, lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with a friendly eye." "_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_ surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man, within the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at _you_ in his life! It is admirable!" Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so little agreeable to her.<|quote|>"Are you not diverted?"</|quote|>"Oh! yes. Pray read on." "After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned." "Mr. Collins moreover adds," "I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their living together before the marriage took place, should be so generally known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain from declaring my amazement, at hearing that you received the young couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as a christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing." "_That_ is his notion of christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be _Missish_, I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?"" "Oh!" cried Elizabeth, "I am excessively diverted. But it is so strange!" "Yes--_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference, and _your_ pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine about this report? Did she call to refuse
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wavering before, as to what he should do, which had often seemed likely, the advice and intreaty of so near a relation might settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy, as dignity unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady Catherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way. "If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise, should come to his friend within a few days," she added, "I shall know how to understand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might have obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him at all." * * * * * The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same kind of supposition, which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and Elizabeth was spared from much teazing on the subject. The next morning, as she was going down stairs, she was met by her father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand. "Lizzy," said he, "I was going to look for you; come into my room." She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to tell her, was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might be from lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the consequent explanations. She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He then said, "I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its contents. I did not know before, that I had _two_ daughters on the brink of matrimony. Let me congratulate you, on a very important conquest." The colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt; and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained himself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to herself; when her father continued, "You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters as these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to discover the name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins." "From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?" "Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of which it seems he has been told, by some of the good-natured, gossiping Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says on that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows." "Having thus offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another: of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate, may be reasonably looked up to, as one of the most illustrious personages in this land."" "Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?" "This young gentleman is blessed in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of mortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur, by a precipitate closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be inclined to take immediate advantage of." "Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out." "My motive for cautioning you, is as follows. We have reason to imagine that his aunt, lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with a friendly eye." "_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_ surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man, within the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at _you_ in his life! It is admirable!" Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so little agreeable to her.<|quote|>"Are you not diverted?"</|quote|>"Oh! yes. Pray read on." "After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned." "Mr. Collins moreover adds," "I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their living together before the marriage took place, should be so generally known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain from declaring my amazement, at hearing that you received the young couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as a christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing." "_That_ is his notion of christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be _Missish_, I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?"" "Oh!" cried Elizabeth, "I am excessively diverted. But it is so strange!" "Yes--_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference, and _your_ pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?" To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by what he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of his seeing too _little_, she might have fancied too _much_. CHAPTER XVI. Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking, Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy, were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same. They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern, when Kitty left them, she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was high, she immediately said, "Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding your's. I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express." "I am sorry,
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personages in this land."" "Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?" "This young gentleman is blessed in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of mortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur, by a precipitate closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be inclined to take immediate advantage of." "Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out." "My motive for cautioning you, is as follows. We have reason to imagine that his aunt, lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with a friendly eye." "_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_ surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man, within the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at _you_ in his life! It is admirable!" Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so little agreeable to her.<|quote|>"Are you not diverted?"</|quote|>"Oh! yes. Pray read on." "After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned." "Mr. Collins moreover adds," "I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their living together before the marriage took place, should be so generally known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain from declaring my amazement, at hearing that you received the young couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as a christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing." "_That_ is his notion of christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be _Missish_, I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?"" "Oh!" cried Elizabeth, "I am excessively diverted. But it is so strange!" "Yes--_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference, and _your_ pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving him
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Pride And Prejudice
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(beckoning him to her),
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No speaker
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poor boy. Charles, my dear,"<|quote|>(beckoning him to her),</|quote|>"do ask Captain Wentworth where
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there he met with our poor boy. Charles, my dear,"<|quote|>(beckoning him to her),</|quote|>"do ask Captain Wentworth where it was he first met
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could be as open as they were sincere, in their exclamations of pity and horror. "And so then, I suppose," said Mrs Musgrove, in a low voice, as if thinking aloud, "so then he went away to the Laconia, and there he met with our poor boy. Charles, my dear,"<|quote|>(beckoning him to her),</|quote|>"do ask Captain Wentworth where it was he first met with your poor brother. I always forgot." "It was at Gibraltar, mother, I know. Dick had been left ill at Gibraltar, with a recommendation from his former captain to Captain Wentworth." "Oh! but, Charles, tell Captain Wentworth, he need not
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much improved our condition. Four-and-twenty hours later, and I should only have been a gallant Captain Wentworth, in a small paragraph at one corner of the newspapers; and being lost in only a sloop, nobody would have thought about me." Anne's shudderings were to herself alone; but the Miss Musgroves could be as open as they were sincere, in their exclamations of pity and horror. "And so then, I suppose," said Mrs Musgrove, in a low voice, as if thinking aloud, "so then he went away to the Laconia, and there he met with our poor boy. Charles, my dear,"<|quote|>(beckoning him to her),</|quote|>"do ask Captain Wentworth where it was he first met with your poor brother. I always forgot." "It was at Gibraltar, mother, I know. Dick had been left ill at Gibraltar, with a recommendation from his former captain to Captain Wentworth." "Oh! but, Charles, tell Captain Wentworth, he need not be afraid of mentioning poor Dick before me, for it would be rather a pleasure to hear him talked of by such a good friend." Charles, being somewhat more mindful of the probabilities of the case, only nodded in reply, and walked away. The girls were now hunting for the
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I never had two days of foul weather all the time I was at sea in her; and after taking privateers enough to be very entertaining, I had the good luck in my passage home the next autumn, to fall in with the very French frigate I wanted. I brought her into Plymouth; and here another instance of luck. We had not been six hours in the Sound, when a gale came on, which lasted four days and nights, and which would have done for poor old Asp in half the time; our touch with the Great Nation not having much improved our condition. Four-and-twenty hours later, and I should only have been a gallant Captain Wentworth, in a small paragraph at one corner of the newspapers; and being lost in only a sloop, nobody would have thought about me." Anne's shudderings were to herself alone; but the Miss Musgroves could be as open as they were sincere, in their exclamations of pity and horror. "And so then, I suppose," said Mrs Musgrove, in a low voice, as if thinking aloud, "so then he went away to the Laconia, and there he met with our poor boy. Charles, my dear,"<|quote|>(beckoning him to her),</|quote|>"do ask Captain Wentworth where it was he first met with your poor brother. I always forgot." "It was at Gibraltar, mother, I know. Dick had been left ill at Gibraltar, with a recommendation from his former captain to Captain Wentworth." "Oh! but, Charles, tell Captain Wentworth, he need not be afraid of mentioning poor Dick before me, for it would be rather a pleasure to hear him talked of by such a good friend." Charles, being somewhat more mindful of the probabilities of the case, only nodded in reply, and walked away. The girls were now hunting for the Laconia; and Captain Wentworth could not deny himself the pleasure of taking the precious volume into his own hands to save them the trouble, and once more read aloud the little statement of her name and rate, and present non-commissioned class, observing over it that she too had been one of the best friends man ever had. "Ah! those were pleasant days when I had the Laconia! How fast I made money in her. A friend of mine and I had such a lovely cruise together off the Western Islands. Poor Harville, sister! You know how much he wanted money:
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Wentworth, seriously. "I was as well satisfied with my appointment as you can desire. It was a great object with me at that time to be at sea; a very great object, I wanted to be doing something." "To be sure you did. What should a young fellow like you do ashore for half a year together? If a man had not a wife, he soon wants to be afloat again." "But, Captain Wentworth," cried Louisa, "how vexed you must have been when you came to the Asp, to see what an old thing they had given you." "I knew pretty well what she was before that day;" said he, smiling. "I had no more discoveries to make than you would have as to the fashion and strength of any old pelisse, which you had seen lent about among half your acquaintance ever since you could remember, and which at last, on some very wet day, is lent to yourself. Ah! she was a dear old Asp to me. She did all that I wanted. I knew she would. I knew that we should either go to the bottom together, or that she would be the making of me; and I never had two days of foul weather all the time I was at sea in her; and after taking privateers enough to be very entertaining, I had the good luck in my passage home the next autumn, to fall in with the very French frigate I wanted. I brought her into Plymouth; and here another instance of luck. We had not been six hours in the Sound, when a gale came on, which lasted four days and nights, and which would have done for poor old Asp in half the time; our touch with the Great Nation not having much improved our condition. Four-and-twenty hours later, and I should only have been a gallant Captain Wentworth, in a small paragraph at one corner of the newspapers; and being lost in only a sloop, nobody would have thought about me." Anne's shudderings were to herself alone; but the Miss Musgroves could be as open as they were sincere, in their exclamations of pity and horror. "And so then, I suppose," said Mrs Musgrove, in a low voice, as if thinking aloud, "so then he went away to the Laconia, and there he met with our poor boy. Charles, my dear,"<|quote|>(beckoning him to her),</|quote|>"do ask Captain Wentworth where it was he first met with your poor brother. I always forgot." "It was at Gibraltar, mother, I know. Dick had been left ill at Gibraltar, with a recommendation from his former captain to Captain Wentworth." "Oh! but, Charles, tell Captain Wentworth, he need not be afraid of mentioning poor Dick before me, for it would be rather a pleasure to hear him talked of by such a good friend." Charles, being somewhat more mindful of the probabilities of the case, only nodded in reply, and walked away. The girls were now hunting for the Laconia; and Captain Wentworth could not deny himself the pleasure of taking the precious volume into his own hands to save them the trouble, and once more read aloud the little statement of her name and rate, and present non-commissioned class, observing over it that she too had been one of the best friends man ever had. "Ah! those were pleasant days when I had the Laconia! How fast I made money in her. A friend of mine and I had such a lovely cruise together off the Western Islands. Poor Harville, sister! You know how much he wanted money: worse than myself. He had a wife. Excellent fellow. I shall never forget his happiness. He felt it all, so much for her sake. I wished for him again the next summer, when I had still the same luck in the Mediterranean." "And I am sure, Sir," said Mrs Musgrove, "it was a lucky day for us, when you were put captain into that ship. We shall never forget what you did." Her feelings made her speak low; and Captain Wentworth, hearing only in part, and probably not having Dick Musgrove at all near his thoughts, looked rather in suspense, and as if waiting for more. "My brother," whispered one of the girls; "mamma is thinking of poor Richard." "Poor dear fellow!" continued Mrs Musgrove; "he was grown so steady, and such an excellent correspondent, while he was under your care! Ah! it would have been a happy thing, if he had never left you. I assure you, Captain Wentworth, we are very sorry he ever left you." There was a momentary expression in Captain Wentworth's face at this speech, a certain glance of his bright eye, and curl of his handsome mouth, which convinced Anne, that instead of sharing
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drew from him some pleasant ridicule, which reminded Anne of the early days when she too had been ignorant, and she too had been accused of supposing sailors to be living on board without anything to eat, or any cook to dress it if there were, or any servant to wait, or any knife and fork to use. From thus listening and thinking, she was roused by a whisper of Mrs Musgrove's who, overcome by fond regrets, could not help saying-- "Ah! Miss Anne, if it had pleased Heaven to spare my poor son, I dare say he would have been just such another by this time." Anne suppressed a smile, and listened kindly, while Mrs Musgrove relieved her heart a little more; and for a few minutes, therefore, could not keep pace with the conversation of the others. When she could let her attention take its natural course again, she found the Miss Musgroves just fetching the Navy List (their own navy list, the first that had ever been at Uppercross), and sitting down together to pore over it, with the professed view of finding out the ships that Captain Wentworth had commanded. "Your first was the Asp, I remember; we will look for the Asp." "You will not find her there. Quite worn out and broken up. I was the last man who commanded her. Hardly fit for service then. Reported fit for home service for a year or two, and so I was sent off to the West Indies." The girls looked all amazement. "The Admiralty," he continued, "entertain themselves now and then, with sending a few hundred men to sea, in a ship not fit to be employed. But they have a great many to provide for; and among the thousands that may just as well go to the bottom as not, it is impossible for them to distinguish the very set who may be least missed." "Phoo! phoo!" cried the Admiral, "what stuff these young fellows talk! Never was a better sloop than the Asp in her day. For an old built sloop, you would not see her equal. Lucky fellow to get her! He knows there must have been twenty better men than himself applying for her at the same time. Lucky fellow to get anything so soon, with no more interest than his." "I felt my luck, Admiral, I assure you;" replied Captain Wentworth, seriously. "I was as well satisfied with my appointment as you can desire. It was a great object with me at that time to be at sea; a very great object, I wanted to be doing something." "To be sure you did. What should a young fellow like you do ashore for half a year together? If a man had not a wife, he soon wants to be afloat again." "But, Captain Wentworth," cried Louisa, "how vexed you must have been when you came to the Asp, to see what an old thing they had given you." "I knew pretty well what she was before that day;" said he, smiling. "I had no more discoveries to make than you would have as to the fashion and strength of any old pelisse, which you had seen lent about among half your acquaintance ever since you could remember, and which at last, on some very wet day, is lent to yourself. Ah! she was a dear old Asp to me. She did all that I wanted. I knew she would. I knew that we should either go to the bottom together, or that she would be the making of me; and I never had two days of foul weather all the time I was at sea in her; and after taking privateers enough to be very entertaining, I had the good luck in my passage home the next autumn, to fall in with the very French frigate I wanted. I brought her into Plymouth; and here another instance of luck. We had not been six hours in the Sound, when a gale came on, which lasted four days and nights, and which would have done for poor old Asp in half the time; our touch with the Great Nation not having much improved our condition. Four-and-twenty hours later, and I should only have been a gallant Captain Wentworth, in a small paragraph at one corner of the newspapers; and being lost in only a sloop, nobody would have thought about me." Anne's shudderings were to herself alone; but the Miss Musgroves could be as open as they were sincere, in their exclamations of pity and horror. "And so then, I suppose," said Mrs Musgrove, in a low voice, as if thinking aloud, "so then he went away to the Laconia, and there he met with our poor boy. Charles, my dear,"<|quote|>(beckoning him to her),</|quote|>"do ask Captain Wentworth where it was he first met with your poor brother. I always forgot." "It was at Gibraltar, mother, I know. Dick had been left ill at Gibraltar, with a recommendation from his former captain to Captain Wentworth." "Oh! but, Charles, tell Captain Wentworth, he need not be afraid of mentioning poor Dick before me, for it would be rather a pleasure to hear him talked of by such a good friend." Charles, being somewhat more mindful of the probabilities of the case, only nodded in reply, and walked away. The girls were now hunting for the Laconia; and Captain Wentworth could not deny himself the pleasure of taking the precious volume into his own hands to save them the trouble, and once more read aloud the little statement of her name and rate, and present non-commissioned class, observing over it that she too had been one of the best friends man ever had. "Ah! those were pleasant days when I had the Laconia! How fast I made money in her. A friend of mine and I had such a lovely cruise together off the Western Islands. Poor Harville, sister! You know how much he wanted money: worse than myself. He had a wife. Excellent fellow. I shall never forget his happiness. He felt it all, so much for her sake. I wished for him again the next summer, when I had still the same luck in the Mediterranean." "And I am sure, Sir," said Mrs Musgrove, "it was a lucky day for us, when you were put captain into that ship. We shall never forget what you did." Her feelings made her speak low; and Captain Wentworth, hearing only in part, and probably not having Dick Musgrove at all near his thoughts, looked rather in suspense, and as if waiting for more. "My brother," whispered one of the girls; "mamma is thinking of poor Richard." "Poor dear fellow!" continued Mrs Musgrove; "he was grown so steady, and such an excellent correspondent, while he was under your care! Ah! it would have been a happy thing, if he had never left you. I assure you, Captain Wentworth, we are very sorry he ever left you." There was a momentary expression in Captain Wentworth's face at this speech, a certain glance of his bright eye, and curl of his handsome mouth, which convinced Anne, that instead of sharing in Mrs Musgrove's kind wishes, as to her son, he had probably been at some pains to get rid of him; but it was too transient an indulgence of self-amusement to be detected by any who understood him less than herself; in another moment he was perfectly collected and serious, and almost instantly afterwards coming up to the sofa, on which she and Mrs Musgrove were sitting, took a place by the latter, and entered into conversation with her, in a low voice, about her son, doing it with so much sympathy and natural grace, as shewed the kindest consideration for all that was real and unabsurd in the parent's feelings. They were actually on the same sofa, for Mrs Musgrove had most readily made room for him; they were divided only by Mrs Musgrove. It was no insignificant barrier, indeed. Mrs Musgrove was of a comfortable, substantial size, infinitely more fitted by nature to express good cheer and good humour, than tenderness and sentiment; and while the agitations of Anne's slender form, and pensive face, may be considered as very completely screened, Captain Wentworth should be allowed some credit for the self-command with which he attended to her large fat sighings over the destiny of a son, whom alive nobody had cared for. Personal size and mental sorrow have certainly no necessary proportions. A large bulky figure has as good a right to be in deep affliction, as the most graceful set of limbs in the world. But, fair or not fair, there are unbecoming conjunctions, which reason will patronize in vain--which taste cannot tolerate--which ridicule will seize. The Admiral, after taking two or three refreshing turns about the room with his hands behind him, being called to order by his wife, now came up to Captain Wentworth, and without any observation of what he might be interrupting, thinking only of his own thoughts, began with-- "If you had been a week later at Lisbon, last spring, Frederick, you would have been asked to give a passage to Lady Mary Grierson and her daughters." "Should I? I am glad I was not a week later then." The Admiral abused him for his want of gallantry. He defended himself; though professing that he would never willingly admit any ladies on board a ship of his, excepting for a ball, or a visit, which a few hours might comprehend. "But, if
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of any old pelisse, which you had seen lent about among half your acquaintance ever since you could remember, and which at last, on some very wet day, is lent to yourself. Ah! she was a dear old Asp to me. She did all that I wanted. I knew she would. I knew that we should either go to the bottom together, or that she would be the making of me; and I never had two days of foul weather all the time I was at sea in her; and after taking privateers enough to be very entertaining, I had the good luck in my passage home the next autumn, to fall in with the very French frigate I wanted. I brought her into Plymouth; and here another instance of luck. We had not been six hours in the Sound, when a gale came on, which lasted four days and nights, and which would have done for poor old Asp in half the time; our touch with the Great Nation not having much improved our condition. Four-and-twenty hours later, and I should only have been a gallant Captain Wentworth, in a small paragraph at one corner of the newspapers; and being lost in only a sloop, nobody would have thought about me." Anne's shudderings were to herself alone; but the Miss Musgroves could be as open as they were sincere, in their exclamations of pity and horror. "And so then, I suppose," said Mrs Musgrove, in a low voice, as if thinking aloud, "so then he went away to the Laconia, and there he met with our poor boy. Charles, my dear,"<|quote|>(beckoning him to her),</|quote|>"do ask Captain Wentworth where it was he first met with your poor brother. I always forgot." "It was at Gibraltar, mother, I know. Dick had been left ill at Gibraltar, with a recommendation from his former captain to Captain Wentworth." "Oh! but, Charles, tell Captain Wentworth, he need not be afraid of mentioning poor Dick before me, for it would be rather a pleasure to hear him talked of by such a good friend." Charles, being somewhat more mindful of the probabilities of the case, only nodded in reply, and walked away. The girls were now hunting for the Laconia; and Captain Wentworth could not deny himself the pleasure of taking the precious volume into his own hands to save them the trouble, and once more read aloud the little statement of her name and rate, and present non-commissioned class, observing over it that she too had been one of the best friends man ever had. "Ah! those were pleasant days when I had the Laconia! How fast I made money in her. A friend of mine and I had such a lovely cruise together off the Western Islands. Poor Harville, sister! You know how much he wanted money: worse than myself. He had a wife. Excellent fellow. I shall never forget his happiness. He felt it all, so much for her sake. I wished for him again the next summer, when I had still the same luck in the Mediterranean." "And I am sure, Sir," said Mrs Musgrove, "it was a lucky day for us, when you were put captain into that ship. We shall never forget what you did." Her feelings made her speak low; and Captain Wentworth, hearing only in part, and probably not having Dick Musgrove at all near his thoughts, looked rather in suspense, and as if waiting for more. "My brother," whispered one of the girls; "mamma is thinking of poor Richard." "Poor dear fellow!" continued Mrs Musgrove; "he was grown so steady, and such an excellent correspondent, while he was under your care! Ah! it would have been a happy thing, if he had never left you. I assure you, Captain Wentworth, we are very sorry he ever left you." There was a momentary expression in Captain Wentworth's face at this speech, a certain glance of his bright eye, and curl of his handsome mouth, which convinced Anne, that instead of sharing in Mrs Musgrove's kind wishes, as to her son, he had probably been at some pains to get rid of him; but it was too transient an indulgence of self-amusement to be detected by any who understood him less than herself; in another moment he was perfectly collected and serious, and almost instantly afterwards coming up to the sofa, on which she and Mrs Musgrove were sitting, took a place by the latter, and entered into conversation with her, in a low voice, about her son, doing it with so much sympathy and natural grace, as shewed the kindest consideration for all that was real and unabsurd in the parent's feelings. They were actually on the same sofa, for Mrs Musgrove had most readily made room for him; they were divided
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Persuasion
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Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden could not remain deaf to such a call, and reluctantly but heroically they had come to town, unmuffled the house, and sent out invitations for two dinners and an evening reception. On this particular evening they had invited Sillerton Jackson, Mrs. Archer and Newland and his wife to go with them to the Opera, where Faust was being sung for the first time that winter. Nothing was done without ceremony under the van der Luyden roof, and though there were but four guests the repast had begun at seven punctually, so that the proper sequence of courses might be served without haste before the gentlemen settled down to their cigars. Archer had not seen his wife since the evening before. He had left early for the office, where he had plunged into an accumulation of unimportant business. In the afternoon one of the senior partners had made an unexpected call on his time; and he had reached home so late that May had preceded him to the van der Luydens', and sent back the carriage. Now, across the Skuytercliff carnations and the massive plate, she struck him as pale and languid; but her eyes shone, and she talked with exaggerated animation. The subject which had called forth Mr. Sillerton Jackson's favourite allusion had been brought up (Archer fancied not without intention) by their hostess. The Beaufort failure, or rather the Beaufort attitude since the failure, was still a fruitful theme for the drawing-room moralist; and after it had been thoroughly examined and condemned Mrs. van der Luyden had turned her scrupulous eyes on May Archer.
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No speaker
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breach as you always have."<|quote|>Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden could not remain deaf to such a call, and reluctantly but heroically they had come to town, unmuffled the house, and sent out invitations for two dinners and an evening reception. On this particular evening they had invited Sillerton Jackson, Mrs. Archer and Newland and his wife to go with them to the Opera, where Faust was being sung for the first time that winter. Nothing was done without ceremony under the van der Luyden roof, and though there were but four guests the repast had begun at seven punctually, so that the proper sequence of courses might be served without haste before the gentlemen settled down to their cigars. Archer had not seen his wife since the evening before. He had left early for the office, where he had plunged into an accumulation of unimportant business. In the afternoon one of the senior partners had made an unexpected call on his time; and he had reached home so late that May had preceded him to the van der Luydens', and sent back the carriage. Now, across the Skuytercliff carnations and the massive plate, she struck him as pale and languid; but her eyes shone, and she talked with exaggerated animation. The subject which had called forth Mr. Sillerton Jackson's favourite allusion had been brought up (Archer fancied not without intention) by their hostess. The Beaufort failure, or rather the Beaufort attitude since the failure, was still a fruitful theme for the drawing-room moralist; and after it had been thoroughly examined and condemned Mrs. van der Luyden had turned her scrupulous eyes on May Archer.</|quote|>"Is it possible, dear, that
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Louisa, must stand in the breach as you always have."<|quote|>Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden could not remain deaf to such a call, and reluctantly but heroically they had come to town, unmuffled the house, and sent out invitations for two dinners and an evening reception. On this particular evening they had invited Sillerton Jackson, Mrs. Archer and Newland and his wife to go with them to the Opera, where Faust was being sung for the first time that winter. Nothing was done without ceremony under the van der Luyden roof, and though there were but four guests the repast had begun at seven punctually, so that the proper sequence of courses might be served without haste before the gentlemen settled down to their cigars. Archer had not seen his wife since the evening before. He had left early for the office, where he had plunged into an accumulation of unimportant business. In the afternoon one of the senior partners had made an unexpected call on his time; and he had reached home so late that May had preceded him to the van der Luydens', and sent back the carriage. Now, across the Skuytercliff carnations and the massive plate, she struck him as pale and languid; but her eyes shone, and she talked with exaggerated animation. The subject which had called forth Mr. Sillerton Jackson's favourite allusion had been brought up (Archer fancied not without intention) by their hostess. The Beaufort failure, or rather the Beaufort attitude since the failure, was still a fruitful theme for the drawing-room moralist; and after it had been thoroughly examined and condemned Mrs. van der Luyden had turned her scrupulous eyes on May Archer.</|quote|>"Is it possible, dear, that what I hear is true?
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get a footing. It was owing to the epidemic of chicken-pox in New York the winter Mrs. Struthers first appeared that the married men slipped away to her house while their wives were in the nursery. You and dear Henry, Louisa, must stand in the breach as you always have."<|quote|>Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden could not remain deaf to such a call, and reluctantly but heroically they had come to town, unmuffled the house, and sent out invitations for two dinners and an evening reception. On this particular evening they had invited Sillerton Jackson, Mrs. Archer and Newland and his wife to go with them to the Opera, where Faust was being sung for the first time that winter. Nothing was done without ceremony under the van der Luyden roof, and though there were but four guests the repast had begun at seven punctually, so that the proper sequence of courses might be served without haste before the gentlemen settled down to their cigars. Archer had not seen his wife since the evening before. He had left early for the office, where he had plunged into an accumulation of unimportant business. In the afternoon one of the senior partners had made an unexpected call on his time; and he had reached home so late that May had preceded him to the van der Luydens', and sent back the carriage. Now, across the Skuytercliff carnations and the massive plate, she struck him as pale and languid; but her eyes shone, and she talked with exaggerated animation. The subject which had called forth Mr. Sillerton Jackson's favourite allusion had been brought up (Archer fancied not without intention) by their hostess. The Beaufort failure, or rather the Beaufort attitude since the failure, was still a fruitful theme for the drawing-room moralist; and after it had been thoroughly examined and condemned Mrs. van der Luyden had turned her scrupulous eyes on May Archer.</|quote|>"Is it possible, dear, that what I hear is true? I was told your grandmother Mingott's carriage was seen standing at Mrs. Beaufort's door." It was noticeable that she no longer called the offending lady by her Christian name. May's colour rose, and Mrs. Archer put in hastily: "If it
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"owed it to society" to show themselves at the Opera, and even to open their own doors. "It will never do, my dear Louisa, to let people like Mrs. Lemuel Struthers think they can step into Regina's shoes. It is just at such times that new people push in and get a footing. It was owing to the epidemic of chicken-pox in New York the winter Mrs. Struthers first appeared that the married men slipped away to her house while their wives were in the nursery. You and dear Henry, Louisa, must stand in the breach as you always have."<|quote|>Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden could not remain deaf to such a call, and reluctantly but heroically they had come to town, unmuffled the house, and sent out invitations for two dinners and an evening reception. On this particular evening they had invited Sillerton Jackson, Mrs. Archer and Newland and his wife to go with them to the Opera, where Faust was being sung for the first time that winter. Nothing was done without ceremony under the van der Luyden roof, and though there were but four guests the repast had begun at seven punctually, so that the proper sequence of courses might be served without haste before the gentlemen settled down to their cigars. Archer had not seen his wife since the evening before. He had left early for the office, where he had plunged into an accumulation of unimportant business. In the afternoon one of the senior partners had made an unexpected call on his time; and he had reached home so late that May had preceded him to the van der Luydens', and sent back the carriage. Now, across the Skuytercliff carnations and the massive plate, she struck him as pale and languid; but her eyes shone, and she talked with exaggerated animation. The subject which had called forth Mr. Sillerton Jackson's favourite allusion had been brought up (Archer fancied not without intention) by their hostess. The Beaufort failure, or rather the Beaufort attitude since the failure, was still a fruitful theme for the drawing-room moralist; and after it had been thoroughly examined and condemned Mrs. van der Luyden had turned her scrupulous eyes on May Archer.</|quote|>"Is it possible, dear, that what I hear is true? I was told your grandmother Mingott's carriage was seen standing at Mrs. Beaufort's door." It was noticeable that she no longer called the offending lady by her Christian name. May's colour rose, and Mrs. Archer put in hastily: "If it was, I'm convinced it was there without Mrs. Mingott's knowledge." "Ah, you think--?" Mrs. van der Luyden paused, sighed, and glanced at her husband. "I'm afraid," Mr. van der Luyden said, "that Madame Olenska's kind heart may have led her into the imprudence of calling on Mrs. Beaufort." "Or her
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things were pretty openly tolerated." The scene was the van der Luydens' black walnut dining-room in Madison Avenue, and the time the evening after Newland Archer's visit to the Museum of Art. Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden had come to town for a few days from Skuytercliff, whither they had precipitately fled at the announcement of Beaufort's failure. It had been represented to them that the disarray into which society had been thrown by this deplorable affair made their presence in town more necessary than ever. It was one of the occasions when, as Mrs. Archer put it, they "owed it to society" to show themselves at the Opera, and even to open their own doors. "It will never do, my dear Louisa, to let people like Mrs. Lemuel Struthers think they can step into Regina's shoes. It is just at such times that new people push in and get a footing. It was owing to the epidemic of chicken-pox in New York the winter Mrs. Struthers first appeared that the married men slipped away to her house while their wives were in the nursery. You and dear Henry, Louisa, must stand in the breach as you always have."<|quote|>Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden could not remain deaf to such a call, and reluctantly but heroically they had come to town, unmuffled the house, and sent out invitations for two dinners and an evening reception. On this particular evening they had invited Sillerton Jackson, Mrs. Archer and Newland and his wife to go with them to the Opera, where Faust was being sung for the first time that winter. Nothing was done without ceremony under the van der Luyden roof, and though there were but four guests the repast had begun at seven punctually, so that the proper sequence of courses might be served without haste before the gentlemen settled down to their cigars. Archer had not seen his wife since the evening before. He had left early for the office, where he had plunged into an accumulation of unimportant business. In the afternoon one of the senior partners had made an unexpected call on his time; and he had reached home so late that May had preceded him to the van der Luydens', and sent back the carriage. Now, across the Skuytercliff carnations and the massive plate, she struck him as pale and languid; but her eyes shone, and she talked with exaggerated animation. The subject which had called forth Mr. Sillerton Jackson's favourite allusion had been brought up (Archer fancied not without intention) by their hostess. The Beaufort failure, or rather the Beaufort attitude since the failure, was still a fruitful theme for the drawing-room moralist; and after it had been thoroughly examined and condemned Mrs. van der Luyden had turned her scrupulous eyes on May Archer.</|quote|>"Is it possible, dear, that what I hear is true? I was told your grandmother Mingott's carriage was seen standing at Mrs. Beaufort's door." It was noticeable that she no longer called the offending lady by her Christian name. May's colour rose, and Mrs. Archer put in hastily: "If it was, I'm convinced it was there without Mrs. Mingott's knowledge." "Ah, you think--?" Mrs. van der Luyden paused, sighed, and glanced at her husband. "I'm afraid," Mr. van der Luyden said, "that Madame Olenska's kind heart may have led her into the imprudence of calling on Mrs. Beaufort." "Or her taste for peculiar people," put in Mrs. Archer in a dry tone, while her eyes dwelt innocently on her son's. "I'm sorry to think it of Madame Olenska," said Mrs. van der Luyden; and Mrs. Archer murmured: "Ah, my dear--and after you'd had her twice at Skuytercliff!" It was at this point that Mr. Jackson seized the chance to place his favourite allusion. "At the Tuileries," he repeated, seeing the eyes of the company expectantly turned on him, "the standard was excessively lax in some respects; and if you'd asked where Morny's money came from--! Or who paid the debts
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for a moment he was on the point of breaking the silence between them, and throwing himself on her mercy. "You understand, don't you," she went on, "why the family have sometimes been annoyed? We all did what we could for her at first; but she never seemed to understand. And now this idea of going to see Mrs. Beaufort, of going there in Granny's carriage! I'm afraid she's quite alienated the van der Luydens ..." "Ah," said Archer with an impatient laugh. The open door had closed between them again. "It's time to dress; we're dining out, aren't we?" he asked, moving from the fire. She rose also, but lingered near the hearth. As he walked past her she moved forward impulsively, as though to detain him: their eyes met, and he saw that hers were of the same swimming blue as when he had left her to drive to Jersey City. She flung her arms about his neck and pressed her cheek to his. "You haven't kissed me today," she said in a whisper; and he felt her tremble in his arms. XXXII. "At the court of the Tuileries," said Mr. Sillerton Jackson with his reminiscent smile, "such things were pretty openly tolerated." The scene was the van der Luydens' black walnut dining-room in Madison Avenue, and the time the evening after Newland Archer's visit to the Museum of Art. Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden had come to town for a few days from Skuytercliff, whither they had precipitately fled at the announcement of Beaufort's failure. It had been represented to them that the disarray into which society had been thrown by this deplorable affair made their presence in town more necessary than ever. It was one of the occasions when, as Mrs. Archer put it, they "owed it to society" to show themselves at the Opera, and even to open their own doors. "It will never do, my dear Louisa, to let people like Mrs. Lemuel Struthers think they can step into Regina's shoes. It is just at such times that new people push in and get a footing. It was owing to the epidemic of chicken-pox in New York the winter Mrs. Struthers first appeared that the married men slipped away to her house while their wives were in the nursery. You and dear Henry, Louisa, must stand in the breach as you always have."<|quote|>Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden could not remain deaf to such a call, and reluctantly but heroically they had come to town, unmuffled the house, and sent out invitations for two dinners and an evening reception. On this particular evening they had invited Sillerton Jackson, Mrs. Archer and Newland and his wife to go with them to the Opera, where Faust was being sung for the first time that winter. Nothing was done without ceremony under the van der Luyden roof, and though there were but four guests the repast had begun at seven punctually, so that the proper sequence of courses might be served without haste before the gentlemen settled down to their cigars. Archer had not seen his wife since the evening before. He had left early for the office, where he had plunged into an accumulation of unimportant business. In the afternoon one of the senior partners had made an unexpected call on his time; and he had reached home so late that May had preceded him to the van der Luydens', and sent back the carriage. Now, across the Skuytercliff carnations and the massive plate, she struck him as pale and languid; but her eyes shone, and she talked with exaggerated animation. The subject which had called forth Mr. Sillerton Jackson's favourite allusion had been brought up (Archer fancied not without intention) by their hostess. The Beaufort failure, or rather the Beaufort attitude since the failure, was still a fruitful theme for the drawing-room moralist; and after it had been thoroughly examined and condemned Mrs. van der Luyden had turned her scrupulous eyes on May Archer.</|quote|>"Is it possible, dear, that what I hear is true? I was told your grandmother Mingott's carriage was seen standing at Mrs. Beaufort's door." It was noticeable that she no longer called the offending lady by her Christian name. May's colour rose, and Mrs. Archer put in hastily: "If it was, I'm convinced it was there without Mrs. Mingott's knowledge." "Ah, you think--?" Mrs. van der Luyden paused, sighed, and glanced at her husband. "I'm afraid," Mr. van der Luyden said, "that Madame Olenska's kind heart may have led her into the imprudence of calling on Mrs. Beaufort." "Or her taste for peculiar people," put in Mrs. Archer in a dry tone, while her eyes dwelt innocently on her son's. "I'm sorry to think it of Madame Olenska," said Mrs. van der Luyden; and Mrs. Archer murmured: "Ah, my dear--and after you'd had her twice at Skuytercliff!" It was at this point that Mr. Jackson seized the chance to place his favourite allusion. "At the Tuileries," he repeated, seeing the eyes of the company expectantly turned on him, "the standard was excessively lax in some respects; and if you'd asked where Morny's money came from--! Or who paid the debts of some of the Court beauties ..." "I hope, dear Sillerton," said Mrs. Archer, "you are not suggesting that we should adopt such standards?" "I never suggest," returned Mr. Jackson imperturbably. "But Madame Olenska's foreign bringing-up may make her less particular--" "Ah," the two elder ladies sighed. "Still, to have kept her grandmother's carriage at a defaulter's door!" Mr. van der Luyden protested; and Archer guessed that he was remembering, and resenting, the hampers of carnations he had sent to the little house in Twenty-third Street. "Of course I've always said that she looks at things quite differently," Mrs. Archer summed up. A flush rose to May's forehead. She looked across the table at her husband, and said precipitately: "I'm sure Ellen meant it kindly." "Imprudent people are often kind," said Mrs. Archer, as if the fact were scarcely an extenuation; and Mrs. van der Luyden murmured: "If only she had consulted some one--" "Ah, that she never did!" Mrs. Archer rejoined. At this point Mr. van der Luyden glanced at his wife, who bent her head slightly in the direction of Mrs. Archer; and the glimmering trains of the three ladies swept out of the door while the gentlemen
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amazement that seemed to suspend life rather than quicken it. "This was what had to be, then ... this was what had to be," he kept repeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutch of doom. What he had dreamed of had been so different that there was a mortal chill in his rapture. The door opened and May came in. "I'm dreadfully late--you weren't worried, were you?" she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder with one of her rare caresses. He looked up astonished. "Is it late?" "After seven. I believe you've been asleep!" She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation. "I went to see Granny, and just as I was going away Ellen came in from a walk; so I stayed and had a long talk with her. It was ages since we'd had a real talk...." She had dropped into her usual armchair, facing his, and was running her fingers through her rumpled hair. He fancied she expected him to speak. "A really good talk," she went on, smiling with what seemed to Archer an unnatural vividness. "She was so dear--just like the old Ellen. I'm afraid I haven't been fair to her lately. I've sometimes thought--" Archer stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece, out of the radius of the lamp. "Yes, you've thought--?" he echoed as she paused. "Well, perhaps I haven't judged her fairly. She's so different--at least on the surface. She takes up such odd people--she seems to like to make herself conspicuous. I suppose it's the life she's led in that fast European society; no doubt we seem dreadfully dull to her. But I don't want to judge her unfairly." She paused again, a little breathless with the unwonted length of her speech, and sat with her lips slightly parted and a deep blush on her cheeks. Archer, as he looked at her, was reminded of the glow which had suffused her face in the Mission Garden at St. Augustine. He became aware of the same obscure effort in her, the same reaching out toward something beyond the usual range of her vision. "She hates Ellen," he thought, "and she's trying to overcome the feeling, and to get me to help her to overcome it." The thought moved him, and for a moment he was on the point of breaking the silence between them, and throwing himself on her mercy. "You understand, don't you," she went on, "why the family have sometimes been annoyed? We all did what we could for her at first; but she never seemed to understand. And now this idea of going to see Mrs. Beaufort, of going there in Granny's carriage! I'm afraid she's quite alienated the van der Luydens ..." "Ah," said Archer with an impatient laugh. The open door had closed between them again. "It's time to dress; we're dining out, aren't we?" he asked, moving from the fire. She rose also, but lingered near the hearth. As he walked past her she moved forward impulsively, as though to detain him: their eyes met, and he saw that hers were of the same swimming blue as when he had left her to drive to Jersey City. She flung her arms about his neck and pressed her cheek to his. "You haven't kissed me today," she said in a whisper; and he felt her tremble in his arms. XXXII. "At the court of the Tuileries," said Mr. Sillerton Jackson with his reminiscent smile, "such things were pretty openly tolerated." The scene was the van der Luydens' black walnut dining-room in Madison Avenue, and the time the evening after Newland Archer's visit to the Museum of Art. Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden had come to town for a few days from Skuytercliff, whither they had precipitately fled at the announcement of Beaufort's failure. It had been represented to them that the disarray into which society had been thrown by this deplorable affair made their presence in town more necessary than ever. It was one of the occasions when, as Mrs. Archer put it, they "owed it to society" to show themselves at the Opera, and even to open their own doors. "It will never do, my dear Louisa, to let people like Mrs. Lemuel Struthers think they can step into Regina's shoes. It is just at such times that new people push in and get a footing. It was owing to the epidemic of chicken-pox in New York the winter Mrs. Struthers first appeared that the married men slipped away to her house while their wives were in the nursery. You and dear Henry, Louisa, must stand in the breach as you always have."<|quote|>Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden could not remain deaf to such a call, and reluctantly but heroically they had come to town, unmuffled the house, and sent out invitations for two dinners and an evening reception. On this particular evening they had invited Sillerton Jackson, Mrs. Archer and Newland and his wife to go with them to the Opera, where Faust was being sung for the first time that winter. Nothing was done without ceremony under the van der Luyden roof, and though there were but four guests the repast had begun at seven punctually, so that the proper sequence of courses might be served without haste before the gentlemen settled down to their cigars. Archer had not seen his wife since the evening before. He had left early for the office, where he had plunged into an accumulation of unimportant business. In the afternoon one of the senior partners had made an unexpected call on his time; and he had reached home so late that May had preceded him to the van der Luydens', and sent back the carriage. Now, across the Skuytercliff carnations and the massive plate, she struck him as pale and languid; but her eyes shone, and she talked with exaggerated animation. The subject which had called forth Mr. Sillerton Jackson's favourite allusion had been brought up (Archer fancied not without intention) by their hostess. The Beaufort failure, or rather the Beaufort attitude since the failure, was still a fruitful theme for the drawing-room moralist; and after it had been thoroughly examined and condemned Mrs. van der Luyden had turned her scrupulous eyes on May Archer.</|quote|>"Is it possible, dear, that what I hear is true? I was told your grandmother Mingott's carriage was seen standing at Mrs. Beaufort's door." It was noticeable that she no longer called the offending lady by her Christian name. May's colour rose, and Mrs. Archer put in hastily: "If it was, I'm convinced it was there without Mrs. Mingott's knowledge." "Ah, you think--?" Mrs. van der Luyden paused, sighed, and glanced at her husband. "I'm afraid," Mr. van der Luyden said, "that Madame Olenska's kind heart may have led her into the imprudence of calling on Mrs. Beaufort." "Or her taste for peculiar people," put in Mrs. Archer in a dry tone, while her eyes dwelt innocently on her son's. "I'm sorry to think it of Madame Olenska," said Mrs. van der Luyden; and Mrs. Archer murmured: "Ah, my dear--and after you'd had her twice at Skuytercliff!" It was at this point that Mr. Jackson seized the chance to place his favourite allusion. "At the Tuileries," he repeated, seeing the eyes of the company expectantly turned on him, "the standard was excessively lax in some respects; and if you'd asked where Morny's money came from--! Or who paid the debts of some of the Court beauties ..." "I hope, dear Sillerton," said Mrs. Archer, "you are not suggesting that we should adopt such standards?" "I never suggest," returned Mr. Jackson imperturbably. "But Madame Olenska's foreign bringing-up may make her less particular--" "Ah," the two elder ladies sighed. "Still, to have kept her grandmother's carriage at a defaulter's door!" Mr. van der Luyden protested; and Archer guessed that he was remembering, and resenting, the hampers of carnations he had sent to the little house in Twenty-third Street. "Of course I've always said that she looks at things quite differently," Mrs. Archer summed up. A flush rose to May's forehead. She looked across the table at her husband, and said precipitately: "I'm sure Ellen meant it kindly." "Imprudent people are often kind," said Mrs. Archer, as if the fact were scarcely an extenuation; and Mrs. van der Luyden murmured: "If only she had consulted some one--" "Ah, that she never did!" Mrs. Archer rejoined. At this point Mr. van der Luyden glanced at his wife, who bent her head slightly in the direction of Mrs. Archer; and the glimmering trains of the three ladies swept out of the door while the gentlemen settled down to their cigars. Mr. van der Luyden supplied short ones on Opera nights; but they were so good that they made his guests deplore his inexorable punctuality. Archer, after the first act, had detached himself from the party and made his way to the back of the club box. From there he watched, over various Chivers, Mingott and Rushworth shoulders, the same scene that he had looked at, two years previously, on the night of his first meeting with Ellen Olenska. He had half-expected her to appear again in old Mrs. Mingott's box, but it remained empty; and he sat motionless, his eyes fastened on it, till suddenly Madame Nilsson's pure soprano broke out into "M'ama, non m'ama ..." Archer turned to the stage, where, in the familiar setting of giant roses and pen-wiper pansies, the same large blonde victim was succumbing to the same small brown seducer. From the stage his eyes wandered to the point of the horseshoe where May sat between two older ladies, just as, on that former evening, she had sat between Mrs. Lovell Mingott and her newly-arrived "foreign" cousin. As on that evening, she was all in white; and Archer, who had not noticed what she wore, recognised the blue-white satin and old lace of her wedding dress. It was the custom, in old New York, for brides to appear in this costly garment during the first year or two of marriage: his mother, he knew, kept hers in tissue paper in the hope that Janey might some day wear it, though poor Janey was reaching the age when pearl grey poplin and no bridesmaids would be thought more "appropriate." It struck Archer that May, since their return from Europe, had seldom worn her bridal satin, and the surprise of seeing her in it made him compare her appearance with that of the young girl he had watched with such blissful anticipations two years earlier. Though May's outline was slightly heavier, as her goddesslike build had foretold, her athletic erectness of carriage, and the girlish transparency of her expression, remained unchanged: but for the slight languor that Archer had lately noticed in her she would have been the exact image of the girl playing with the bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley on her betrothal evening. The fact seemed an additional appeal to his pity: such innocence was as moving as the trustful clasp of
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of going there in Granny's carriage! I'm afraid she's quite alienated the van der Luydens ..." "Ah," said Archer with an impatient laugh. The open door had closed between them again. "It's time to dress; we're dining out, aren't we?" he asked, moving from the fire. She rose also, but lingered near the hearth. As he walked past her she moved forward impulsively, as though to detain him: their eyes met, and he saw that hers were of the same swimming blue as when he had left her to drive to Jersey City. She flung her arms about his neck and pressed her cheek to his. "You haven't kissed me today," she said in a whisper; and he felt her tremble in his arms. XXXII. "At the court of the Tuileries," said Mr. Sillerton Jackson with his reminiscent smile, "such things were pretty openly tolerated." The scene was the van der Luydens' black walnut dining-room in Madison Avenue, and the time the evening after Newland Archer's visit to the Museum of Art. Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden had come to town for a few days from Skuytercliff, whither they had precipitately fled at the announcement of Beaufort's failure. It had been represented to them that the disarray into which society had been thrown by this deplorable affair made their presence in town more necessary than ever. It was one of the occasions when, as Mrs. Archer put it, they "owed it to society" to show themselves at the Opera, and even to open their own doors. "It will never do, my dear Louisa, to let people like Mrs. Lemuel Struthers think they can step into Regina's shoes. It is just at such times that new people push in and get a footing. It was owing to the epidemic of chicken-pox in New York the winter Mrs. Struthers first appeared that the married men slipped away to her house while their wives were in the nursery. You and dear Henry, Louisa, must stand in the breach as you always have."<|quote|>Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden could not remain deaf to such a call, and reluctantly but heroically they had come to town, unmuffled the house, and sent out invitations for two dinners and an evening reception. On this particular evening they had invited Sillerton Jackson, Mrs. Archer and Newland and his wife to go with them to the Opera, where Faust was being sung for the first time that winter. Nothing was done without ceremony under the van der Luyden roof, and though there were but four guests the repast had begun at seven punctually, so that the proper sequence of courses might be served without haste before the gentlemen settled down to their cigars. Archer had not seen his wife since the evening before. He had left early for the office, where he had plunged into an accumulation of unimportant business. In the afternoon one of the senior partners had made an unexpected call on his time; and he had reached home so late that May had preceded him to the van der Luydens', and sent back the carriage. Now, across the Skuytercliff carnations and the massive plate, she struck him as pale and languid; but her eyes shone, and she talked with exaggerated animation. The subject which had called forth Mr. Sillerton Jackson's favourite allusion had been brought up (Archer fancied not without intention) by their hostess. The Beaufort failure, or rather the Beaufort attitude since the failure, was still a fruitful theme for the drawing-room moralist; and after it had been thoroughly examined and condemned Mrs. van der Luyden had turned her scrupulous eyes on May Archer.</|quote|>"Is it possible, dear, that what I hear is true? I was told your grandmother Mingott's carriage was seen standing at Mrs. Beaufort's door." It was noticeable that she no longer called the offending lady by her Christian name. May's colour rose, and Mrs. Archer put in hastily: "If it was, I'm convinced it was there without Mrs. Mingott's knowledge." "Ah, you think--?" Mrs. van der Luyden paused, sighed, and glanced at her husband. "I'm afraid," Mr. van der Luyden said, "that Madame Olenska's kind heart may have led her into the imprudence of calling on Mrs. Beaufort." "Or her taste for peculiar people," put in Mrs. Archer in a dry tone, while her eyes dwelt innocently on her son's. "I'm sorry to think it of Madame Olenska," said Mrs. van der Luyden; and Mrs. Archer murmured: "Ah, my dear--and after you'd had her twice at Skuytercliff!" It was at this point that Mr. Jackson seized the chance to place his favourite allusion. "At the Tuileries," he repeated, seeing the eyes of the company expectantly turned on him, "the standard was excessively lax in some respects; and if you'd asked where Morny's money came from--! Or who paid the debts of some of the Court beauties ..." "I hope, dear Sillerton," said Mrs. Archer, "you are not suggesting that we should adopt such standards?" "I never suggest," returned Mr. Jackson imperturbably. "But Madame Olenska's foreign bringing-up may make her less particular--" "Ah," the two elder ladies sighed. "Still, to have kept her grandmother's carriage at a defaulter's door!" Mr. van der Luyden protested; and Archer guessed that he was remembering, and resenting, the hampers of carnations he had sent to the little house in Twenty-third Street. "Of course I've always said that she looks at things quite differently," Mrs. Archer summed up. A flush rose to May's forehead. She looked across the table at her husband, and said precipitately: "I'm sure Ellen meant it kindly." "Imprudent people are often kind," said Mrs. Archer, as if the fact were scarcely an extenuation; and Mrs. van der Luyden murmured: "If only she had consulted some one--" "Ah, that she never did!" Mrs. Archer rejoined. At this point Mr. van der Luyden glanced at his wife, who bent her head slightly in the direction of Mrs. Archer; and the glimmering trains of the three ladies swept out of the door while the gentlemen settled down to their cigars. Mr. van der Luyden supplied short ones on Opera nights; but they were so good that they made his guests deplore his inexorable punctuality. Archer, after the first act, had detached himself from the party and made his way to the back of the club box. From there he watched, over various Chivers, Mingott and Rushworth shoulders, the same scene that he had looked at, two years previously, on the night of
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The Age Of Innocence
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"What do you want?"
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Ronny Heaslop
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my business over such trifles!"<|quote|>"What do you want?"</|quote|>he said, exasperated. "Can you
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and I held up from my business over such trifles!"<|quote|>"What do you want?"</|quote|>he said, exasperated. "Can you state it in simple language?
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. . . The human race would have become a single person centuries ago if marriage was any use. And all this rubbish about love, love in a church, love in a cave, as if there is the least difference, and I held up from my business over such trifles!"<|quote|>"What do you want?"</|quote|>he said, exasperated. "Can you state it in simple language? If so, do." "I want my pack of patience cards." "Very well, get them." He found, as he expected, that the poor girl was crying. And, as always, an Indian close outside the window, a mali in this case, picking
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that to do in her way, and everything sympathy and confusion and bearing one another's burdens. Why can't this be done and that be done in my way and they be done and I at peace? Why has anything to be done, I cannot see. Why all this marriage, marriage? . . . The human race would have become a single person centuries ago if marriage was any use. And all this rubbish about love, love in a church, love in a cave, as if there is the least difference, and I held up from my business over such trifles!"<|quote|>"What do you want?"</|quote|>he said, exasperated. "Can you state it in simple language? If so, do." "I want my pack of patience cards." "Very well, get them." He found, as he expected, that the poor girl was crying. And, as always, an Indian close outside the window, a mali in this case, picking up sounds. Much upset, he sat silent for a moment, thinking over his mother and her senile intrusions. He wished he had never asked her to visit India, or become under any obligation to her. "Well, my dear girl, this isn't much of a home-coming," he said at last. "I
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England." "You can't go to England in May, as you agreed." "I have changed my mind." "Well, we'd better end this unexpected wrangle," said the young man, striding about. "You appear to want to be left out of everything, and that's enough." "My body, my miserable body," she sighed. "Why isn't it strong? Oh, why can't I walk away and be gone? Why can't I finish my duties and be gone? Why do I get headaches and puff when I walk? And all the time this to do and that to do and this to do in your way and that to do in her way, and everything sympathy and confusion and bearing one another's burdens. Why can't this be done and that be done in my way and they be done and I at peace? Why has anything to be done, I cannot see. Why all this marriage, marriage? . . . The human race would have become a single person centuries ago if marriage was any use. And all this rubbish about love, love in a church, love in a cave, as if there is the least difference, and I held up from my business over such trifles!"<|quote|>"What do you want?"</|quote|>he said, exasperated. "Can you state it in simple language? If so, do." "I want my pack of patience cards." "Very well, get them." He found, as he expected, that the poor girl was crying. And, as always, an Indian close outside the window, a mali in this case, picking up sounds. Much upset, he sat silent for a moment, thinking over his mother and her senile intrusions. He wished he had never asked her to visit India, or become under any obligation to her. "Well, my dear girl, this isn't much of a home-coming," he said at last. "I had no idea she had this up her sleeve." Adela had stopped crying. An extraordinary expression was on her face, half relief, half horror. She repeated, "Aziz, Aziz." They all avoided mentioning that name. It had become synonymous with the power of evil. He was "the prisoner," "the person in question," "the defence," and the sound of it now rang out like the first note of new symphony. "Aziz . . . have I made a mistake?" "You're over-tired," he cried, not much surprised. "Ronny, he's innocent; I made an awful mistake." "Well, sit down anyhow." He looked round the
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that you dropped off at the first cave, and encouraged Adela to go on with him alone, whereas if you'd been well enough to keep on too nothing would have happened. He planned it, I know. Still, you fell into his trap just like Fielding and Antony before you. . . . Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but you've no right to take up this high and mighty attitude about law courts. If you're ill, that's different; but you say you're all right and you seem so, in which case I thought you'ld want to take your part, I did really." "I'll not have you worry her whether she's well or ill," said Adela, leaving the sofa and taking his arm; then dropped it with a sigh and sat down again. But he was pleased she had rallied to him and surveyed his mother patronizingly. He had never felt easy with her. She was by no means the dear old lady outsiders supposed, and India had brought her into the open. "I shall attend your marriage, but not your trial," she informed them, tapping her knee; she had become very restless, and rather ungraceful. "Then I shall go to England." "You can't go to England in May, as you agreed." "I have changed my mind." "Well, we'd better end this unexpected wrangle," said the young man, striding about. "You appear to want to be left out of everything, and that's enough." "My body, my miserable body," she sighed. "Why isn't it strong? Oh, why can't I walk away and be gone? Why can't I finish my duties and be gone? Why do I get headaches and puff when I walk? And all the time this to do and that to do and this to do in your way and that to do in her way, and everything sympathy and confusion and bearing one another's burdens. Why can't this be done and that be done in my way and they be done and I at peace? Why has anything to be done, I cannot see. Why all this marriage, marriage? . . . The human race would have become a single person centuries ago if marriage was any use. And all this rubbish about love, love in a church, love in a cave, as if there is the least difference, and I held up from my business over such trifles!"<|quote|>"What do you want?"</|quote|>he said, exasperated. "Can you state it in simple language? If so, do." "I want my pack of patience cards." "Very well, get them." He found, as he expected, that the poor girl was crying. And, as always, an Indian close outside the window, a mali in this case, picking up sounds. Much upset, he sat silent for a moment, thinking over his mother and her senile intrusions. He wished he had never asked her to visit India, or become under any obligation to her. "Well, my dear girl, this isn't much of a home-coming," he said at last. "I had no idea she had this up her sleeve." Adela had stopped crying. An extraordinary expression was on her face, half relief, half horror. She repeated, "Aziz, Aziz." They all avoided mentioning that name. It had become synonymous with the power of evil. He was "the prisoner," "the person in question," "the defence," and the sound of it now rang out like the first note of new symphony. "Aziz . . . have I made a mistake?" "You're over-tired," he cried, not much surprised. "Ronny, he's innocent; I made an awful mistake." "Well, sit down anyhow." He looked round the room, but only two sparrows were chasing one another. She obeyed and took hold of his hand. He stroked it and she smiled, and gasped as if she had risen to the surface of the water, then touched her ear. "My echo's better." "That's good. You'll be perfectly well in a few days, but you must save yourself up for the trial. Das is a very good fellow, we shall all be with you." "But Ronny, dear Ronny, perhaps there oughtn't to be any trial." "I don't quite know what you're saying, and I don't think you do." "If Dr. Aziz never did it he ought to be let out." A shiver like impending death passed over Ronny. He said hurriedly, "He was let out until the Mohurram riot, when he had to be put in again." To divert her, he told her the story, which was held to be amusing. Nureddin had stolen the Nawab Bahadur's car and driven Aziz into a ditch in the dark. Both of them had fallen out, and Nureddin had cut his face open. Their wailing had been drowned by the cries of the faithful, and it was quite a time before they were
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would try to make capital out of this during the trial. He reassured her: the Marabar caves were notoriously like one another; indeed, in the future they were to be numbered in sequence with white paint. "Yes, I mean that, at least not exactly; but there is this echo that I keep on hearing." "Oh, what of the echo?" asked Mrs. Moore, paying attention to her for the first time. "I can't get rid of it." "I don't suppose you ever will." Ronny had emphasized to his mother that Adela would arrive in a morbid state, yet she was being positively malicious. "Mrs. Moore, what is this echo?" "Don't you know?" "No what is it? oh, do say! I felt you would be able to explain it . . . this will comfort me so. . . ." "If you don't know, you don't know; I can't tell you." "I think you're rather unkind not to say." "Say, say, say," said the old lady bitterly. "As if anything can be said! I have spent my life in saying or in listening to sayings; I have listened too much. It is time I was left in peace. Not to die," she added sourly. "No doubt you expect me to die, but when I have seen you and Ronny married, and seen the other two and whether they want to be married I'll retire then into a cave of my own." She smiled, to bring down her remark into ordinary life and thus add to its bitterness. "Somewhere where no young people will come asking questions and expecting answers. Some shelf." "Quite so, but meantime a trial is coming on," said her son hotly, "and the notion of most of us is that we'd better pull together and help one another through, instead of being disagreeable. Are you going to talk like that in the witness-box?" "Why should I be in the witness-box?" "To confirm certain points in our evidence." "I have nothing to do with your ludicrous law courts," she said, angry. "I will not be dragged in at all." "I won't have her dragged in, either; I won't have any more trouble on my account," cried Adela, and again took the hand, which was again withdrawn. "Her evidence is not the least essential." "I thought she would want to give it. No one blames you, mother, but the fact remains that you dropped off at the first cave, and encouraged Adela to go on with him alone, whereas if you'd been well enough to keep on too nothing would have happened. He planned it, I know. Still, you fell into his trap just like Fielding and Antony before you. . . . Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but you've no right to take up this high and mighty attitude about law courts. If you're ill, that's different; but you say you're all right and you seem so, in which case I thought you'ld want to take your part, I did really." "I'll not have you worry her whether she's well or ill," said Adela, leaving the sofa and taking his arm; then dropped it with a sigh and sat down again. But he was pleased she had rallied to him and surveyed his mother patronizingly. He had never felt easy with her. She was by no means the dear old lady outsiders supposed, and India had brought her into the open. "I shall attend your marriage, but not your trial," she informed them, tapping her knee; she had become very restless, and rather ungraceful. "Then I shall go to England." "You can't go to England in May, as you agreed." "I have changed my mind." "Well, we'd better end this unexpected wrangle," said the young man, striding about. "You appear to want to be left out of everything, and that's enough." "My body, my miserable body," she sighed. "Why isn't it strong? Oh, why can't I walk away and be gone? Why can't I finish my duties and be gone? Why do I get headaches and puff when I walk? And all the time this to do and that to do and this to do in your way and that to do in her way, and everything sympathy and confusion and bearing one another's burdens. Why can't this be done and that be done in my way and they be done and I at peace? Why has anything to be done, I cannot see. Why all this marriage, marriage? . . . The human race would have become a single person centuries ago if marriage was any use. And all this rubbish about love, love in a church, love in a cave, as if there is the least difference, and I held up from my business over such trifles!"<|quote|>"What do you want?"</|quote|>he said, exasperated. "Can you state it in simple language? If so, do." "I want my pack of patience cards." "Very well, get them." He found, as he expected, that the poor girl was crying. And, as always, an Indian close outside the window, a mali in this case, picking up sounds. Much upset, he sat silent for a moment, thinking over his mother and her senile intrusions. He wished he had never asked her to visit India, or become under any obligation to her. "Well, my dear girl, this isn't much of a home-coming," he said at last. "I had no idea she had this up her sleeve." Adela had stopped crying. An extraordinary expression was on her face, half relief, half horror. She repeated, "Aziz, Aziz." They all avoided mentioning that name. It had become synonymous with the power of evil. He was "the prisoner," "the person in question," "the defence," and the sound of it now rang out like the first note of new symphony. "Aziz . . . have I made a mistake?" "You're over-tired," he cried, not much surprised. "Ronny, he's innocent; I made an awful mistake." "Well, sit down anyhow." He looked round the room, but only two sparrows were chasing one another. She obeyed and took hold of his hand. He stroked it and she smiled, and gasped as if she had risen to the surface of the water, then touched her ear. "My echo's better." "That's good. You'll be perfectly well in a few days, but you must save yourself up for the trial. Das is a very good fellow, we shall all be with you." "But Ronny, dear Ronny, perhaps there oughtn't to be any trial." "I don't quite know what you're saying, and I don't think you do." "If Dr. Aziz never did it he ought to be let out." A shiver like impending death passed over Ronny. He said hurriedly, "He was let out until the Mohurram riot, when he had to be put in again." To divert her, he told her the story, which was held to be amusing. Nureddin had stolen the Nawab Bahadur's car and driven Aziz into a ditch in the dark. Both of them had fallen out, and Nureddin had cut his face open. Their wailing had been drowned by the cries of the faithful, and it was quite a time before they were rescued by the police. Nureddin was taken to the Minto Hospital, Aziz restored to prison, with an additional charge against him of disturbing the public peace. "Half a minute," he remarked when the anecdote was over, and went to the telephone to ask Callendar to look in as soon as he found it convenient, because she hadn't borne the journey well. When he returned, she was in a nervous crisis, but it took a different form she clung to him, and sobbed, "Help me to do what I ought. Aziz is good. You heard your mother say so." "Heard what?" "He's good; I've been so wrong to accuse him." "Mother never said so." "Didn't she?" she asked, quite reasonable, open to every suggestion anyway. "She never mentioned that name once." "But, Ronny, I heard her." "Pure illusion. You can't be quite well, can you, to make up a thing like that." "I suppose I can't. How amazing of me!" "I was listening to all she said, as far as it could be listened to; she gets very incoherent." "When her voice dropped she said it towards the end, when she talked about love love I couldn't follow, but just then she said: Doctor Aziz never did it.'" "Those words?" "The idea more than the words." "Never, never, my dear girl. Complete illusion. His name was not mentioned by anyone. Look here you are confusing this with Fielding's letter." "That's it, that's it," she cried, greatly relieved. "I knew I'd heard his name somewhere. I am so grateful to you for clearing this up it's the sort of mistake that worries me, and proves I'm neurotic." "So you won't go saying he's innocent again, will you? for every servant I've got is a spy." He went to the window. The mali had gone, or rather had turned into two small children impossible they should know English, but he sent them packing. "They all hate us," he explained. "It'll be all right after the verdict, for I will say this for them, they do accept the accomplished fact; but at present they're pouring out money like water to catch us tripping, and a remark like yours is the very thing they look out for. It would enable them to say it was a put-up job on the part of us officials. You see what I mean." Mrs. Moore came back, with the
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whereas if you'd been well enough to keep on too nothing would have happened. He planned it, I know. Still, you fell into his trap just like Fielding and Antony before you. . . . Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but you've no right to take up this high and mighty attitude about law courts. If you're ill, that's different; but you say you're all right and you seem so, in which case I thought you'ld want to take your part, I did really." "I'll not have you worry her whether she's well or ill," said Adela, leaving the sofa and taking his arm; then dropped it with a sigh and sat down again. But he was pleased she had rallied to him and surveyed his mother patronizingly. He had never felt easy with her. She was by no means the dear old lady outsiders supposed, and India had brought her into the open. "I shall attend your marriage, but not your trial," she informed them, tapping her knee; she had become very restless, and rather ungraceful. "Then I shall go to England." "You can't go to England in May, as you agreed." "I have changed my mind." "Well, we'd better end this unexpected wrangle," said the young man, striding about. "You appear to want to be left out of everything, and that's enough." "My body, my miserable body," she sighed. "Why isn't it strong? Oh, why can't I walk away and be gone? Why can't I finish my duties and be gone? Why do I get headaches and puff when I walk? And all the time this to do and that to do and this to do in your way and that to do in her way, and everything sympathy and confusion and bearing one another's burdens. Why can't this be done and that be done in my way and they be done and I at peace? Why has anything to be done, I cannot see. Why all this marriage, marriage? . . . The human race would have become a single person centuries ago if marriage was any use. And all this rubbish about love, love in a church, love in a cave, as if there is the least difference, and I held up from my business over such trifles!"<|quote|>"What do you want?"</|quote|>he said, exasperated. "Can you state it in simple language? If so, do." "I want my pack of patience cards." "Very well, get them." He found, as he expected, that the poor girl was crying. And, as always, an Indian close outside the window, a mali in this case, picking up sounds. Much upset, he sat silent for a moment, thinking over his mother and her senile intrusions. He wished he had never asked her to visit India, or become under any obligation to her. "Well, my dear girl, this isn't much of a home-coming," he said at last. "I had no idea she had this up her sleeve." Adela had stopped crying. An extraordinary expression was on her face, half relief, half horror. She repeated, "Aziz, Aziz." They all avoided mentioning that name. It had become synonymous with the power of evil. He was "the prisoner," "the person in question," "the defence," and the sound of it now rang out like the first note of new symphony. "Aziz . . . have I made a mistake?" "You're over-tired," he cried, not much surprised. "Ronny, he's innocent; I made an awful mistake." "Well, sit down anyhow." He looked round the room, but only two sparrows were chasing one another. She obeyed and took hold of his hand. He stroked it and she smiled, and gasped as if she had risen to the surface of the water, then touched her ear. "My echo's better." "That's good. You'll be perfectly well in a few days, but you must save yourself up for the trial. Das is a very good fellow, we shall all be with you." "But Ronny, dear Ronny, perhaps there oughtn't to be any trial." "I don't quite know what you're saying, and I don't think you do." "If Dr. Aziz never did it he ought to be let out." A shiver like impending death passed over Ronny. He said hurriedly, "He was let out until the Mohurram riot, when he had to be put in again." To divert her, he told her the story, which was held to be amusing. Nureddin had stolen the Nawab Bahadur's car and driven Aziz into a ditch in the dark. Both of them had fallen out, and Nureddin had cut his face open. Their wailing had been drowned by the cries of the faithful, and it was quite a time before they were rescued by the police. Nureddin was taken to the Minto Hospital, Aziz restored to prison, with an additional charge against him of disturbing the public peace. "Half a minute," he remarked when the anecdote was over, and went to the telephone to ask Callendar to look in as soon as he found it convenient, because she hadn't borne the journey well. When he returned, she was in a nervous crisis, but it took a different form she clung to him, and sobbed, "Help me to do what I ought. Aziz is good. You heard your
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A Passage To India
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"No,"
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Don Lavington
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It isn't rotten, is it?"<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Don, after an examination;
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end fast round the bar. It isn't rotten, is it?"<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Don, after an examination; "it seems very solid." And
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"Why, that's Old Church," said Jem in a whisper. "We must be close down to the water side, Mas' Don." "Yes, Jem. Shall we give it up, or risk it?" "I'll show you d'reckly," said Jem. "You make that there end fast round the bar. It isn't rotten, is it?"<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Don, after an examination; "it seems very solid." And untying the rope from his waist, he knotted it to the little beam. The next minute Jem gave a heavy drag at the rope, then a jerk, and next swung to it, going to and fro for a few seconds.
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moving, but listening intently for the slightest sound. "Think they heared it, Mas' Don?" said Jem, at last, in a hoarse whisper. "I can't hear anything," replied Don, softly. They listened again, but all was wonderfully quiet. A distant murmur came from the busy streets, and a clock struck nine. "Why, that's Old Church," said Jem in a whisper. "We must be close down to the water side, Mas' Don." "Yes, Jem. Shall we give it up, or risk it?" "I'll show you d'reckly," said Jem. "You make that there end fast round the bar. It isn't rotten, is it?"<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Don, after an examination; "it seems very solid." And untying the rope from his waist, he knotted it to the little beam. The next minute Jem gave a heavy drag at the rope, then a jerk, and next swung to it, going to and fro for a few seconds. "Hold a ton," whispered Jem; and reaching up as high as he could, he gripped the rope between his legs and over his ankle and foot, and apparently with the greatest ease drew himself up to the bar, threw a leg over and sat astride with his face beaming. "They
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was perpendicular, and he paused, panting with the exertion. "All right, Mas' Don; I've got the rope. Now lower it down gently, till it lies flat on the slope. That's the way; steady! Steady!" _Bang_! _crash_! _jingle_! "Oh, Mas' Don!" "I couldn't help it, Jem; the iron fastening came out. The wood's rotten." For the skylight had fallen back with a crash, and some of the broken glass came musically jingling down, some of it sliding along the tiles, and dropping into the alley below. There was a dead silence, neither of the would-be evaders of the enforced king's service moving, but listening intently for the slightest sound. "Think they heared it, Mas' Don?" said Jem, at last, in a hoarse whisper. "I can't hear anything," replied Don, softly. They listened again, but all was wonderfully quiet. A distant murmur came from the busy streets, and a clock struck nine. "Why, that's Old Church," said Jem in a whisper. "We must be close down to the water side, Mas' Don." "Yes, Jem. Shall we give it up, or risk it?" "I'll show you d'reckly," said Jem. "You make that there end fast round the bar. It isn't rotten, is it?"<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Don, after an examination; "it seems very solid." And untying the rope from his waist, he knotted it to the little beam. The next minute Jem gave a heavy drag at the rope, then a jerk, and next swung to it, going to and fro for a few seconds. "Hold a ton," whispered Jem; and reaching up as high as he could, he gripped the rope between his legs and over his ankle and foot, and apparently with the greatest ease drew himself up to the bar, threw a leg over and sat astride with his face beaming. "They sha'n't have us this time, Mas' Don," he said, running the rope rapidly through his hands until he had reached the end, when he gathered it up in rings, till he had enough to throw beyond the sloping roof. "Here goes!" he whispered; and he tossed it from him into the gathering gloom. The falling rope made a dull sound, and then there was a sharp gliding noise. One of the broken fragments of glass had been started from where it had lodged, and slid rapidly down the tiles. They held their breath as they waited to hear it fall
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ratchet support, and then by passing one arm over the light cross-beam, which divided the opening in two, Don was able to raise himself, and throw his leg over the front of the opening, so that the next minute he was sitting on the edge with one leg down the sloping roof, and the other hanging inside, but in a very awkward position, on account of the broad skylight. "Can't you open it more?" said Jem. "No; that's as far as the fastening will hold it up." "Push it right over, Mas' Don, so as it may lie back against the roof. Mind what you're doing, so as you don't slip. But you'll be all right. I've got the rope, and won't let it go." Don did as he was told, taking tightly hold of the long cross central bar, and placing his knees, and then his feet, against the front of the opening, so that he was in the position of a four-footed animal. Then his back raised up the hinged skylight higher and higher, till, holding on to the cross-bar with one hand, and the ratchet fastening with the other, he thrust up and up, till the skylight was perpendicular, and he paused, panting with the exertion. "All right, Mas' Don; I've got the rope. Now lower it down gently, till it lies flat on the slope. That's the way; steady! Steady!" _Bang_! _crash_! _jingle_! "Oh, Mas' Don!" "I couldn't help it, Jem; the iron fastening came out. The wood's rotten." For the skylight had fallen back with a crash, and some of the broken glass came musically jingling down, some of it sliding along the tiles, and dropping into the alley below. There was a dead silence, neither of the would-be evaders of the enforced king's service moving, but listening intently for the slightest sound. "Think they heared it, Mas' Don?" said Jem, at last, in a hoarse whisper. "I can't hear anything," replied Don, softly. They listened again, but all was wonderfully quiet. A distant murmur came from the busy streets, and a clock struck nine. "Why, that's Old Church," said Jem in a whisper. "We must be close down to the water side, Mas' Don." "Yes, Jem. Shall we give it up, or risk it?" "I'll show you d'reckly," said Jem. "You make that there end fast round the bar. It isn't rotten, is it?"<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Don, after an examination; "it seems very solid." And untying the rope from his waist, he knotted it to the little beam. The next minute Jem gave a heavy drag at the rope, then a jerk, and next swung to it, going to and fro for a few seconds. "Hold a ton," whispered Jem; and reaching up as high as he could, he gripped the rope between his legs and over his ankle and foot, and apparently with the greatest ease drew himself up to the bar, threw a leg over and sat astride with his face beaming. "They sha'n't have us this time, Mas' Don," he said, running the rope rapidly through his hands until he had reached the end, when he gathered it up in rings, till he had enough to throw beyond the sloping roof. "Here goes!" he whispered; and he tossed it from him into the gathering gloom. The falling rope made a dull sound, and then there was a sharp gliding noise. One of the broken fragments of glass had been started from where it had lodged, and slid rapidly down the tiles. They held their breath as they waited to hear it fall tinkling beyond on the pavement; but they listened in vain, for the simple reason that it had fallen into the gutter. "All right, Mas' Don! Here goes!" said Jem, and he lowered the rope to its full extent. "Hadn't I better go first, and try the rope, Jem?" "What's the good o' your going first? It might break, and then what would your mother say to me? I'll go; and, as I said afore, if it bears me, it'll bear you." "But, if it breaks, what shall I say to little Sally?" "Well, I wouldn't go near her if I was you, Mas' Don. She might take on, and then it wouldn't be nice; or she mightn't take on, and that wouldn't be nice. Hist! What's that?" "Can't hear anything, Jem." "More can I. Here, shake hands, lad, case I has a tumble." "Don't, don't risk it, Jem," whispered Don, clinging to his hand. "What! After making the rope! Oh, come, Mas' Don, where's your pluck? Now then, I'm off; and when I'm down safe, I'll give three jerks at the line, and then hold it steady. Here goes--once to be ready, twice to be steady, three times to be--off!"
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up again my eye." "But Mike stopped away from work for a week." "Yes, Mas' Don. He got hisself a good deal hurt somehow." "You mean you hurt him?" "Dunno, Mas' Don. S'pose I did, but I don't 'member nothing about it. And now look here, sir; seems to me that in half-hour's time it'll be quite dark enough to start; and if I'd got five guineas, I'd give 'em for five big screws, and the use of a gimlet and driver." "What for?" "To fasten down that there trap." "It would be no good, Jem; because if they found the trap fast, they'd be on the watch for us outside." "Dessay you're right, sir. Well, what do you say? Shall we begin now, or wait?" Don looked up at the fast darkening skylight, and then, after a moment's hesitation,-- "Let's begin now, Jem. It will take some time." "That's right, Mas' Don; so here goes, and good luck to us. It means home, and your mother, and my Sally; or going to fight the French." "And we don't want to be obliged to fight without we like, Jem." "That's true," said Jem; and going quickly to the trap, he laid his ear to the crack and listened. "All right, my lad. Have it out," he said; and the sacks were cast aside, and the rope withdrawn. "Will it bear us, Jem?" "I'm going to try first, and if it'll bear me it'll bear you." "But you can't get up there." "No, but you can, my lad; and when you're there you can fasten the rope to that cross-bar, and then I can soon be with you. Ready?" "Wait till I've got off my shoes." "That's right; stick 'em in your pockets, my lad. Now then, ready?" Don signified his readiness. Jem laid him a back up at the end wall. Don mounted, and then jumped down again. "What's the matter?" "I haven't got the rope." "My: what a head I have!" cried Jem, as Don tightly knotted the rope about his waist; and then, mounting on his companion's back once more, was borne very slowly, steadying himself by the sloping roof, till the window was reached. "Hold fast, Jem." "Right it is, my lad." There was a clicking of the iron fastening, the window was thrust up higher and higher, till it was to the full extent of the ratchet support, and then by passing one arm over the light cross-beam, which divided the opening in two, Don was able to raise himself, and throw his leg over the front of the opening, so that the next minute he was sitting on the edge with one leg down the sloping roof, and the other hanging inside, but in a very awkward position, on account of the broad skylight. "Can't you open it more?" said Jem. "No; that's as far as the fastening will hold it up." "Push it right over, Mas' Don, so as it may lie back against the roof. Mind what you're doing, so as you don't slip. But you'll be all right. I've got the rope, and won't let it go." Don did as he was told, taking tightly hold of the long cross central bar, and placing his knees, and then his feet, against the front of the opening, so that he was in the position of a four-footed animal. Then his back raised up the hinged skylight higher and higher, till, holding on to the cross-bar with one hand, and the ratchet fastening with the other, he thrust up and up, till the skylight was perpendicular, and he paused, panting with the exertion. "All right, Mas' Don; I've got the rope. Now lower it down gently, till it lies flat on the slope. That's the way; steady! Steady!" _Bang_! _crash_! _jingle_! "Oh, Mas' Don!" "I couldn't help it, Jem; the iron fastening came out. The wood's rotten." For the skylight had fallen back with a crash, and some of the broken glass came musically jingling down, some of it sliding along the tiles, and dropping into the alley below. There was a dead silence, neither of the would-be evaders of the enforced king's service moving, but listening intently for the slightest sound. "Think they heared it, Mas' Don?" said Jem, at last, in a hoarse whisper. "I can't hear anything," replied Don, softly. They listened again, but all was wonderfully quiet. A distant murmur came from the busy streets, and a clock struck nine. "Why, that's Old Church," said Jem in a whisper. "We must be close down to the water side, Mas' Don." "Yes, Jem. Shall we give it up, or risk it?" "I'll show you d'reckly," said Jem. "You make that there end fast round the bar. It isn't rotten, is it?"<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Don, after an examination; "it seems very solid." And untying the rope from his waist, he knotted it to the little beam. The next minute Jem gave a heavy drag at the rope, then a jerk, and next swung to it, going to and fro for a few seconds. "Hold a ton," whispered Jem; and reaching up as high as he could, he gripped the rope between his legs and over his ankle and foot, and apparently with the greatest ease drew himself up to the bar, threw a leg over and sat astride with his face beaming. "They sha'n't have us this time, Mas' Don," he said, running the rope rapidly through his hands until he had reached the end, when he gathered it up in rings, till he had enough to throw beyond the sloping roof. "Here goes!" he whispered; and he tossed it from him into the gathering gloom. The falling rope made a dull sound, and then there was a sharp gliding noise. One of the broken fragments of glass had been started from where it had lodged, and slid rapidly down the tiles. They held their breath as they waited to hear it fall tinkling beyond on the pavement; but they listened in vain, for the simple reason that it had fallen into the gutter. "All right, Mas' Don! Here goes!" said Jem, and he lowered the rope to its full extent. "Hadn't I better go first, and try the rope, Jem?" "What's the good o' your going first? It might break, and then what would your mother say to me? I'll go; and, as I said afore, if it bears me, it'll bear you." "But, if it breaks, what shall I say to little Sally?" "Well, I wouldn't go near her if I was you, Mas' Don. She might take on, and then it wouldn't be nice; or she mightn't take on, and that wouldn't be nice. Hist! What's that?" "Can't hear anything, Jem." "More can I. Here, shake hands, lad, case I has a tumble." "Don't, don't risk it, Jem," whispered Don, clinging to his hand. "What! After making the rope! Oh, come, Mas' Don, where's your pluck? Now then, I'm off; and when I'm down safe, I'll give three jerks at the line, and then hold it steady. Here goes--once to be ready, twice to be steady, three times to be--off!" Don's heart felt in his mouth as his companion grasped the rope tightly, and let himself glide down the steep tiled slope, till he reached the edge over the gutter; and then, as he disappeared, dissolving--so it seemed--into the gloom, Don's breath was held, and he felt a singular pain at the chest. He grasped the rope, though, as he sat astride at the lower edge of the opening; and the loosely twisted hemp seemed to palpitate and quiver as if it were one of Jem's muscles reaching to his hands. Then all at once the rope became slack, as if the tension had been removed, and Don turned faint with horror. "It's broken!" he panted; and he strained over as far as he could without falling to hear the dull thud of his companion's fall. Thoughts fly fast, and in a moment of time Don had seen poor Jem lying crushed below, picked up, and had borne the news to his little wife. But before he had gone any further, the rope was drawn tight once more, and as he held it, there came to thrill his nerves three distinct jerks. "It's all right!" he panted; and grasped the rope with both hands. "Now then," he thought, "it only wants a little courage, and I can slide down and join him, and then we're free." Yes; but it required a good deal of resolution to make the venture. "Suppose Jem's weight had unwound the rope; suppose it should break; suppose--" "Oh, what a coward I am!" he muttered; and swinging his leg free, he lay upon his face for a moment, right upon the sloping tiles and then let the rope glide through his hands. It was very easy work down that slope, only that elbows and hands suffered, and sundry sounds suggested that waistcoat buttons were being torn off. But that was no moment for studying trifles; and what were waistcoat buttons to liberty? Another moment, and his legs were over the edge, and he was about to attempt the most difficult part of the descent, grasping beforehand, that as soon as he hung clear of the eaves, he should begin to turn slowly round. "Now for it," he said; and he was about to descend perpendicularly, when the rope was suddenly jerked violently. There was a loud ejaculation, and Jem's voice rose to where he hung. "No,
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more, was borne very slowly, steadying himself by the sloping roof, till the window was reached. "Hold fast, Jem." "Right it is, my lad." There was a clicking of the iron fastening, the window was thrust up higher and higher, till it was to the full extent of the ratchet support, and then by passing one arm over the light cross-beam, which divided the opening in two, Don was able to raise himself, and throw his leg over the front of the opening, so that the next minute he was sitting on the edge with one leg down the sloping roof, and the other hanging inside, but in a very awkward position, on account of the broad skylight. "Can't you open it more?" said Jem. "No; that's as far as the fastening will hold it up." "Push it right over, Mas' Don, so as it may lie back against the roof. Mind what you're doing, so as you don't slip. But you'll be all right. I've got the rope, and won't let it go." Don did as he was told, taking tightly hold of the long cross central bar, and placing his knees, and then his feet, against the front of the opening, so that he was in the position of a four-footed animal. Then his back raised up the hinged skylight higher and higher, till, holding on to the cross-bar with one hand, and the ratchet fastening with the other, he thrust up and up, till the skylight was perpendicular, and he paused, panting with the exertion. "All right, Mas' Don; I've got the rope. Now lower it down gently, till it lies flat on the slope. That's the way; steady! Steady!" _Bang_! _crash_! _jingle_! "Oh, Mas' Don!" "I couldn't help it, Jem; the iron fastening came out. The wood's rotten." For the skylight had fallen back with a crash, and some of the broken glass came musically jingling down, some of it sliding along the tiles, and dropping into the alley below. There was a dead silence, neither of the would-be evaders of the enforced king's service moving, but listening intently for the slightest sound. "Think they heared it, Mas' Don?" said Jem, at last, in a hoarse whisper. "I can't hear anything," replied Don, softly. They listened again, but all was wonderfully quiet. A distant murmur came from the busy streets, and a clock struck nine. "Why, that's Old Church," said Jem in a whisper. "We must be close down to the water side, Mas' Don." "Yes, Jem. Shall we give it up, or risk it?" "I'll show you d'reckly," said Jem. "You make that there end fast round the bar. It isn't rotten, is it?"<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Don, after an examination; "it seems very solid." And untying the rope from his waist, he knotted it to the little beam. The next minute Jem gave a heavy drag at the rope, then a jerk, and next swung to it, going to and fro for a few seconds. "Hold a ton," whispered Jem; and reaching up as high as he could, he gripped the rope between his legs and over his ankle and foot, and apparently with the greatest ease drew himself up to the bar, threw a leg over and sat astride with his face beaming. "They sha'n't have us this time, Mas' Don," he said, running the rope rapidly through his hands until he had reached the end, when he gathered it up in rings, till he had enough to throw beyond the sloping roof. "Here goes!" he whispered; and he tossed it from him into the gathering gloom. The falling rope made a dull sound, and then there was a sharp gliding noise. One of the broken fragments of glass had been started from where it had lodged, and slid rapidly down the tiles. They held their breath as they waited to hear it fall tinkling beyond on the pavement; but they listened in vain, for the simple reason that it had fallen into the gutter. "All right, Mas' Don! Here goes!" said Jem, and he lowered the rope to its full extent. "Hadn't I better go first, and try the rope, Jem?" "What's the good o' your going first? It might break, and then what would your mother say to me? I'll go; and, as I said afore, if it bears me, it'll bear you." "But, if it breaks, what shall I say to little Sally?" "Well, I wouldn't go near her if I was you, Mas' Don. She might take on, and then it wouldn't be nice; or she mightn't take on, and that wouldn't be nice. Hist! What's that?" "Can't hear anything, Jem." "More can I. Here, shake hands, lad, case I has a tumble." "Don't, don't risk it, Jem," whispered Don, clinging to his hand. "What! After making the rope! Oh, come, Mas' Don, where's your pluck? Now then, I'm off; and when I'm down safe, I'll give three jerks at the line, and then hold it steady. Here goes--once to be ready, twice to be steady, three times to be--off!" Don's heart felt in his mouth as his companion grasped the rope tightly, and let himself glide down the steep tiled slope, till he reached the edge over the gutter; and then, as he disappeared, dissolving--so it seemed--into the gloom, Don's breath was held, and he felt a singular pain at the chest. He grasped the rope, though, as he sat astride at the lower edge of the opening; and the loosely
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Don Lavington
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said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the whole matter like a sum:
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No speaker
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may be quite at ease,"<|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the whole matter like a sum:</|quote|>"you may be quite at
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if I go away!" "You may be quite at ease,"<|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the whole matter like a sum:</|quote|>"you may be quite at ease, Jupe, on that score.
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your own mind, Jupe," Mr. Gradgrind cautioned her; "I say no more. Be sure you know your own mind!" "When father comes back," cried the girl, bursting into tears again after a minute's silence, "how will he ever find me if I go away!" "You may be quite at ease,"<|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the whole matter like a sum:</|quote|>"you may be quite at ease, Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your father, I apprehend, must find out Mr." "Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not athamed of it. Known all over England, and alwayth paythe ith way." "Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then let him
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visible effect upon her. She stopped in her wild crying, a little detached herself from Emma Gordon, and turned her face full upon her patron. The whole company perceived the force of the change, and drew a long breath together, that plainly said, "she will go!" "Be sure you know your own mind, Jupe," Mr. Gradgrind cautioned her; "I say no more. Be sure you know your own mind!" "When father comes back," cried the girl, bursting into tears again after a minute's silence, "how will he ever find me if I go away!" "You may be quite at ease,"<|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the whole matter like a sum:</|quote|>"you may be quite at ease, Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your father, I apprehend, must find out Mr." "Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not athamed of it. Known all over England, and alwayth paythe ith way." "Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then let him know where you went. I should have no power of keeping you against his wish, and he would have no difficulty, at any time, in finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. I am well known." "Well known," assented Mr. Sleary, rolling his loose eye. "You're one of the thort, Thquire,
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at my time of life, with a rider. I never wath much of a Cackler, Thquire, and I have thed my thay." The latter part of this speech was addressed to Mr. Gradgrind, who received it with a grave inclination of his head, and then remarked: "The only observation I will make to you, Jupe, in the way of influencing your decision, is, that it is highly desirable to have a sound practical education, and that even your father himself (from what I understand) appears, on your behalf, to have known and felt that much." The last words had a visible effect upon her. She stopped in her wild crying, a little detached herself from Emma Gordon, and turned her face full upon her patron. The whole company perceived the force of the change, and drew a long breath together, that plainly said, "she will go!" "Be sure you know your own mind, Jupe," Mr. Gradgrind cautioned her; "I say no more. Be sure you know your own mind!" "When father comes back," cried the girl, bursting into tears again after a minute's silence, "how will he ever find me if I go away!" "You may be quite at ease,"<|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the whole matter like a sum:</|quote|>"you may be quite at ease, Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your father, I apprehend, must find out Mr." "Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not athamed of it. Known all over England, and alwayth paythe ith way." "Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then let him know where you went. I should have no power of keeping you against his wish, and he would have no difficulty, at any time, in finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. I am well known." "Well known," assented Mr. Sleary, rolling his loose eye. "You're one of the thort, Thquire, that keepth a prethiouth thight of money out of the houthe. But never mind that at prethent." There was another silence; and then she exclaimed, sobbing with her hands before her face, "Oh, give me my clothes, give me my clothes, and let me go away before I break my heart!" The women sadly bestirred themselves to get the clothes together it was soon done, for they were not many and to pack them in a basket which had often travelled with them. Sissy sat all the time upon the ground, still sobbing, and covering her eyes. Mr. Gradgrind and
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you, and provide for you. The only condition (over and above your good behaviour) I make is, that you decide now, at once, whether to accompany me or remain here. Also, that if you accompany me now, it is understood that you communicate no more with any of your friends who are here present. These observations comprise the whole of the case." "At the thame time," said Sleary, "I mutht put in my word, Thquire, tho that both thides of the banner may be equally theen. If you like, Thethilia, to be prentitht, you know the natur of the work and you know your companionth. Emma Gordon, in whothe lap you're a lying at prethent, would be a mother to you, and Joth'phine would be a thithter to you. I don't pretend to be of the angel breed myself, and I don't thay but what, when you mith'd your tip, you'd find me cut up rough, and thwear an oath or two at you. But what I thay, Thquire, ith, that good tempered or bad tempered, I never did a horthe a injury yet, no more than thwearing at him went, and that I don't expect I thall begin otherwithe at my time of life, with a rider. I never wath much of a Cackler, Thquire, and I have thed my thay." The latter part of this speech was addressed to Mr. Gradgrind, who received it with a grave inclination of his head, and then remarked: "The only observation I will make to you, Jupe, in the way of influencing your decision, is, that it is highly desirable to have a sound practical education, and that even your father himself (from what I understand) appears, on your behalf, to have known and felt that much." The last words had a visible effect upon her. She stopped in her wild crying, a little detached herself from Emma Gordon, and turned her face full upon her patron. The whole company perceived the force of the change, and drew a long breath together, that plainly said, "she will go!" "Be sure you know your own mind, Jupe," Mr. Gradgrind cautioned her; "I say no more. Be sure you know your own mind!" "When father comes back," cried the girl, bursting into tears again after a minute's silence, "how will he ever find me if I go away!" "You may be quite at ease,"<|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the whole matter like a sum:</|quote|>"you may be quite at ease, Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your father, I apprehend, must find out Mr." "Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not athamed of it. Known all over England, and alwayth paythe ith way." "Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then let him know where you went. I should have no power of keeping you against his wish, and he would have no difficulty, at any time, in finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. I am well known." "Well known," assented Mr. Sleary, rolling his loose eye. "You're one of the thort, Thquire, that keepth a prethiouth thight of money out of the houthe. But never mind that at prethent." There was another silence; and then she exclaimed, sobbing with her hands before her face, "Oh, give me my clothes, give me my clothes, and let me go away before I break my heart!" The women sadly bestirred themselves to get the clothes together it was soon done, for they were not many and to pack them in a basket which had often travelled with them. Sissy sat all the time upon the ground, still sobbing, and covering her eyes. Mr. Gradgrind and his friend Bounderby stood near the door, ready to take her away. Mr. Sleary stood in the middle of the room, with the male members of the company about him, exactly as he would have stood in the centre of the ring during his daughter Josephine's performance. He wanted nothing but his whip. The basket packed in silence, they brought her bonnet to her, and smoothed her disordered hair, and put it on. Then they pressed about her, and bent over her in very natural attitudes, kissing and embracing her: and brought the children to take leave of her; and were a tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women altogether. "Now, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind. "If you are quite determined, come!" But she had to take her farewell of the male part of the company yet, and every one of them had to unfold his arms (for they all assumed the professional attitude when they found themselves near Sleary), and give her a parting kiss Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening
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good, I know! You are gone away for my sake, I am sure! And how miserable and helpless you will be without me, poor, poor father, until you come back!" It was so pathetic to hear her saying many things of this kind, with her face turned upward, and her arms stretched out as if she were trying to stop his departing shadow and embrace it, that no one spoke a word until Mr. Bounderby (growing impatient) took the case in hand. "Now, good people all," said he, "this is wanton waste of time. Let the girl understand the fact. Let her take it from me, if you like, who have been run away from, myself. Here, what's your name! Your father has absconded deserted you and you mustn't expect to see him again as long as you live." They cared so little for plain Fact, these people, and were in that advanced state of degeneracy on the subject, that instead of being impressed by the speaker's strong common sense, they took it in extraordinary dudgeon. The men muttered "Shame!" and the women "Brute!" and Sleary, in some haste, communicated the following hint, apart to Mr. Bounderby. "I tell you what, Thquire. To thpeak plain to you, my opinion ith that you had better cut it thort, and drop it. They're a very good natur'd people, my people, but they're accuthtomed to be quick in their movementh; and if you don't act upon my advithe, I'm damned if I don't believe they'll pith you out o' winder." Mr. Bounderby being restrained by this mild suggestion, Mr. Gradgrind found an opening for his eminently practical exposition of the subject. "It is of no moment," said he, "whether this person is to be expected back at any time, or the contrary. He is gone away, and there is no present expectation of his return. That, I believe, is agreed on all hands." "Thath agreed, Thquire. Thick to that!" From Sleary. "Well then. I, who came here to inform the father of the poor girl, Jupe, that she could not be received at the school any more, in consequence of there being practical objections, into which I need not enter, to the reception there of the children of persons so employed, am prepared in these altered circumstances to make a proposal. I am willing to take charge of you, Jupe, and to educate you, and provide for you. The only condition (over and above your good behaviour) I make is, that you decide now, at once, whether to accompany me or remain here. Also, that if you accompany me now, it is understood that you communicate no more with any of your friends who are here present. These observations comprise the whole of the case." "At the thame time," said Sleary, "I mutht put in my word, Thquire, tho that both thides of the banner may be equally theen. If you like, Thethilia, to be prentitht, you know the natur of the work and you know your companionth. Emma Gordon, in whothe lap you're a lying at prethent, would be a mother to you, and Joth'phine would be a thithter to you. I don't pretend to be of the angel breed myself, and I don't thay but what, when you mith'd your tip, you'd find me cut up rough, and thwear an oath or two at you. But what I thay, Thquire, ith, that good tempered or bad tempered, I never did a horthe a injury yet, no more than thwearing at him went, and that I don't expect I thall begin otherwithe at my time of life, with a rider. I never wath much of a Cackler, Thquire, and I have thed my thay." The latter part of this speech was addressed to Mr. Gradgrind, who received it with a grave inclination of his head, and then remarked: "The only observation I will make to you, Jupe, in the way of influencing your decision, is, that it is highly desirable to have a sound practical education, and that even your father himself (from what I understand) appears, on your behalf, to have known and felt that much." The last words had a visible effect upon her. She stopped in her wild crying, a little detached herself from Emma Gordon, and turned her face full upon her patron. The whole company perceived the force of the change, and drew a long breath together, that plainly said, "she will go!" "Be sure you know your own mind, Jupe," Mr. Gradgrind cautioned her; "I say no more. Be sure you know your own mind!" "When father comes back," cried the girl, bursting into tears again after a minute's silence, "how will he ever find me if I go away!" "You may be quite at ease,"<|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the whole matter like a sum:</|quote|>"you may be quite at ease, Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your father, I apprehend, must find out Mr." "Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not athamed of it. Known all over England, and alwayth paythe ith way." "Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then let him know where you went. I should have no power of keeping you against his wish, and he would have no difficulty, at any time, in finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. I am well known." "Well known," assented Mr. Sleary, rolling his loose eye. "You're one of the thort, Thquire, that keepth a prethiouth thight of money out of the houthe. But never mind that at prethent." There was another silence; and then she exclaimed, sobbing with her hands before her face, "Oh, give me my clothes, give me my clothes, and let me go away before I break my heart!" The women sadly bestirred themselves to get the clothes together it was soon done, for they were not many and to pack them in a basket which had often travelled with them. Sissy sat all the time upon the ground, still sobbing, and covering her eyes. Mr. Gradgrind and his friend Bounderby stood near the door, ready to take her away. Mr. Sleary stood in the middle of the room, with the male members of the company about him, exactly as he would have stood in the centre of the ring during his daughter Josephine's performance. He wanted nothing but his whip. The basket packed in silence, they brought her bonnet to her, and smoothed her disordered hair, and put it on. Then they pressed about her, and bent over her in very natural attitudes, kissing and embracing her: and brought the children to take leave of her; and were a tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women altogether. "Now, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind. "If you are quite determined, come!" But she had to take her farewell of the male part of the company yet, and every one of them had to unfold his arms (for they all assumed the professional attitude when they found themselves near Sleary), and give her a parting kiss Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying. "Good-bye, my dear!" said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed without hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!" With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. "There the ith, Thquire," he said, sweeping her with a professional glance as if she were being adjusted in her seat, "and the'll do you juthtithe. Good-bye, Thethilia!" "Good-bye, Cecilia!" "Good-bye, Sissy!" "God bless you, dear!" In a variety of voices from all the room. But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with "Leave the bottle, my dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!" "No, no!" she said, in another burst of tears. "Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till he comes back! He will want it when he comes back. He had never thought of going away, when he sent me for it. I must keep it for him, if you please!" "Tho be it, my dear. (You thee how it ith, Thquire!) Farewell, Thethilia! My latht wordth to you ith thith, Thtick to the termth of your engagement, be obedient to the Thquire, and forget uth. But if, when you're grown up and married and well off, you come upon any horthe-riding ever, don't be hard upon it, don't be croth with it, give it a Bethpeak if you can, and think you might do wurth. People mutht be amuthed, Thquire, thomehow," continued Sleary, rendered more pursy than ever, by so much talking; "they can't be alwayth a working, nor yet they can't be alwayth a learning. Make the betht of uth; not the wurtht. I've got my living out
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more than thwearing at him went, and that I don't expect I thall begin otherwithe at my time of life, with a rider. I never wath much of a Cackler, Thquire, and I have thed my thay." The latter part of this speech was addressed to Mr. Gradgrind, who received it with a grave inclination of his head, and then remarked: "The only observation I will make to you, Jupe, in the way of influencing your decision, is, that it is highly desirable to have a sound practical education, and that even your father himself (from what I understand) appears, on your behalf, to have known and felt that much." The last words had a visible effect upon her. She stopped in her wild crying, a little detached herself from Emma Gordon, and turned her face full upon her patron. The whole company perceived the force of the change, and drew a long breath together, that plainly said, "she will go!" "Be sure you know your own mind, Jupe," Mr. Gradgrind cautioned her; "I say no more. Be sure you know your own mind!" "When father comes back," cried the girl, bursting into tears again after a minute's silence, "how will he ever find me if I go away!" "You may be quite at ease,"<|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the whole matter like a sum:</|quote|>"you may be quite at ease, Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your father, I apprehend, must find out Mr." "Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not athamed of it. Known all over England, and alwayth paythe ith way." "Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then let him know where you went. I should have no power of keeping you against his wish, and he would have no difficulty, at any time, in finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. I am well known." "Well known," assented Mr. Sleary, rolling his loose eye. "You're one of the thort, Thquire, that keepth a prethiouth thight of money out of the houthe. But never mind that at prethent." There was another silence; and then she exclaimed, sobbing with her hands before her face, "Oh, give me my clothes, give me my clothes, and let me go away before I break my heart!" The women sadly bestirred themselves to get the clothes together it was soon done, for they were not many and to pack them in a basket which had often travelled with them. Sissy sat all the time upon the ground, still sobbing, and covering her eyes. Mr. Gradgrind and his friend Bounderby stood near the door, ready to take her away. Mr. Sleary stood in the middle of the
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Hard Times
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"S--Saturday."
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Leonard
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"Saturday afternoon or Sunday afternoon?"<|quote|>"S--Saturday."</|quote|>"Really!" said Helen; "and you
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Tibby was unsympathetic, and said, "Saturday afternoon or Sunday afternoon?"<|quote|>"S--Saturday."</|quote|>"Really!" said Helen; "and you were still calling on Sunday,
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said he, staring as if her question had been a foolish one, a favourite device of those in mid-stream. "This afternoon call." "In the afternoon, of course!" he replied, and looked at Tibby to see how the repartee went. But Tibby was unsympathetic, and said, "Saturday afternoon or Sunday afternoon?"<|quote|>"S--Saturday."</|quote|>"Really!" said Helen; "and you were still calling on Sunday, when your wife came here. A long visit." "I don t call that fair," said Mr. Bast, going scarlet and handsome. There was fight in his eyes. "I know what you mean, and it isn t so." "Oh, don t
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evasion characterised Mr. Bast. He explained again, but was obviously lying, and Helen didn t see why he should get off. She had the cruelty of youth. Neglecting her sister s pressure, she said, "I still don t understand. When did you say you paid this call?" "Call? What call?" said he, staring as if her question had been a foolish one, a favourite device of those in mid-stream. "This afternoon call." "In the afternoon, of course!" he replied, and looked at Tibby to see how the repartee went. But Tibby was unsympathetic, and said, "Saturday afternoon or Sunday afternoon?"<|quote|>"S--Saturday."</|quote|>"Really!" said Helen; "and you were still calling on Sunday, when your wife came here. A long visit." "I don t call that fair," said Mr. Bast, going scarlet and handsome. There was fight in his eyes. "I know what you mean, and it isn t so." "Oh, don t let us mind," said Margaret, distressed again by odours from the abyss. "It was something else," he asserted, his elaborate manner breaking down. "I was somewhere else to what you think, so there!" "It was good of you to come and explain," she said. "The rest is naturally no concern
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began Helen, but Margaret laid a hand on her arm. "I said to my wife," he continued more rapidly "I said to Mrs. Bast," I have to pay a call on some friends, "and Mrs. Bast said to me," Do go. "While I was gone, however, she wanted me on important business, and thought I had come here, owing to the card, and so came after me, and I beg to tender my apologies, and hers as well, for any inconvenience we may have inadvertently caused you." "No inconvenience," said Helen; "but I still don t understand." An air of evasion characterised Mr. Bast. He explained again, but was obviously lying, and Helen didn t see why he should get off. She had the cruelty of youth. Neglecting her sister s pressure, she said, "I still don t understand. When did you say you paid this call?" "Call? What call?" said he, staring as if her question had been a foolish one, a favourite device of those in mid-stream. "This afternoon call." "In the afternoon, of course!" he replied, and looked at Tibby to see how the repartee went. But Tibby was unsympathetic, and said, "Saturday afternoon or Sunday afternoon?"<|quote|>"S--Saturday."</|quote|>"Really!" said Helen; "and you were still calling on Sunday, when your wife came here. A long visit." "I don t call that fair," said Mr. Bast, going scarlet and handsome. There was fight in his eyes. "I know what you mean, and it isn t so." "Oh, don t let us mind," said Margaret, distressed again by odours from the abyss. "It was something else," he asserted, his elaborate manner breaking down. "I was somewhere else to what you think, so there!" "It was good of you to come and explain," she said. "The rest is naturally no concern of ours." "Yes, but I want--I wanted--have you ever read The Ordeal of Richard Feverel?" Margaret nodded. "It s a beautiful book. I wanted to get back to the earth, don t you see, like Richard does in the end. Or have you ever read Stevenson s Prince Otto?" Helen and Tibby groaned gently. "That s another beautiful book. You get back to the earth in that. I wanted--" He mouthed affectedly. Then through the mists of his culture came a hard fact, hard as a pebble. "I walked all the Saturday night," said Leonard. "I walked." A thrill of
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do." "Well, that was how it happened, you see." "Where did we meet, Mr. Bast? For the minute I don t remember." "It was a concert at the Queen s Hall. I think you will recollect," he added pretentiously, "when I tell you that it included a performance of the Fifth Symphony of Beethoven." "We hear the Fifth practically every time it s done, so I m not sure--do you remember, Helen?" "Was it the time the sandy cat walked round the balustrade?" He thought not. "Then I don t remember. That s the only Beethoven I ever remember specially." "And you, if I may say so, took away my umbrella, inadvertently of course." "Likely enough," Helen laughed, "for I steal umbrellas even oftener than I hear Beethoven. Did you get it back?" "Yes, thank you, Miss Schlegel." "The mistake arose out of my card, did it?" interposed Margaret. "Yes, the mistake arose--it was a mistake." "The lady who called here yesterday thought that you were calling too, and that she could find you?" she continued, pushing him forward, for, though he had promised an explanation, he seemed unable to give one. "That s so, calling too--a mistake." "Then why--?" began Helen, but Margaret laid a hand on her arm. "I said to my wife," he continued more rapidly "I said to Mrs. Bast," I have to pay a call on some friends, "and Mrs. Bast said to me," Do go. "While I was gone, however, she wanted me on important business, and thought I had come here, owing to the card, and so came after me, and I beg to tender my apologies, and hers as well, for any inconvenience we may have inadvertently caused you." "No inconvenience," said Helen; "but I still don t understand." An air of evasion characterised Mr. Bast. He explained again, but was obviously lying, and Helen didn t see why he should get off. She had the cruelty of youth. Neglecting her sister s pressure, she said, "I still don t understand. When did you say you paid this call?" "Call? What call?" said he, staring as if her question had been a foolish one, a favourite device of those in mid-stream. "This afternoon call." "In the afternoon, of course!" he replied, and looked at Tibby to see how the repartee went. But Tibby was unsympathetic, and said, "Saturday afternoon or Sunday afternoon?"<|quote|>"S--Saturday."</|quote|>"Really!" said Helen; "and you were still calling on Sunday, when your wife came here. A long visit." "I don t call that fair," said Mr. Bast, going scarlet and handsome. There was fight in his eyes. "I know what you mean, and it isn t so." "Oh, don t let us mind," said Margaret, distressed again by odours from the abyss. "It was something else," he asserted, his elaborate manner breaking down. "I was somewhere else to what you think, so there!" "It was good of you to come and explain," she said. "The rest is naturally no concern of ours." "Yes, but I want--I wanted--have you ever read The Ordeal of Richard Feverel?" Margaret nodded. "It s a beautiful book. I wanted to get back to the earth, don t you see, like Richard does in the end. Or have you ever read Stevenson s Prince Otto?" Helen and Tibby groaned gently. "That s another beautiful book. You get back to the earth in that. I wanted--" He mouthed affectedly. Then through the mists of his culture came a hard fact, hard as a pebble. "I walked all the Saturday night," said Leonard. "I walked." A thrill of approval ran through the sisters. But culture closed in again. He asked whether they had ever read E. V. Lucas s Open Road. Said Helen, "No doubt it s another beautiful book, but I d rather hear about your road." "Oh, I walked." "How far?" "I don t know, nor for how long. It got too dark to see my watch." "Were you walking alone, may I ask?" "Yes," he said, straightening himself; "but we d been talking it over at the office. There s been a lot of talk at the office lately about these things. The fellows there said one steers by the Pole Star, and I looked it up in the celestial atlas, but once out of doors everything gets so mixed." "Don t talk to me about the Pole Star," interrupted Helen, who was becoming interested. "I know its little ways. It goes round and round, and you go round after it." "Well, I lost it entirely. First of all the street lamps, then the trees, and towards morning it got cloudy." Tibby, who preferred his comedy undiluted, slipped from the room. He knew that this fellow would never attain to poetry, and did not want
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had better first wonder what he ll do," retorted Helen; and that topic was resumed, but with acrimony. Then tea came, and after tea Helen went on preparing her speech, and Margaret prepared one, too, for they were going out to a discussion society on the morrow. But her thoughts were poisoned. Mrs. Lanoline had risen out of the abyss, like a faint smell, a goblin football, telling of a life where love and hatred had both decayed. CHAPTER XIV The mystery, like so many mysteries, was explained. Next day, just as they were dressed to go out to dinner, a Mr. Bast called. He was a clerk in the employment of the Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company. Thus much from his card. He had come "about the lady yesterday." Thus much from Annie, who had shown him into the dining-room. "Cheers, children!" cried Helen. "It s Mrs. Lanoline." Tibby was interested. The three hurried downstairs, to find, not the gay dog they expected, but a young man, colourless, toneless, who had already the mournful eyes above a drooping moustache that are so common in London, and that haunt some streets of the city like accusing presences. One guessed him as the third generation, grandson to the shepherd or ploughboy whom civilisation had sucked into the town; as one of the thousands who have lost the life of the body and failed to reach the life of the spirit. Hints of robustness survived in him, more than a hint of primitive good looks, and Margaret, noting the spine that might have been straight, and the chest that might have broadened, wondered whether it paid to give up the glory of the animal for a tail coat and a couple of ideas. Culture had worked in her own case, but during the last few weeks she had doubted whether it humanised the majority, so wide and so widening is the gulf that stretches between the natural and the philosophic man, so many the good chaps who are wrecked in trying to cross it. She knew this type very well--the vague aspirations, the mental dishonesty, the familiarity with the outsides of books. She knew the very tones in which he would address her. She was only unprepared for an example of her own visiting-card. "You wouldn t remember giving me this, Miss Schlegel?" said he, uneasily familiar. "No; I can t say I do." "Well, that was how it happened, you see." "Where did we meet, Mr. Bast? For the minute I don t remember." "It was a concert at the Queen s Hall. I think you will recollect," he added pretentiously, "when I tell you that it included a performance of the Fifth Symphony of Beethoven." "We hear the Fifth practically every time it s done, so I m not sure--do you remember, Helen?" "Was it the time the sandy cat walked round the balustrade?" He thought not. "Then I don t remember. That s the only Beethoven I ever remember specially." "And you, if I may say so, took away my umbrella, inadvertently of course." "Likely enough," Helen laughed, "for I steal umbrellas even oftener than I hear Beethoven. Did you get it back?" "Yes, thank you, Miss Schlegel." "The mistake arose out of my card, did it?" interposed Margaret. "Yes, the mistake arose--it was a mistake." "The lady who called here yesterday thought that you were calling too, and that she could find you?" she continued, pushing him forward, for, though he had promised an explanation, he seemed unable to give one. "That s so, calling too--a mistake." "Then why--?" began Helen, but Margaret laid a hand on her arm. "I said to my wife," he continued more rapidly "I said to Mrs. Bast," I have to pay a call on some friends, "and Mrs. Bast said to me," Do go. "While I was gone, however, she wanted me on important business, and thought I had come here, owing to the card, and so came after me, and I beg to tender my apologies, and hers as well, for any inconvenience we may have inadvertently caused you." "No inconvenience," said Helen; "but I still don t understand." An air of evasion characterised Mr. Bast. He explained again, but was obviously lying, and Helen didn t see why he should get off. She had the cruelty of youth. Neglecting her sister s pressure, she said, "I still don t understand. When did you say you paid this call?" "Call? What call?" said he, staring as if her question had been a foolish one, a favourite device of those in mid-stream. "This afternoon call." "In the afternoon, of course!" he replied, and looked at Tibby to see how the repartee went. But Tibby was unsympathetic, and said, "Saturday afternoon or Sunday afternoon?"<|quote|>"S--Saturday."</|quote|>"Really!" said Helen; "and you were still calling on Sunday, when your wife came here. A long visit." "I don t call that fair," said Mr. Bast, going scarlet and handsome. There was fight in his eyes. "I know what you mean, and it isn t so." "Oh, don t let us mind," said Margaret, distressed again by odours from the abyss. "It was something else," he asserted, his elaborate manner breaking down. "I was somewhere else to what you think, so there!" "It was good of you to come and explain," she said. "The rest is naturally no concern of ours." "Yes, but I want--I wanted--have you ever read The Ordeal of Richard Feverel?" Margaret nodded. "It s a beautiful book. I wanted to get back to the earth, don t you see, like Richard does in the end. Or have you ever read Stevenson s Prince Otto?" Helen and Tibby groaned gently. "That s another beautiful book. You get back to the earth in that. I wanted--" He mouthed affectedly. Then through the mists of his culture came a hard fact, hard as a pebble. "I walked all the Saturday night," said Leonard. "I walked." A thrill of approval ran through the sisters. But culture closed in again. He asked whether they had ever read E. V. Lucas s Open Road. Said Helen, "No doubt it s another beautiful book, but I d rather hear about your road." "Oh, I walked." "How far?" "I don t know, nor for how long. It got too dark to see my watch." "Were you walking alone, may I ask?" "Yes," he said, straightening himself; "but we d been talking it over at the office. There s been a lot of talk at the office lately about these things. The fellows there said one steers by the Pole Star, and I looked it up in the celestial atlas, but once out of doors everything gets so mixed." "Don t talk to me about the Pole Star," interrupted Helen, who was becoming interested. "I know its little ways. It goes round and round, and you go round after it." "Well, I lost it entirely. First of all the street lamps, then the trees, and towards morning it got cloudy." Tibby, who preferred his comedy undiluted, slipped from the room. He knew that this fellow would never attain to poetry, and did not want to hear him trying. Margaret and Helen remained. Their brother influenced them more than they knew; in his absence they were stirred to enthusiasm more easily. "Where did you start from?" cried Margaret. "Do tell us more." "I took the Underground to Wimbledon. As I came out of the office I said to myself, I must have a walk once in a way. If I don t take this walk now, I shall never take it. I had a bit of dinner at Wimbledon, and then--" "But not good country there, is it?" "It was gas-lamps for hours. Still, I had all the night, and being out was the great thing. I did get into woods, too, presently." "Yes, go on," said Helen. "You ve no idea how difficult uneven ground is when it s dark." "Did you actually go off the roads?" "Oh yes. I always meant to go off the roads, but the worst of it is that it s more difficult to find one s way." "Mr. Bast, you re a born adventurer," laughed Margaret. "No professional athlete would have attempted what you ve done. It s a wonder your walk didn t end in a broken neck. Whatever did your wife say?" "Professional athletes never move without lanterns and compasses," said Helen. "Besides, they can t walk. It tires them. Go on." "I felt like R. L. S. You probably remember how in Virginibus." "Yes, but the wood. This ere wood. How did you get out of it?" "I managed one wood, and found a road the other side which went a good bit uphill. I rather fancy it was those North Downs, for the road went off into grass, and I got into another wood. That was awful, with gorse bushes. I did wish I d never come, but suddenly it got light--just while I seemed going under one tree. Then I found a road down to a station, and took the first train I could back to London." "But was the dawn wonderful?" asked Helen. With unforgettable sincerity he replied, "No." The word flew again like a pebble from the sling. Down toppled all that had seemed ignoble or literary in his talk, down toppled tiresome R. L. S. and the "love of the earth" and his silk top-hat. In the presence of these women Leonard had arrived, and he spoke with a flow,
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and a couple of ideas. Culture had worked in her own case, but during the last few weeks she had doubted whether it humanised the majority, so wide and so widening is the gulf that stretches between the natural and the philosophic man, so many the good chaps who are wrecked in trying to cross it. She knew this type very well--the vague aspirations, the mental dishonesty, the familiarity with the outsides of books. She knew the very tones in which he would address her. She was only unprepared for an example of her own visiting-card. "You wouldn t remember giving me this, Miss Schlegel?" said he, uneasily familiar. "No; I can t say I do." "Well, that was how it happened, you see." "Where did we meet, Mr. Bast? For the minute I don t remember." "It was a concert at the Queen s Hall. I think you will recollect," he added pretentiously, "when I tell you that it included a performance of the Fifth Symphony of Beethoven." "We hear the Fifth practically every time it s done, so I m not sure--do you remember, Helen?" "Was it the time the sandy cat walked round the balustrade?" He thought not. "Then I don t remember. That s the only Beethoven I ever remember specially." "And you, if I may say so, took away my umbrella, inadvertently of course." "Likely enough," Helen laughed, "for I steal umbrellas even oftener than I hear Beethoven. Did you get it back?" "Yes, thank you, Miss Schlegel." "The mistake arose out of my card, did it?" interposed Margaret. "Yes, the mistake arose--it was a mistake." "The lady who called here yesterday thought that you were calling too, and that she could find you?" she continued, pushing him forward, for, though he had promised an explanation, he seemed unable to give one. "That s so, calling too--a mistake." "Then why--?" began Helen, but Margaret laid a hand on her arm. "I said to my wife," he continued more rapidly "I said to Mrs. Bast," I have to pay a call on some friends, "and Mrs. Bast said to me," Do go. "While I was gone, however, she wanted me on important business, and thought I had come here, owing to the card, and so came after me, and I beg to tender my apologies, and hers as well, for any inconvenience we may have inadvertently caused you." "No inconvenience," said Helen; "but I still don t understand." An air of evasion characterised Mr. Bast. He explained again, but was obviously lying, and Helen didn t see why he should get off. She had the cruelty of youth. Neglecting her sister s pressure, she said, "I still don t understand. When did you say you paid this call?" "Call? What call?" said he, staring as if her question had been a foolish one, a favourite device of those in mid-stream. "This afternoon call." "In the afternoon, of course!" he replied, and looked at Tibby to see how the repartee went. But Tibby was unsympathetic, and said, "Saturday afternoon or Sunday afternoon?"<|quote|>"S--Saturday."</|quote|>"Really!" said Helen; "and you were still calling on Sunday, when your wife came here. A long visit." "I don t call that fair," said Mr. Bast, going scarlet and handsome. There was fight in his eyes. "I know what you mean, and it isn t so." "Oh, don t let us mind," said Margaret, distressed again by odours from the abyss. "It was something else," he asserted, his elaborate manner breaking down. "I was somewhere else to what you think, so there!" "It was good of you to come and explain," she said. "The rest is naturally no concern of ours." "Yes, but I want--I wanted--have you ever read The Ordeal of Richard Feverel?" Margaret nodded. "It s a beautiful book. I wanted to get back to the earth, don t you see, like Richard does in the end. Or have you ever read Stevenson s Prince Otto?" Helen and Tibby groaned gently. "That s another beautiful book. You get back to the earth in that. I wanted--" He mouthed affectedly. Then through the mists of his culture came a hard fact, hard as a pebble. "I walked all the Saturday night," said Leonard. "I walked." A thrill of approval ran through the sisters. But culture closed in again. He asked whether they had ever read E. V. Lucas s Open Road. Said Helen, "No doubt it s another beautiful book, but I d rather hear about your road." "Oh, I walked." "How far?" "I don t know, nor for how long. It got too dark to see my watch." "Were you walking alone, may I ask?" "Yes," he said, straightening himself; "but we d been talking it over at the office. There s been a lot of talk at the office lately about these things. The fellows there said one steers by the Pole Star, and I looked it up in the celestial atlas, but once out of doors everything gets so mixed." "Don t talk to me about the Pole Star," interrupted Helen, who was becoming interested. "I know its little ways. It goes round and round, and you go round after it." "Well, I lost it entirely. First of all the street lamps, then the trees, and towards morning it got cloudy." Tibby, who preferred his comedy undiluted, slipped from the room. He knew that this fellow would never attain to poetry, and did not want to hear him trying. Margaret and Helen remained. Their brother influenced them more than they knew; in his absence they were stirred to enthusiasm more easily. "Where did you start from?" cried Margaret. "Do tell us more." "I took the Underground to Wimbledon. As I came out of the office I said to myself, I must have a walk once in a way. If I don t take this walk now, I shall never take it. I had a bit of dinner at Wimbledon, and then--" "But not good country there, is it?" "It was gas-lamps for hours. Still, I had all the night, and being out was the great thing. I did get into woods, too, presently." "Yes, go on," said Helen. "You ve no idea how difficult uneven ground is when it s dark." "Did you actually go off the roads?"
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Howards End
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"Always interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I've seen 'em off'en. He warn't one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about 'em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost 'em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don't know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house."
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Mr. Blathers
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don't she?" demanded Mr. Blathers.<|quote|>"Always interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I've seen 'em off'en. He warn't one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about 'em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost 'em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don't know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house."</|quote|>I see him, Spyers,' "said
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course the lady knows that, don't she?" demanded Mr. Blathers.<|quote|>"Always interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I've seen 'em off'en. He warn't one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about 'em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost 'em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don't know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house."</|quote|>I see him, Spyers,' "said Chickweed," pass my house yesterday
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that?" inquired Rose: anxious to encourage any symptoms of good-humour in the unwelcome visitors. "It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon," said Blathers. "This here Conkey Chickweed" "Conkey means Nosey, ma'am," interposed Duff. "Of course the lady knows that, don't she?" demanded Mr. Blathers.<|quote|>"Always interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I've seen 'em off'en. He warn't one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about 'em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost 'em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don't know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house."</|quote|>I see him, Spyers,' "said Chickweed," pass my house yesterday morning,' Why didn't you up, and collar him!' "says Spyers." I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,' "says the poor man;" but we're sure to have him; for between
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Pet, I tell you. Conkey hadn't any more to do with it than I had." "Get out!" retorted Mr. Blathers; "I know better. Do you mind that time when Conkey was robbed of his money, though? What a start that was! Better than any novel-book _I_ ever see!" "What was that?" inquired Rose: anxious to encourage any symptoms of good-humour in the unwelcome visitors. "It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon," said Blathers. "This here Conkey Chickweed" "Conkey means Nosey, ma'am," interposed Duff. "Of course the lady knows that, don't she?" demanded Mr. Blathers.<|quote|>"Always interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I've seen 'em off'en. He warn't one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about 'em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost 'em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don't know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house."</|quote|>I see him, Spyers,' "said Chickweed," pass my house yesterday morning,' Why didn't you up, and collar him!' "says Spyers." I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,' "says the poor man;" but we're sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o'clock at night he passed again.' "Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house
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slipped out of the room. "Ah!" said Mr. Blathers: not holding his wine-glass by the stem, but grasping the bottom between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand: and placing it in front of his chest; "I have seen a good many pieces of business like this, in my time, ladies." "That crack down in the back lane at Edmonton, Blathers," said Mr. Duff, assisting his colleague's memory. "That was something in this way, warn't it?" rejoined Mr. Blathers; "that was done by Conkey Chickweed, that was." "You always gave that to him" replied Duff. "It was the Family Pet, I tell you. Conkey hadn't any more to do with it than I had." "Get out!" retorted Mr. Blathers; "I know better. Do you mind that time when Conkey was robbed of his money, though? What a start that was! Better than any novel-book _I_ ever see!" "What was that?" inquired Rose: anxious to encourage any symptoms of good-humour in the unwelcome visitors. "It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon," said Blathers. "This here Conkey Chickweed" "Conkey means Nosey, ma'am," interposed Duff. "Of course the lady knows that, don't she?" demanded Mr. Blathers.<|quote|>"Always interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I've seen 'em off'en. He warn't one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about 'em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost 'em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don't know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house."</|quote|>I see him, Spyers,' "said Chickweed," pass my house yesterday morning,' Why didn't you up, and collar him!' "says Spyers." I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,' "says the poor man;" but we're sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o'clock at night he passed again.' "Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment's notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out," Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!' "Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars out," Thieves!' "and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd;
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style of work is first-rate." "Wery pretty indeed it is," remarked Duff, in an undertone. "There was two of 'em in it," continued Blathers; "and they had a boy with 'em; that's plain from the size of the window. That's all to be said at present. We'll see this lad that you've got upstairs at once, if you please." "Perhaps they will take something to drink first, Mrs. Maylie?" said the doctor: his face brightening, as if some new thought had occurred to him. "Oh! to be sure!" exclaimed Rose, eagerly. "You shall have it immediately, if you will." "Why, thank you, miss!" said Blathers, drawing his coat-sleeve across his mouth; "it's dry work, this sort of duty. Anythink that's handy, miss; don't put yourself out of the way, on our accounts." "What shall it be?" asked the doctor, following the young lady to the sideboard. "A little drop of spirits, master, if it's all the same," replied Blathers. "It's a cold ride from London, ma'am; and I always find that spirits comes home warmer to the feelings." This interesting communication was addressed to Mrs. Maylie, who received it very graciously. While it was being conveyed to her, the doctor slipped out of the room. "Ah!" said Mr. Blathers: not holding his wine-glass by the stem, but grasping the bottom between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand: and placing it in front of his chest; "I have seen a good many pieces of business like this, in my time, ladies." "That crack down in the back lane at Edmonton, Blathers," said Mr. Duff, assisting his colleague's memory. "That was something in this way, warn't it?" rejoined Mr. Blathers; "that was done by Conkey Chickweed, that was." "You always gave that to him" replied Duff. "It was the Family Pet, I tell you. Conkey hadn't any more to do with it than I had." "Get out!" retorted Mr. Blathers; "I know better. Do you mind that time when Conkey was robbed of his money, though? What a start that was! Better than any novel-book _I_ ever see!" "What was that?" inquired Rose: anxious to encourage any symptoms of good-humour in the unwelcome visitors. "It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon," said Blathers. "This here Conkey Chickweed" "Conkey means Nosey, ma'am," interposed Duff. "Of course the lady knows that, don't she?" demanded Mr. Blathers.<|quote|>"Always interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I've seen 'em off'en. He warn't one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about 'em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost 'em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don't know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house."</|quote|>I see him, Spyers,' "said Chickweed," pass my house yesterday morning,' Why didn't you up, and collar him!' "says Spyers." I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,' "says the poor man;" but we're sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o'clock at night he passed again.' "Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment's notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out," Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!' "Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars out," Thieves!' "and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in;" Which is the man?' D me!' "says Chickweed," I've lost him again!' "It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn't to be seen nowhere, so they went back to the public-house. Next morning, Spyers took his old place, and looked out, from behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch over his eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn't help shutting 'em, to ease 'em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweed a-roaring out," Here he is!' "Off he starts once more, with Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a run as the yesterday's one, the man's lost again! This was done, once or twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief." "What did Jem Spyers say?" inquired the doctor; who had returned to the room shortly after the commencement of the story. "Jem Spyers," resumed the officer, "for a long time said nothing at all, and listened to
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impetuosity; "but still I do not see anything in it, to criminate the poor child." "No," replied the doctor; "of course not! Bless the bright eyes of your sex! They never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side of any question; and that is, always, the one which first presents itself to them." Having given vent to this result of experience, the doctor put his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down the room with even greater rapidity than before. "The more I think of it," said the doctor, "the more I see that it will occasion endless trouble and difficulty if we put these men in possession of the boy's real story. I am certain it will not be believed; and even if they can do nothing to him in the end, still the dragging it forward, and giving publicity to all the doubts that will be cast upon it, must interfere, materially, with your benevolent plan of rescuing him from misery." "Oh! what is to be done?" cried Rose. "Dear, dear! why did they send for these people?" "Why, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Maylie. "I would not have had them here, for the world." "All I know is," said Mr. Losberne, at last: sitting down with a kind of desperate calmness, "that we must try and carry it off with a bold face. The object is a good one, and that must be our excuse. The boy has strong symptoms of fever upon him, and is in no condition to be talked to any more; that's one comfort. We must make the best of it; and if bad be the best, it is no fault of ours. Come in!" "Well, master," said Blathers, entering the room followed by his colleague, and making the door fast, before he said any more. "This warn't a put-up thing." "And what the devil's a put-up thing?" demanded the doctor, impatiently. "We call it a put-up robbery, ladies," said Blathers, turning to them, as if he pitied their ignorance, but had a contempt for the doctor's, "when the servants is in it." "Nobody suspected them, in this case," said Mrs. Maylie. "Wery likely not, ma'am," replied Blathers; "but they might have been in it, for all that." "More likely on that wery account," said Duff. "We find it was a town hand," said Blathers, continuing his report; "for the style of work is first-rate." "Wery pretty indeed it is," remarked Duff, in an undertone. "There was two of 'em in it," continued Blathers; "and they had a boy with 'em; that's plain from the size of the window. That's all to be said at present. We'll see this lad that you've got upstairs at once, if you please." "Perhaps they will take something to drink first, Mrs. Maylie?" said the doctor: his face brightening, as if some new thought had occurred to him. "Oh! to be sure!" exclaimed Rose, eagerly. "You shall have it immediately, if you will." "Why, thank you, miss!" said Blathers, drawing his coat-sleeve across his mouth; "it's dry work, this sort of duty. Anythink that's handy, miss; don't put yourself out of the way, on our accounts." "What shall it be?" asked the doctor, following the young lady to the sideboard. "A little drop of spirits, master, if it's all the same," replied Blathers. "It's a cold ride from London, ma'am; and I always find that spirits comes home warmer to the feelings." This interesting communication was addressed to Mrs. Maylie, who received it very graciously. While it was being conveyed to her, the doctor slipped out of the room. "Ah!" said Mr. Blathers: not holding his wine-glass by the stem, but grasping the bottom between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand: and placing it in front of his chest; "I have seen a good many pieces of business like this, in my time, ladies." "That crack down in the back lane at Edmonton, Blathers," said Mr. Duff, assisting his colleague's memory. "That was something in this way, warn't it?" rejoined Mr. Blathers; "that was done by Conkey Chickweed, that was." "You always gave that to him" replied Duff. "It was the Family Pet, I tell you. Conkey hadn't any more to do with it than I had." "Get out!" retorted Mr. Blathers; "I know better. Do you mind that time when Conkey was robbed of his money, though? What a start that was! Better than any novel-book _I_ ever see!" "What was that?" inquired Rose: anxious to encourage any symptoms of good-humour in the unwelcome visitors. "It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon," said Blathers. "This here Conkey Chickweed" "Conkey means Nosey, ma'am," interposed Duff. "Of course the lady knows that, don't she?" demanded Mr. Blathers.<|quote|>"Always interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I've seen 'em off'en. He warn't one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about 'em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost 'em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don't know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house."</|quote|>I see him, Spyers,' "said Chickweed," pass my house yesterday morning,' Why didn't you up, and collar him!' "says Spyers." I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,' "says the poor man;" but we're sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o'clock at night he passed again.' "Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment's notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out," Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!' "Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars out," Thieves!' "and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in;" Which is the man?' D me!' "says Chickweed," I've lost him again!' "It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn't to be seen nowhere, so they went back to the public-house. Next morning, Spyers took his old place, and looked out, from behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch over his eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn't help shutting 'em, to ease 'em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweed a-roaring out," Here he is!' "Off he starts once more, with Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a run as the yesterday's one, the man's lost again! This was done, once or twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief." "What did Jem Spyers say?" inquired the doctor; who had returned to the room shortly after the commencement of the story. "Jem Spyers," resumed the officer, "for a long time said nothing at all, and listened to everything without seeming to, which showed he understood his business. But, one morning, he walked into the bar, and taking out his snuffbox, says" Chickweed, I've found out who done this here robbery.' Have you?' "said Chickweed." Oh, my dear Spyers, only let me have wengeance, and I shall die contented! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the villain!' Come!' "said Spyers, offering him a pinch of snuff," none of that gammon! You did it yourself.' "So he had; and a good bit of money he had made by it, too; and nobody would never have found it out, if he hadn't been so precious anxious to keep up appearances!" said Mr. Blathers, putting down his wine-glass, and clinking the handcuffs together. "Very curious, indeed," observed the doctor. "Now, if you please, you can walk upstairs." "If _you_ please, sir," returned Mr. Blathers. Closely following Mr. Losberne, the two officers ascended to Oliver's bedroom; Mr. Giles preceding the party, with a lighted candle. Oliver had been dozing; but looked worse, and was more feverish than he had appeared yet. Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up in bed for a minute or so; and looked at the strangers without at all understanding what was going forward in fact, without seeming to recollect where he was, or what had been passing. "This," said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemence notwithstanding, "this is the lad, who, being accidently wounded by a spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d' ye-call-him's grounds, at the back here, comes to the house for assistance this morning, and is immediately laid hold of and maltreated, by that ingenious gentleman with the candle in his hand: who has placed his life in considerable danger, as I can professionally certify." Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus recommended to their notice. The bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity. "You don't mean to deny that, I suppose?" said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again. "It was all done for the for the best, sir," answered Giles. "I am sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn't have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir." "Thought it was what boy?" inquired the senior officer. "The housebreaker's boy,
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if you please." "Perhaps they will take something to drink first, Mrs. Maylie?" said the doctor: his face brightening, as if some new thought had occurred to him. "Oh! to be sure!" exclaimed Rose, eagerly. "You shall have it immediately, if you will." "Why, thank you, miss!" said Blathers, drawing his coat-sleeve across his mouth; "it's dry work, this sort of duty. Anythink that's handy, miss; don't put yourself out of the way, on our accounts." "What shall it be?" asked the doctor, following the young lady to the sideboard. "A little drop of spirits, master, if it's all the same," replied Blathers. "It's a cold ride from London, ma'am; and I always find that spirits comes home warmer to the feelings." This interesting communication was addressed to Mrs. Maylie, who received it very graciously. While it was being conveyed to her, the doctor slipped out of the room. "Ah!" said Mr. Blathers: not holding his wine-glass by the stem, but grasping the bottom between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand: and placing it in front of his chest; "I have seen a good many pieces of business like this, in my time, ladies." "That crack down in the back lane at Edmonton, Blathers," said Mr. Duff, assisting his colleague's memory. "That was something in this way, warn't it?" rejoined Mr. Blathers; "that was done by Conkey Chickweed, that was." "You always gave that to him" replied Duff. "It was the Family Pet, I tell you. Conkey hadn't any more to do with it than I had." "Get out!" retorted Mr. Blathers; "I know better. Do you mind that time when Conkey was robbed of his money, though? What a start that was! Better than any novel-book _I_ ever see!" "What was that?" inquired Rose: anxious to encourage any symptoms of good-humour in the unwelcome visitors. "It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon," said Blathers. "This here Conkey Chickweed" "Conkey means Nosey, ma'am," interposed Duff. "Of course the lady knows that, don't she?" demanded Mr. Blathers.<|quote|>"Always interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I've seen 'em off'en. He warn't one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about 'em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost 'em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don't know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house."</|quote|>I see him, Spyers,' "said Chickweed," pass my house yesterday morning,' Why didn't you up, and collar him!' "says Spyers." I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,' "says the poor man;" but we're sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o'clock at night he passed again.' "Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment's notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out," Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!' "Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars out," Thieves!' "and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in;" Which is the man?' D me!' "says Chickweed," I've lost him again!' "It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn't to be seen nowhere, so they went back to the public-house. Next morning, Spyers took his old place, and looked out, from behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch over his eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn't help shutting 'em, to ease 'em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweed a-roaring out," Here he is!' "Off he starts once more, with Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a run as the yesterday's one, the man's lost again! This was done, once or twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief." "What did Jem Spyers say?" inquired the doctor; who had returned to the room shortly after the commencement of the story. "Jem Spyers," resumed the officer, "for a long time said nothing at all, and listened to everything without seeming to, which showed he understood his business. But, one morning, he walked into the bar, and taking out his snuffbox, says" Chickweed, I've found out who done this here robbery.' Have you?' "said Chickweed." Oh, my dear Spyers, only let me have wengeance, and I shall die contented! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the villain!' Come!' "said Spyers, offering him a pinch of snuff," none of that gammon! You did it yourself.' "So he had; and a good bit of money he had made by it, too; and nobody would never have found it out, if he hadn't been so precious anxious to keep up appearances!" said Mr. Blathers, putting down his wine-glass, and clinking the handcuffs together. "Very curious, indeed," observed the doctor. "Now, if you please, you can walk upstairs." "If _you_ please, sir," returned Mr. Blathers. Closely following Mr. Losberne, the two officers ascended to Oliver's bedroom; Mr. Giles preceding the party, with a lighted candle. Oliver had been dozing; but looked worse, and was more feverish than he had appeared yet. Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up
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Oliver Twist
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"That'll bring him about, or nothing will."
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Young Thomas
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easier with me than this."<|quote|>"That'll bring him about, or nothing will."</|quote|>After waiting for some answering
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was sure you would be easier with me than this."<|quote|>"That'll bring him about, or nothing will."</|quote|>After waiting for some answering remark, and getting none, Tom
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you are his favourite; he'll do anything for you. When he says to me what I don't like, I shall say to him," "My sister Loo will be hurt and disappointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always used to tell me she was sure you would be easier with me than this."<|quote|>"That'll bring him about, or nothing will."</|quote|>After waiting for some answering remark, and getting none, Tom wearily relapsed into the present time, and twined himself yawning round and about the rails of his chair, and rumpled his head more and more, until he suddenly looked up, and asked: "Have you gone to sleep, Loo?" "No, Tom.
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it out to be the shadow of their subject, and of its lowering association with their future. "What is your great mode of smoothing and managing, Tom? Is it a secret?" "Oh!" said Tom, "if it is a secret, it's not far off. It's you. You are his little pet, you are his favourite; he'll do anything for you. When he says to me what I don't like, I shall say to him," "My sister Loo will be hurt and disappointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always used to tell me she was sure you would be easier with me than this."<|quote|>"That'll bring him about, or nothing will."</|quote|>After waiting for some answering remark, and getting none, Tom wearily relapsed into the present time, and twined himself yawning round and about the rails of his chair, and rumpled his head more and more, until he suddenly looked up, and asked: "Have you gone to sleep, Loo?" "No, Tom. I am looking at the fire." "You seem to find more to look at in it than ever I could find," said Tom. "Another of the advantages, I suppose, of being a girl." "Tom," enquired his sister, slowly, and in a curious tone, as if she were reading what she
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have been brought up." "But don't disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks, and is a great deal rougher, and not half so kind." "Oh!" said Tom, laughing; "I don't mind that. I shall very well know how to manage and smooth old Bounderby!" Their shadows were defined upon the wall, but those of the high presses in the room were all blended together on the wall and on the ceiling, as if the brother and sister were overhung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagination if such treason could have been there might have made it out to be the shadow of their subject, and of its lowering association with their future. "What is your great mode of smoothing and managing, Tom? Is it a secret?" "Oh!" said Tom, "if it is a secret, it's not far off. It's you. You are his little pet, you are his favourite; he'll do anything for you. When he says to me what I don't like, I shall say to him," "My sister Loo will be hurt and disappointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always used to tell me she was sure you would be easier with me than this."<|quote|>"That'll bring him about, or nothing will."</|quote|>After waiting for some answering remark, and getting none, Tom wearily relapsed into the present time, and twined himself yawning round and about the rails of his chair, and rumpled his head more and more, until he suddenly looked up, and asked: "Have you gone to sleep, Loo?" "No, Tom. I am looking at the fire." "You seem to find more to look at in it than ever I could find," said Tom. "Another of the advantages, I suppose, of being a girl." "Tom," enquired his sister, slowly, and in a curious tone, as if she were reading what she asked in the fire, and it was not quite plainly written there, "do you look forward with any satisfaction to this change to Mr. Bounderby's?" "Why, there's one thing to be said of it," returned Tom, pushing his chair from him, and standing up; "it will be getting away from home." "There is one thing to be said of it," Louisa repeated in her former curious tone; "it will be getting away from home. Yes." "Not but what I shall be very unwilling, both to leave you, Loo, and to leave you here. But I must go, you know, whether
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dark corner: "it's a great pity, Tom. It's very unfortunate for both of us." "Oh! You," said Tom; "you are a girl, Loo, and a girl comes out of it better than a boy does. I don't miss anything in you. You are the only pleasure I have you can brighten even this place and you can always lead me as you like." "You are a dear brother, Tom; and while you think I can do such things, I don't so much mind knowing better. Though I do know better, Tom, and am very sorry for it." She came and kissed him, and went back into her corner again. "I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear so much about," said Tom, spitefully setting his teeth, "and all the Figures, and all the people who found them out: and I wish I could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder under them, and blow them all up together! However, when I go to live with old Bounderby, I'll have my revenge." "Your revenge, Tom?" "I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see something, and hear something. I'll recompense myself for the way in which I have been brought up." "But don't disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks, and is a great deal rougher, and not half so kind." "Oh!" said Tom, laughing; "I don't mind that. I shall very well know how to manage and smooth old Bounderby!" Their shadows were defined upon the wall, but those of the high presses in the room were all blended together on the wall and on the ceiling, as if the brother and sister were overhung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagination if such treason could have been there might have made it out to be the shadow of their subject, and of its lowering association with their future. "What is your great mode of smoothing and managing, Tom? Is it a secret?" "Oh!" said Tom, "if it is a secret, it's not far off. It's you. You are his little pet, you are his favourite; he'll do anything for you. When he says to me what I don't like, I shall say to him," "My sister Loo will be hurt and disappointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always used to tell me she was sure you would be easier with me than this."<|quote|>"That'll bring him about, or nothing will."</|quote|>After waiting for some answering remark, and getting none, Tom wearily relapsed into the present time, and twined himself yawning round and about the rails of his chair, and rumpled his head more and more, until he suddenly looked up, and asked: "Have you gone to sleep, Loo?" "No, Tom. I am looking at the fire." "You seem to find more to look at in it than ever I could find," said Tom. "Another of the advantages, I suppose, of being a girl." "Tom," enquired his sister, slowly, and in a curious tone, as if she were reading what she asked in the fire, and it was not quite plainly written there, "do you look forward with any satisfaction to this change to Mr. Bounderby's?" "Why, there's one thing to be said of it," returned Tom, pushing his chair from him, and standing up; "it will be getting away from home." "There is one thing to be said of it," Louisa repeated in her former curious tone; "it will be getting away from home. Yes." "Not but what I shall be very unwilling, both to leave you, Loo, and to leave you here. But I must go, you know, whether I like it or not; and I had better go where I can take with me some advantage of your influence, than where I should lose it altogether. Don't you see?" "Yes, Tom." The answer was so long in coming, though there was no indecision in it, that Tom went and leaned on the back of her chair, to contemplate the fire which so engrossed her, from her point of view, and see what he could make of it. "Except that it is a fire," said Tom, "it looks to me as stupid and blank as everything else looks. What do you see in it? Not a circus?" "I don't see anything in it, Tom, particularly. But since I have been looking at it, I have been wondering about you and me, grown up." "Wondering again!" said Tom. "I have such unmanageable thoughts," returned his sister, "that they _will_ wonder." "Then I beg of you, Louisa," said Mrs. Gradgrind, who had opened the door without being heard, "to do nothing of that description, for goodness' sake, you inconsiderate girl, or I shall never hear the last of it from your father. And, Thomas, it is really shameful, with my poor
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her. Already she's getting as pale as wax, and as heavy as I am." Young Thomas expressed these sentiments sitting astride of a chair before the fire, with his arms on the back, and his sulky face on his arms. His sister sat in the darker corner by the fireside, now looking at him, now looking at the bright sparks as they dropped upon the hearth. "As to me," said Tom, tumbling his hair all manner of ways with his sulky hands, "I am a Donkey, that's what _I_ am. I am as obstinate as one, I am more stupid than one, I get as much pleasure as one, and I should like to kick like one." "Not me, I hope, Tom?" "No, Loo; I wouldn't hurt _you_. I made an exception of you at first. I don't know what this jolly old Jaundiced Jail," Tom had paused to find a sufficiently complimentary and expressive name for the parental roof, and seemed to relieve his mind for a moment by the strong alliteration of this one, "would be without you." "Indeed, Tom? Do you really and truly say so?" "Why, of course I do. What's the use of talking about it!" returned Tom, chafing his face on his coat-sleeve, as if to mortify his flesh, and have it in unison with his spirit. "Because, Tom," said his sister, after silently watching the sparks awhile, "as I get older, and nearer growing up, I often sit wondering here, and think how unfortunate it is for me that I can't reconcile you to home better than I am able to do. I don't know what other girls know. I can't play to you, or sing to you. I can't talk to you so as to lighten your mind, for I never see any amusing sights or read any amusing books that it would be a pleasure or a relief to you to talk about, when you are tired." "Well, no more do I. I am as bad as you in that respect; and I am a Mule too, which you're not. If father was determined to make me either a Prig or a Mule, and I am not a Prig, why, it stands to reason, I must be a Mule. And so I am," said Tom, desperately. "It's a great pity," said Louisa, after another pause, and speaking thoughtfully out of her dark corner: "it's a great pity, Tom. It's very unfortunate for both of us." "Oh! You," said Tom; "you are a girl, Loo, and a girl comes out of it better than a boy does. I don't miss anything in you. You are the only pleasure I have you can brighten even this place and you can always lead me as you like." "You are a dear brother, Tom; and while you think I can do such things, I don't so much mind knowing better. Though I do know better, Tom, and am very sorry for it." She came and kissed him, and went back into her corner again. "I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear so much about," said Tom, spitefully setting his teeth, "and all the Figures, and all the people who found them out: and I wish I could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder under them, and blow them all up together! However, when I go to live with old Bounderby, I'll have my revenge." "Your revenge, Tom?" "I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see something, and hear something. I'll recompense myself for the way in which I have been brought up." "But don't disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks, and is a great deal rougher, and not half so kind." "Oh!" said Tom, laughing; "I don't mind that. I shall very well know how to manage and smooth old Bounderby!" Their shadows were defined upon the wall, but those of the high presses in the room were all blended together on the wall and on the ceiling, as if the brother and sister were overhung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagination if such treason could have been there might have made it out to be the shadow of their subject, and of its lowering association with their future. "What is your great mode of smoothing and managing, Tom? Is it a secret?" "Oh!" said Tom, "if it is a secret, it's not far off. It's you. You are his little pet, you are his favourite; he'll do anything for you. When he says to me what I don't like, I shall say to him," "My sister Loo will be hurt and disappointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always used to tell me she was sure you would be easier with me than this."<|quote|>"That'll bring him about, or nothing will."</|quote|>After waiting for some answering remark, and getting none, Tom wearily relapsed into the present time, and twined himself yawning round and about the rails of his chair, and rumpled his head more and more, until he suddenly looked up, and asked: "Have you gone to sleep, Loo?" "No, Tom. I am looking at the fire." "You seem to find more to look at in it than ever I could find," said Tom. "Another of the advantages, I suppose, of being a girl." "Tom," enquired his sister, slowly, and in a curious tone, as if she were reading what she asked in the fire, and it was not quite plainly written there, "do you look forward with any satisfaction to this change to Mr. Bounderby's?" "Why, there's one thing to be said of it," returned Tom, pushing his chair from him, and standing up; "it will be getting away from home." "There is one thing to be said of it," Louisa repeated in her former curious tone; "it will be getting away from home. Yes." "Not but what I shall be very unwilling, both to leave you, Loo, and to leave you here. But I must go, you know, whether I like it or not; and I had better go where I can take with me some advantage of your influence, than where I should lose it altogether. Don't you see?" "Yes, Tom." The answer was so long in coming, though there was no indecision in it, that Tom went and leaned on the back of her chair, to contemplate the fire which so engrossed her, from her point of view, and see what he could make of it. "Except that it is a fire," said Tom, "it looks to me as stupid and blank as everything else looks. What do you see in it? Not a circus?" "I don't see anything in it, Tom, particularly. But since I have been looking at it, I have been wondering about you and me, grown up." "Wondering again!" said Tom. "I have such unmanageable thoughts," returned his sister, "that they _will_ wonder." "Then I beg of you, Louisa," said Mrs. Gradgrind, who had opened the door without being heard, "to do nothing of that description, for goodness' sake, you inconsiderate girl, or I shall never hear the last of it from your father. And, Thomas, it is really shameful, with my poor head continually wearing me out, that a boy brought up as you have been, and whose education has cost what yours has, should be found encouraging his sister to wonder, when he knows his father has expressly said that she is not to do it." Louisa denied Tom's participation in the offence; but her mother stopped her with the conclusive answer, "Louisa, don't tell me, in my state of health; for unless you had been encouraged, it is morally and physically impossible that you could have done it." "I was encouraged by nothing, mother, but by looking at the red sparks dropping out of the fire, and whitening and dying. It made me think, after all, how short my life would be, and how little I could hope to do in it." "Nonsense!" said Mrs. Gradgrind, rendered almost energetic. "Nonsense! Don't stand there and tell me such stuff, Louisa, to my face, when you know very well that if it was ever to reach your father's ears I should never hear the last of it. After all the trouble that has been taken with you! After the lectures you have attended, and the experiments you have seen! After I have heard you myself, when the whole of my right side has been benumbed, going on with your master about combustion, and calcination, and calorification, and I may say every kind of ation that could drive a poor invalid distracted, to hear you talking in this absurd way about sparks and ashes! I wish," whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, taking a chair, and discharging her strongest point before succumbing under these mere shadows of facts, "yes, I really _do_ wish that I had never had a family, and then you would have known what it was to do without me!" CHAPTER IX SISSY'S PROGRESS SISSY JUPE had not an easy time of it, between Mr. M'Choakumchild and Mrs. Gradgrind, and was not without strong impulses, in the first months of her probation, to run away. It hailed facts all day long so very hard, and life in general was opened to her as such a closely ruled ciphering-book, that assuredly she would have run away, but for only one restraint. It is lamentable to think of; but this restraint was the result of no arithmetical process, was self-imposed in defiance of all calculation, and went dead against any table of probabilities that any
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you think I can do such things, I don't so much mind knowing better. Though I do know better, Tom, and am very sorry for it." She came and kissed him, and went back into her corner again. "I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear so much about," said Tom, spitefully setting his teeth, "and all the Figures, and all the people who found them out: and I wish I could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder under them, and blow them all up together! However, when I go to live with old Bounderby, I'll have my revenge." "Your revenge, Tom?" "I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see something, and hear something. I'll recompense myself for the way in which I have been brought up." "But don't disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks, and is a great deal rougher, and not half so kind." "Oh!" said Tom, laughing; "I don't mind that. I shall very well know how to manage and smooth old Bounderby!" Their shadows were defined upon the wall, but those of the high presses in the room were all blended together on the wall and on the ceiling, as if the brother and sister were overhung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagination if such treason could have been there might have made it out to be the shadow of their subject, and of its lowering association with their future. "What is your great mode of smoothing and managing, Tom? Is it a secret?" "Oh!" said Tom, "if it is a secret, it's not far off. It's you. You are his little pet, you are his favourite; he'll do anything for you. When he says to me what I don't like, I shall say to him," "My sister Loo will be hurt and disappointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always used to tell me she was sure you would be easier with me than this."<|quote|>"That'll bring him about, or nothing will."</|quote|>After waiting for some answering remark, and getting none, Tom wearily relapsed into the present time, and twined himself yawning round and about the rails of his chair, and rumpled his head more and more, until he suddenly looked up, and asked: "Have you gone to sleep, Loo?" "No, Tom. I am looking at the fire." "You seem to find more to look at in it than ever I could find," said Tom. "Another of the advantages, I suppose, of being a girl." "Tom," enquired his sister, slowly, and in a curious tone, as if she were reading what she asked in the fire, and it was not quite plainly written there, "do you look forward with any satisfaction to this change to Mr. Bounderby's?" "Why, there's one thing to be said of it," returned Tom, pushing his chair from him, and standing up; "it will be getting away from home." "There is one thing to be said of it," Louisa repeated in her former curious tone; "it will be getting away from home. Yes." "Not but what I shall be very unwilling, both to leave you, Loo, and to leave you here. But I must go, you know, whether I like it or not; and I had better go where I can take with me some advantage of your influence, than where I should lose it altogether. Don't you see?" "Yes, Tom." The answer was so long in coming, though there was no indecision in it, that Tom went and leaned on the back of her chair, to contemplate the fire which so engrossed her, from her point of view, and see what he could
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Hard Times
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"You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate."
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Henry
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may be strong." He answered:<|quote|>"You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate."</|quote|>And this morning he concentrated
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the space in which you may be strong." He answered:<|quote|>"You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate."</|quote|>And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met
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about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh: "My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing." "It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered:<|quote|>"You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate."</|quote|>And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she
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no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh: "My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing." "It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered:<|quote|>"You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate."</|quote|>And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister s in the other. "Here we are. Good-morning, Helen." Helen replied, "Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox." "Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of
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be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die. Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good "talking." By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty. But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh: "My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing." "It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered:<|quote|>"You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate."</|quote|>And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister s in the other. "Here we are. Good-morning, Helen." Helen replied, "Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox." "Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young." "I have had a letter too. Not a nice one--I want to talk it over with you" "; for Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her word; the triangle of sex was broken for ever. "Thanks to your hint, he s clearing out of the Porphyrion." "Not a bad business that Porphyrion," he said absently, as he took his own letter out of his pocket. "Not a BAD--" she exclaimed, dropping his hand. "Surely, on Chelsea Embankment--" "Here s our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine rhododendrons. Good-morning, Frau Liesecke; we
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"I am not a fellow who bothers about my own inside." Outwardly he was cheerful, reliable, and brave; but within, all had reverted to chaos, ruled, so far as it was ruled at all, by an incomplete asceticism. Whether as boy, husband, or widower, he had always the sneaking belief that bodily passion is bad, a belief that is desirable only when held passionately. Religion had confirmed him. The words that were read aloud on Sunday to him and to other respectable men were the words that had once kindled the souls of St. Catherine and St. Francis into a white-hot hatred of the carnal. He could not be as the saints and love the Infinite with a seraphic ardour, but he could be a little ashamed of loving a wife. Amabat, amare timebat. And it was here that Margaret hoped to help him. It did not seem so difficult. She need trouble him with no gift of her own. She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die. Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good "talking." By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty. But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh: "My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing." "It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered:<|quote|>"You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate."</|quote|>And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister s in the other. "Here we are. Good-morning, Helen." Helen replied, "Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox." "Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young." "I have had a letter too. Not a nice one--I want to talk it over with you" "; for Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her word; the triangle of sex was broken for ever. "Thanks to your hint, he s clearing out of the Porphyrion." "Not a bad business that Porphyrion," he said absently, as he took his own letter out of his pocket. "Not a BAD--" she exclaimed, dropping his hand. "Surely, on Chelsea Embankment--" "Here s our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine rhododendrons. Good-morning, Frau Liesecke; we manage to grow flowers in England, don t we?" "Not a BAD business?" "No. My letter s about Howards End. Bryce has been ordered abroad, and wants to sublet it--I am far from sure that I shall give him permission. There was no clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting is a mistake. If he can find me another tenant, whom I consider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Morning, Schlegel. Don t you think that s better than subletting?" Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered her past the whole party to the seaward side of the house. Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which must have yearned all through the centuries for just such a watering-place as Swanage to be built on its margin. The waves were colourless, and the Bournemouth steamer gave a further touch of insipidity, drawn up against the pier and hooting wildly for excursionists. "When there is a sublet I find that damage--" "Do excuse me, but about the Porphyrion. I don t feel easy--might I just bother you, Henry?" Her manner was so serious that he stopped, and asked her a little sharply what she wanted. "You said
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"It s all very well to turn the conversation, but father would never have dreamt of marrying as long as Evie was there to make him comfortable. But you must needs start match-making. Besides, Cahill s too old." "Of course, if you re going to be rude to Uncle Percy." "Miss Schlegel always meant to get hold of Howards End, and, thanks to you, she s got it." "I call the way you twist things round and make them hang together most unfair. You couldn t have been nastier if you d caught me flirting. Could he, diddums?" "We re in a bad hole, and must make the best of it. I shall answer the pater s letter civilly. He s evidently anxious to do the decent thing. But I do not intend to forget these Schlegels in a hurry. As long as they re on their best behaviour--Dolly, are you listening?--we ll behave, too. But if I find them giving themselves airs or monopolising my father, or at all ill-treating him, or worrying him with their artistic beastliness, I intend to put my foot down, yes, firmly. Taking my mother s place! Heaven knows what poor old Paul will say when the news reaches him." The interlude closes. It has taken place in Charles s garden at Hilton. He and Dolly are sitting in deckchairs, and their motor is regarding them placidly from its garage across the lawn. A short-frocked edition of Charles also regards them placidly; a perambulator edition is squeaking; a third edition is expected shortly. Nature is turning out Wilcoxes in this peaceful abode, so that they may inherit the earth. CHAPTER XXII Margaret greeted her lord with peculiar tenderness on the morrow. Mature as he was, she might yet be able to help him to the building of the rainbow bridge that should connect the prose in us with the passion. Without it we are meaningless fragments, half monks, half beasts, unconnected arches that have never joined into a man. With it love is born, and alights on the highest curve, glowing against the grey, sober against the fire. Happy the man who sees from either aspect the glory of these outspread wings. The roads of his soul lie clear, and he and his friends shall find easy-going. It was hard-going in the roads of Mr. Wilcox s soul. From boyhood he had neglected them. "I am not a fellow who bothers about my own inside." Outwardly he was cheerful, reliable, and brave; but within, all had reverted to chaos, ruled, so far as it was ruled at all, by an incomplete asceticism. Whether as boy, husband, or widower, he had always the sneaking belief that bodily passion is bad, a belief that is desirable only when held passionately. Religion had confirmed him. The words that were read aloud on Sunday to him and to other respectable men were the words that had once kindled the souls of St. Catherine and St. Francis into a white-hot hatred of the carnal. He could not be as the saints and love the Infinite with a seraphic ardour, but he could be a little ashamed of loving a wife. Amabat, amare timebat. And it was here that Margaret hoped to help him. It did not seem so difficult. She need trouble him with no gift of her own. She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die. Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good "talking." By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty. But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh: "My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing." "It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered:<|quote|>"You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate."</|quote|>And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister s in the other. "Here we are. Good-morning, Helen." Helen replied, "Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox." "Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young." "I have had a letter too. Not a nice one--I want to talk it over with you" "; for Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her word; the triangle of sex was broken for ever. "Thanks to your hint, he s clearing out of the Porphyrion." "Not a bad business that Porphyrion," he said absently, as he took his own letter out of his pocket. "Not a BAD--" she exclaimed, dropping his hand. "Surely, on Chelsea Embankment--" "Here s our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine rhododendrons. Good-morning, Frau Liesecke; we manage to grow flowers in England, don t we?" "Not a BAD business?" "No. My letter s about Howards End. Bryce has been ordered abroad, and wants to sublet it--I am far from sure that I shall give him permission. There was no clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting is a mistake. If he can find me another tenant, whom I consider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Morning, Schlegel. Don t you think that s better than subletting?" Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered her past the whole party to the seaward side of the house. Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which must have yearned all through the centuries for just such a watering-place as Swanage to be built on its margin. The waves were colourless, and the Bournemouth steamer gave a further touch of insipidity, drawn up against the pier and hooting wildly for excursionists. "When there is a sublet I find that damage--" "Do excuse me, but about the Porphyrion. I don t feel easy--might I just bother you, Henry?" Her manner was so serious that he stopped, and asked her a little sharply what she wanted. "You said on Chelsea Embankment, surely, that it was a bad concern, so we advised this clerk to clear out. He writes this morning that he s taken our advice, and now you say it s not a bad concern." "A clerk who clears out of any concern, good or bad, without securing a berth somewhere else first, is a fool, and I ve no pity for him." "He has not done that. He s going into a bank in Camden Town, he says. The salary s much lower, but he hopes to manage--a branch of Dempster s Bank. Is that all right?" "Dempster! Why goodness me, yes." "More right than the Porphyrion?" "Yes, yes, yes; safe as houses--safer." "Very many thanks. I m sorry--if you sublet--?" "If he sublets, I shan t have the same control. In theory there should be no more damage done at Howards End; in practice there will be. Things may be done for which no money can compensate. For instance, I shouldn t want that fine wych-elm spoilt. It hangs--Margaret, we must go and see the old place some time. It s pretty in its way. We ll motor down and have lunch with Charles." "I should enjoy that," said Margaret bravely. "What about next Wednesday?" "Wednesday? No, I couldn t well do that. Aunt Juley expects us to stop here another week at least." "But you can give that up now." "Er--no," said Margaret, after a moment s thought. "Oh, that ll be all right. I ll speak to her." "This visit is a high solemnity. My aunt counts on it year after year. She turns the house upside down for us; she invites our special friends--she scarcely knows Frieda, and we can t leave her on her hands. I missed one day, and she would be so hurt if I didn t stay the full ten." "But I ll say a word to her. Don t you bother." "Henry, I won t go. Don t bully me." "You want to see the house, though?" "Very much--I ve heard so much about it, one way or the other. Aren t there pigs teeth in the wych-elm?" "PIGS TEETH?" "And you chew the bark for toothache." "What a rum notion! Of course not!" "Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree. There are still a great number of sacred trees in England, it seems." But
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only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die. Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good "talking." By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty. But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh: "My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing." "It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered:<|quote|>"You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate."</|quote|>And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister s in the other. "Here we are. Good-morning, Helen." Helen replied, "Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox." "Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young." "I have had a letter too. Not a nice one--I want to talk it over with you" "; for Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her word; the triangle of sex was broken for ever. "Thanks to your hint, he s clearing out of the Porphyrion." "Not a bad business that Porphyrion," he said absently, as he took his own letter out of his pocket. "Not a BAD--" she exclaimed, dropping his hand. "Surely, on Chelsea Embankment--" "Here s our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine rhododendrons. Good-morning, Frau Liesecke; we manage to grow flowers in England, don t we?" "Not a BAD business?" "No. My letter s about Howards End. Bryce has been ordered abroad, and wants to sublet it--I am far from sure that I shall give him permission. There was no clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting is a mistake. If he can find me another tenant, whom I consider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Morning, Schlegel. Don t you think that s better than subletting?" Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered her past the whole party to the seaward side of the house. Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which must have yearned all through the centuries for just such a watering-place as Swanage to be built on its margin. The waves were colourless, and the Bournemouth steamer gave a further touch of insipidity, drawn up against the pier and hooting wildly for excursionists. "When there is a sublet I find that damage--" "Do excuse me, but about the Porphyrion. I don t feel easy--might I just bother you, Henry?" Her manner was so serious that he stopped, and asked her a little sharply what she wanted. "You said on Chelsea Embankment, surely, that it was a bad concern, so we advised this clerk to clear out. He writes this morning that he s taken our advice, and now you say it s not a bad concern." "A clerk who clears out of any concern, good or bad, without securing a berth somewhere else first, is a fool, and I ve no pity for him." "He has not done that. He s going into a bank in Camden Town, he says. The salary s much lower, but he hopes to manage--a branch of
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Howards End
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A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish being between him and the young rabble, he took his eyeglass out of his waistcoat to look for any child he knew by name, and might order off. Phenomenon almost incredible though distinctly seen, what did he then behold but his own metallurgical Louisa, peeping with all her might through a hole in a deal board, and his own mathematical Thomas abasing himself on the ground to catch but a hoof of the graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act! Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind crossed to the spot where his family was thus disgraced, laid his hand upon each erring child, and said:
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No speaker
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rabble from a model school."<|quote|>A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish being between him and the young rabble, he took his eyeglass out of his waistcoat to look for any child he knew by name, and might order off. Phenomenon almost incredible though distinctly seen, what did he then behold but his own metallurgical Louisa, peeping with all her might through a hole in a deal board, and his own mathematical Thomas abasing himself on the ground to catch but a hoof of the graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act! Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind crossed to the spot where his family was thus disgraced, laid his hand upon each erring child, and said:</|quote|>"Louisa!! Thomas!!" Both rose, red
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said he, "attracting the young rabble from a model school."<|quote|>A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish being between him and the young rabble, he took his eyeglass out of his waistcoat to look for any child he knew by name, and might order off. Phenomenon almost incredible though distinctly seen, what did he then behold but his own metallurgical Louisa, peeping with all her might through a hole in a deal board, and his own mathematical Thomas abasing himself on the ground to catch but a hoof of the graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act! Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind crossed to the spot where his family was thus disgraced, laid his hand upon each erring child, and said:</|quote|>"Louisa!! Thomas!!" Both rose, red and disconcerted. But, Louisa looked
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the back of the booth a number of children were congregated in a number of stealthy attitudes, striving to peep in at the hidden glories of the place. This brought him to a stop. "Now, to think of these vagabonds," said he, "attracting the young rabble from a model school."<|quote|>A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish being between him and the young rabble, he took his eyeglass out of his waistcoat to look for any child he knew by name, and might order off. Phenomenon almost incredible though distinctly seen, what did he then behold but his own metallurgical Louisa, peeping with all her might through a hole in a deal board, and his own mathematical Thomas abasing himself on the ground to catch but a hoof of the graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act! Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind crossed to the spot where his family was thus disgraced, laid his hand upon each erring child, and said:</|quote|>"Louisa!! Thomas!!" Both rose, red and disconcerted. But, Louisa looked at her father with more boldness than Thomas did. Indeed, Thomas did not look at him, but gave himself up to be taken home like a machine. "In the name of wonder, idleness, and folly!" said Mr. Gradgrind, leading each
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no heed of these trivialities of course, but passed on as a practical man ought to pass on, either brushing the noisy insects from his thoughts, or consigning them to the House of Correction. But, the turning of the road took him by the back of the booth, and at the back of the booth a number of children were congregated in a number of stealthy attitudes, striving to peep in at the hidden glories of the place. This brought him to a stop. "Now, to think of these vagabonds," said he, "attracting the young rabble from a model school."<|quote|>A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish being between him and the young rabble, he took his eyeglass out of his waistcoat to look for any child he knew by name, and might order off. Phenomenon almost incredible though distinctly seen, what did he then behold but his own metallurgical Louisa, peeping with all her might through a hole in a deal board, and his own mathematical Thomas abasing himself on the ground to catch but a hoof of the graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act! Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind crossed to the spot where his family was thus disgraced, laid his hand upon each erring child, and said:</|quote|>"Louisa!! Thomas!!" Both rose, red and disconcerted. But, Louisa looked at her father with more boldness than Thomas did. Indeed, Thomas did not look at him, but gave himself up to be taken home like a machine. "In the name of wonder, idleness, and folly!" said Mr. Gradgrind, leading each away by a hand; "what do you do here?" "Wanted to see what it was like," returned Louisa, shortly. "What it was like?" "Yes, father." There was an air of jaded sullenness in them both, and particularly in the girl: yet, struggling through the dissatisfaction of her face, there was
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throwing seventy-five hundred-weight in rapid succession backhanded over his head, thus forming a fountain of solid iron in mid-air, a feat never before attempted in this or any other country, and which having elicited such rapturous plaudits from enthusiastic throngs it cannot be withdrawn." The same Signor Jupe was to "enliven the varied performances at frequent intervals with his chaste Shaksperean quips and retorts." Lastly, he was to wind them up by appearing in his favourite character of Mr. William Button, of Tooley Street, in "the highly novel and laughable hippo-comedietta of The Tailor's Journey to Brentford." Thomas Gradgrind took no heed of these trivialities of course, but passed on as a practical man ought to pass on, either brushing the noisy insects from his thoughts, or consigning them to the House of Correction. But, the turning of the road took him by the back of the booth, and at the back of the booth a number of children were congregated in a number of stealthy attitudes, striving to peep in at the hidden glories of the place. This brought him to a stop. "Now, to think of these vagabonds," said he, "attracting the young rabble from a model school."<|quote|>A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish being between him and the young rabble, he took his eyeglass out of his waistcoat to look for any child he knew by name, and might order off. Phenomenon almost incredible though distinctly seen, what did he then behold but his own metallurgical Louisa, peeping with all her might through a hole in a deal board, and his own mathematical Thomas abasing himself on the ground to catch but a hoof of the graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act! Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind crossed to the spot where his family was thus disgraced, laid his hand upon each erring child, and said:</|quote|>"Louisa!! Thomas!!" Both rose, red and disconcerted. But, Louisa looked at her father with more boldness than Thomas did. Indeed, Thomas did not look at him, but gave himself up to be taken home like a machine. "In the name of wonder, idleness, and folly!" said Mr. Gradgrind, leading each away by a hand; "what do you do here?" "Wanted to see what it was like," returned Louisa, shortly. "What it was like?" "Yes, father." There was an air of jaded sullenness in them both, and particularly in the girl: yet, struggling through the dissatisfaction of her face, there was a light with nothing to rest upon, a fire with nothing to burn, a starved imagination keeping life in itself somehow, which brightened its expression. Not with the brightness natural to cheerful youth, but with uncertain, eager, doubtful flashes, which had something painful in them, analogous to the changes on a blind face groping its way. She was a child now, of fifteen or sixteen; but at no distant day would seem to become a woman all at once. Her father thought so as he looked at her. She was pretty. Would have been self-willed (he thought in his eminently
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seize the occasion of alluding to his eminently practical friend Gradgrind. This always pleased the eminently practical friend. He knew it to be his due, but his due was acceptable. He had reached the neutral ground upon the outskirts of the town, which was neither town nor country, and yet was either spoiled, when his ears were invaded by the sound of music. The clashing and banging band attached to the horse-riding establishment, which had there set up its rest in a wooden pavilion, was in full bray. A flag, floating from the summit of the temple, proclaimed to mankind that it was "Sleary's Horse-riding' which claimed their suffrages. Sleary himself, a stout modern statue with a money-box at its elbow, in an ecclesiastical niche of early Gothic architecture, took the money. Miss Josephine Sleary, as some very long and very narrow strips of printed bill announced, was then inaugurating the entertainments with her graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act. Among the other pleasing but always strictly moral wonders which must be seen to be believed, Signor Jupe was that afternoon to "elucidate the diverting accomplishments of his highly trained performing dog Merrylegs." He was also to exhibit "his astounding feat of throwing seventy-five hundred-weight in rapid succession backhanded over his head, thus forming a fountain of solid iron in mid-air, a feat never before attempted in this or any other country, and which having elicited such rapturous plaudits from enthusiastic throngs it cannot be withdrawn." The same Signor Jupe was to "enliven the varied performances at frequent intervals with his chaste Shaksperean quips and retorts." Lastly, he was to wind them up by appearing in his favourite character of Mr. William Button, of Tooley Street, in "the highly novel and laughable hippo-comedietta of The Tailor's Journey to Brentford." Thomas Gradgrind took no heed of these trivialities of course, but passed on as a practical man ought to pass on, either brushing the noisy insects from his thoughts, or consigning them to the House of Correction. But, the turning of the road took him by the back of the booth, and at the back of the booth a number of children were congregated in a number of stealthy attitudes, striving to peep in at the hidden glories of the place. This brought him to a stop. "Now, to think of these vagabonds," said he, "attracting the young rabble from a model school."<|quote|>A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish being between him and the young rabble, he took his eyeglass out of his waistcoat to look for any child he knew by name, and might order off. Phenomenon almost incredible though distinctly seen, what did he then behold but his own metallurgical Louisa, peeping with all her might through a hole in a deal board, and his own mathematical Thomas abasing himself on the ground to catch but a hoof of the graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act! Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind crossed to the spot where his family was thus disgraced, laid his hand upon each erring child, and said:</|quote|>"Louisa!! Thomas!!" Both rose, red and disconcerted. But, Louisa looked at her father with more boldness than Thomas did. Indeed, Thomas did not look at him, but gave himself up to be taken home like a machine. "In the name of wonder, idleness, and folly!" said Mr. Gradgrind, leading each away by a hand; "what do you do here?" "Wanted to see what it was like," returned Louisa, shortly. "What it was like?" "Yes, father." There was an air of jaded sullenness in them both, and particularly in the girl: yet, struggling through the dissatisfaction of her face, there was a light with nothing to rest upon, a fire with nothing to burn, a starved imagination keeping life in itself somehow, which brightened its expression. Not with the brightness natural to cheerful youth, but with uncertain, eager, doubtful flashes, which had something painful in them, analogous to the changes on a blind face groping its way. She was a child now, of fifteen or sixteen; but at no distant day would seem to become a woman all at once. Her father thought so as he looked at her. She was pretty. Would have been self-willed (he thought in his eminently practical way) but for her bringing-up. "Thomas, though I have the fact before me, I find it difficult to believe that you, with your education and resources, should have brought your sister to a scene like this." "I brought _him_, father," said Louisa, quickly. "I asked him to come." "I am sorry to hear it. I am very sorry indeed to hear it. It makes Thomas no better, and it makes you worse, Louisa." She looked at her father again, but no tear fell down her cheek. "You! Thomas and you, to whom the circle of the sciences is open; Thomas and you, who may be said to be replete with facts; Thomas and you, who have been trained to mathematical exactness; Thomas and you, here!" cried Mr. Gradgrind. "In this degraded position! I am amazed." "I was tired, father. I have been tired a long time," said Louisa. "Tired? Of what?" asked the astonished father. "I don't know of what of everything, I think." "Say not another word," returned Mr. Gradgrind. "You are childish. I will hear no more." He did not speak again until they had walked some half-a-mile in silence, when he gravely broke out with: "What
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his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as "an eminently practical" ' father. He had a particular pride in the phrase eminently practical, which was considered to have a special application to him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner was sure to seize the occasion of alluding to his eminently practical friend Gradgrind. This always pleased the eminently practical friend. He knew it to be his due, but his due was acceptable. He had reached the neutral ground upon the outskirts of the town, which was neither town nor country, and yet was either spoiled, when his ears were invaded by the sound of music. The clashing and banging band attached to the horse-riding establishment, which had there set up its rest in a wooden pavilion, was in full bray. A flag, floating from the summit of the temple, proclaimed to mankind that it was "Sleary's Horse-riding' which claimed their suffrages. Sleary himself, a stout modern statue with a money-box at its elbow, in an ecclesiastical niche of early Gothic architecture, took the money. Miss Josephine Sleary, as some very long and very narrow strips of printed bill announced, was then inaugurating the entertainments with her graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act. Among the other pleasing but always strictly moral wonders which must be seen to be believed, Signor Jupe was that afternoon to "elucidate the diverting accomplishments of his highly trained performing dog Merrylegs." He was also to exhibit "his astounding feat of throwing seventy-five hundred-weight in rapid succession backhanded over his head, thus forming a fountain of solid iron in mid-air, a feat never before attempted in this or any other country, and which having elicited such rapturous plaudits from enthusiastic throngs it cannot be withdrawn." The same Signor Jupe was to "enliven the varied performances at frequent intervals with his chaste Shaksperean quips and retorts." Lastly, he was to wind them up by appearing in his favourite character of Mr. William Button, of Tooley Street, in "the highly novel and laughable hippo-comedietta of The Tailor's Journey to Brentford." Thomas Gradgrind took no heed of these trivialities of course, but passed on as a practical man ought to pass on, either brushing the noisy insects from his thoughts, or consigning them to the House of Correction. But, the turning of the road took him by the back of the booth, and at the back of the booth a number of children were congregated in a number of stealthy attitudes, striving to peep in at the hidden glories of the place. This brought him to a stop. "Now, to think of these vagabonds," said he, "attracting the young rabble from a model school."<|quote|>A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish being between him and the young rabble, he took his eyeglass out of his waistcoat to look for any child he knew by name, and might order off. Phenomenon almost incredible though distinctly seen, what did he then behold but his own metallurgical Louisa, peeping with all her might through a hole in a deal board, and his own mathematical Thomas abasing himself on the ground to catch but a hoof of the graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act! Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind crossed to the spot where his family was thus disgraced, laid his hand upon each erring child, and said:</|quote|>"Louisa!! Thomas!!" Both rose, red and disconcerted. But, Louisa looked at her father with more boldness than Thomas did. Indeed, Thomas did not look at him, but gave himself up to be taken home like a machine. "In the name of wonder, idleness, and folly!" said Mr. Gradgrind, leading each away by a hand; "what do you do here?" "Wanted to see what it was like," returned Louisa, shortly. "What it was like?" "Yes, father." There was an air of jaded sullenness in them both, and particularly in the girl: yet, struggling through the dissatisfaction of her face, there was a light with nothing to rest upon, a fire with nothing to burn, a starved imagination keeping life in itself somehow, which brightened its expression. Not with the brightness natural to cheerful youth, but with uncertain, eager, doubtful flashes, which had something painful in them, analogous to the changes on a blind face groping its way. She was a child now, of fifteen or sixteen; but at no distant day would seem to become a woman all at once. Her father thought so as he looked at her. She was pretty. Would have been self-willed (he thought in his eminently practical way) but for her bringing-up. "Thomas, though I have the fact before me, I find it difficult to believe that you, with your education and resources, should have brought your sister to a scene like this." "I brought _him_, father," said Louisa, quickly. "I asked him to come." "I am sorry to hear it. I am very sorry indeed to hear it. It makes Thomas no better, and it makes you worse, Louisa." She looked at her father again, but no tear fell down her cheek. "You! Thomas and you, to whom the circle of the sciences is open; Thomas and you, who may be said to be replete with facts; Thomas and you, who have been trained to mathematical exactness; Thomas and you, here!" cried Mr. Gradgrind. "In this degraded position! I am amazed." "I was tired, father. I have been tired a long time," said Louisa. "Tired? Of what?" asked the astonished father. "I don't know of what of everything, I think." "Say not another word," returned Mr. Gradgrind. "You are childish. I will hear no more." He did not speak again until they had walked some half-a-mile in silence, when he gravely broke out with: "What would your best friends say, Louisa? Do you attach no value to their good opinion? What would Mr. Bounderby say?" At the mention of this name, his daughter stole a look at him, remarkable for its intense and searching character. He saw nothing of it, for before he looked at her, she had again cast down her eyes! "What," he repeated presently, "would Mr. Bounderby say?" All the way to Stone Lodge, as with grave indignation he led the two delinquents home, he repeated at intervals "What would Mr. Bounderby say?" as if Mr. Bounderby had been Mrs. Grundy. CHAPTER IV MR. BOUNDERBY NOT being Mrs. Grundy, who _was_ Mr. Bounderby? Why, Mr. Bounderby was as near being Mr. Gradgrind's bosom friend, as a man perfectly devoid of sentiment can approach that spiritual relationship towards another man perfectly devoid of sentiment. So near was Mr. Bounderby or, if the reader should prefer it, so far off. He was a rich man: banker, merchant, manufacturer, and what not. A big, loud man, with a stare, and a metallic laugh. A man made out of a coarse material, which seemed to have been stretched to make so much of him. A man with a great puffed head and forehead, swelled veins in his temples, and such a strained skin to his face that it seemed to hold his eyes open, and lift his eyebrows up. A man with a pervading appearance on him of being inflated like a balloon, and ready to start. A man who could never sufficiently vaunt himself a self-made man. A man who was always proclaiming, through that brassy speaking-trumpet of a voice of his, his old ignorance and his old poverty. A man who was the Bully of humility. A year or two younger than his eminently practical friend, Mr. Bounderby looked older; his seven or eight and forty might have had the seven or eight added to it again, without surprising anybody. He had not much hair. One might have fancied he had talked it off; and that what was left, all standing up in disorder, was in that condition from being constantly blown about by his windy boastfulness. In the formal drawing-room of Stone Lodge, standing on the hearthrug, warming himself before the fire, Mr. Bounderby delivered some observations to Mrs. Gradgrind on the circumstance of its being his birthday. He stood before the fire,
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Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as "an eminently practical" ' father. He had a particular pride in the phrase eminently practical, which was considered to have a special application to him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner was sure to seize the occasion of alluding to his eminently practical friend Gradgrind. This always pleased the eminently practical friend. He knew it to be his due, but his due was acceptable. He had reached the neutral ground upon the outskirts of the town, which was neither town nor country, and yet was either spoiled, when his ears were invaded by the sound of music. The clashing and banging band attached to the horse-riding establishment, which had there set up its rest in a wooden pavilion, was in full bray. A flag, floating from the summit of the temple, proclaimed to mankind that it was "Sleary's Horse-riding' which claimed their suffrages. Sleary himself, a stout modern statue with a money-box at its elbow, in an ecclesiastical niche of early Gothic architecture, took the money. Miss Josephine Sleary, as some very long and very narrow strips of printed bill announced, was then inaugurating the entertainments with her graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act. Among the other pleasing but always strictly moral wonders which must be seen to be believed, Signor Jupe was that afternoon to "elucidate the diverting accomplishments of his highly trained performing dog Merrylegs." He was also to exhibit "his astounding feat of throwing seventy-five hundred-weight in rapid succession backhanded over his head, thus forming a fountain of solid iron in mid-air, a feat never before attempted in this or any other country, and which having elicited such rapturous plaudits from enthusiastic throngs it cannot be withdrawn." The same Signor Jupe was to "enliven the varied performances at frequent intervals with his chaste Shaksperean quips and retorts." Lastly, he was to wind them up by appearing in his favourite character of Mr. William Button, of Tooley Street, in "the highly novel and laughable hippo-comedietta of The Tailor's Journey to Brentford." Thomas Gradgrind took no heed of these trivialities of course, but passed on as a practical man ought to pass on, either brushing the noisy insects from his thoughts, or consigning them to the House of Correction. But, the turning of the road took him by the back of the booth, and at the back of the booth a number of children were congregated in a number of stealthy attitudes, striving to peep in at the hidden glories of the place. This brought him to a stop. "Now, to think of these vagabonds," said he, "attracting the young rabble from a model school."<|quote|>A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish being between him and the young rabble, he took his eyeglass out of his waistcoat to look for any child he knew by name, and might order off. Phenomenon almost incredible though distinctly seen, what did he then behold but his own metallurgical Louisa, peeping with all her might through a hole in a deal board, and his own mathematical Thomas abasing himself on the ground to catch but a hoof of the graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act! Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind crossed to the spot where his family was thus disgraced, laid his hand upon each erring child, and said:</|quote|>"Louisa!! Thomas!!" Both rose, red and disconcerted. But, Louisa looked at her father with more boldness than Thomas did. Indeed, Thomas did not look at him, but gave himself up to be taken home like a machine. "In the name of wonder, idleness, and folly!" said Mr. Gradgrind, leading each away by a hand; "what do you do here?" "Wanted to see what it was like," returned Louisa, shortly. "What it was like?" "Yes, father." There was an air of jaded sullenness in them both, and particularly in the girl: yet, struggling through the dissatisfaction of her face, there was a light with nothing to rest upon, a fire with nothing to burn, a starved imagination keeping life in itself somehow, which brightened its expression. Not with the brightness natural to cheerful youth, but with uncertain, eager, doubtful flashes, which had something painful in them, analogous to the changes on a blind face groping its way. She was a child now, of fifteen or sixteen; but at no distant day would seem to become a woman all at once. Her father thought so as he looked at her. She was pretty. Would have been self-willed (he thought in his eminently practical way) but for her bringing-up. "Thomas, though I have the fact before me, I find it difficult to believe that you, with your education and resources, should have brought your sister to a scene like this." "I brought _him_, father," said Louisa, quickly. "I asked him to come." "I am sorry to hear it. I am very sorry indeed to hear it. It makes Thomas no better, and it makes you worse, Louisa." She looked at her father again, but no tear fell down her cheek. "You! Thomas and you, to whom the circle of the sciences is open; Thomas and you, who may be said to be replete with facts; Thomas and you, who have been trained to mathematical exactness; Thomas and you, here!" cried Mr. Gradgrind. "In this degraded position! I am amazed." "I was tired, father. I have been tired a long time," said Louisa. "Tired? Of what?" asked the astonished father. "I don't know of what of everything, I think." "Say not another word," returned Mr. Gradgrind. "You are childish. I will hear no more." He did not speak again until they had walked some half-a-mile in silence, when he gravely broke out with: "What would your best friends say, Louisa? Do you attach no value to their good opinion? What would Mr. Bounderby say?" At the mention of this name, his daughter stole a look at him, remarkable for its intense and searching character. He saw nothing of it, for before he looked at her, she had again cast down her eyes! "What," he repeated presently, "would Mr. Bounderby say?" All the way to Stone Lodge, as with grave indignation he led the two delinquents home, he repeated at intervals "What would Mr. Bounderby say?" as if Mr. Bounderby had been Mrs. Grundy. CHAPTER IV MR. BOUNDERBY NOT being Mrs. Grundy, who _was_ Mr. Bounderby? Why, Mr. Bounderby was as near being Mr. Gradgrind's bosom friend, as a man perfectly devoid of sentiment can approach that spiritual relationship towards another man perfectly devoid of sentiment. So near was Mr. Bounderby or, if the reader should prefer
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Hard Times
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"Nothing,"
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Alice
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the King said to Alice.<|quote|>"Nothing,"</|quote|>said Alice. "Nothing _whatever?_" persisted
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you know about this business?" the King said to Alice.<|quote|>"Nothing,"</|quote|>said Alice. "Nothing _whatever?_" persisted the King. "Nothing whatever," said
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to work very diligently to write out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the court. "What do you know about this business?" the King said to Alice.<|quote|>"Nothing,"</|quote|>said Alice. "Nothing _whatever?_" persisted the King. "Nothing whatever," said Alice. "That's very important," the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: "_Un_important, your Majesty means, of course," he said in a very respectful tone,
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herself; "I should think it would be _quite_ as much use in the trial one way up as the other." As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the court. "What do you know about this business?" the King said to Alice.<|quote|>"Nothing,"</|quote|>said Alice. "Nothing _whatever?_" persisted the King. "Nothing whatever," said Alice. "That's very important," the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: "_Un_important, your Majesty means, of course," he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke. "_Un_important, of course, I meant," the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone, "important--unimportant--unimportant--important--" as if he were trying which word sounded best. Some of the jury wrote it down "important," and some "unimportant." Alice could
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put back into the jury-box, or they would die. "The trial cannot proceed," said the King in a very grave voice, "until all the jurymen are back in their proper places--_all_," he repeated with great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said so. Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon got it out again, and put it right; "not that it signifies much," she said to herself; "I should think it would be _quite_ as much use in the trial one way up as the other." As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the court. "What do you know about this business?" the King said to Alice.<|quote|>"Nothing,"</|quote|>said Alice. "Nothing _whatever?_" persisted the King. "Nothing whatever," said Alice. "That's very important," the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: "_Un_important, your Majesty means, of course," he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke. "_Un_important, of course, I meant," the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone, "important--unimportant--unimportant--important--" as if he were trying which word sounded best. Some of the jury wrote it down "important," and some "unimportant." Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates; "but it doesn't matter a bit," she thought to herself. At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in his note-book, cackled out "Silence!" and read out from his book, "Rule Forty-two. _All persons more than a mile high to leave the court_." Everybody looked at Alice. "_I'm_ not a mile high," said Alice. "You are," said the King. "Nearly two miles high," added the Queen. "Well, I shan't go, at any rate," said Alice: "besides, that's not a regular rule: you invented
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Queen, "Really, my dear, _you_ must cross-examine the next witness. It quite makes my forehead ache!" Alice watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list, feeling very curious to see what the next witness would be like, "--for they haven't got much evidence _yet_," she said to herself. Imagine her surprise, when the White Rabbit read out, at the top of his shrill little voice, the name "Alice!" CHAPTER XII. Alice's Evidence "Here!" cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such a hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt, upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there they lay sprawling about, reminding her very much of a globe of goldfish she had accidentally upset the week before. "Oh, I _beg_ your pardon!" she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and began picking them up again as quickly as she could, for the accident of the goldfish kept running in her head, and she had a vague sort of idea that they must be collected at once and put back into the jury-box, or they would die. "The trial cannot proceed," said the King in a very grave voice, "until all the jurymen are back in their proper places--_all_," he repeated with great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said so. Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon got it out again, and put it right; "not that it signifies much," she said to herself; "I should think it would be _quite_ as much use in the trial one way up as the other." As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the court. "What do you know about this business?" the King said to Alice.<|quote|>"Nothing,"</|quote|>said Alice. "Nothing _whatever?_" persisted the King. "Nothing whatever," said Alice. "That's very important," the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: "_Un_important, your Majesty means, of course," he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke. "_Un_important, of course, I meant," the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone, "important--unimportant--unimportant--important--" as if he were trying which word sounded best. Some of the jury wrote it down "important," and some "unimportant." Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates; "but it doesn't matter a bit," she thought to herself. At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in his note-book, cackled out "Silence!" and read out from his book, "Rule Forty-two. _All persons more than a mile high to leave the court_." Everybody looked at Alice. "_I'm_ not a mile high," said Alice. "You are," said the King. "Nearly two miles high," added the Queen. "Well, I shan't go, at any rate," said Alice: "besides, that's not a regular rule: you invented it just now." "It's the oldest rule in the book," said the King. "Then it ought to be Number One," said Alice. The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. "Consider your verdict," he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice. "There's more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty," said the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry; "this paper has just been picked up." "What's in it?" said the Queen. "I haven't opened it yet," said the White Rabbit, "but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to--to somebody." "It must have been that," said the King, "unless it was written to nobody, which isn't usual, you know." "Who is it directed to?" said one of the jurymen. "It isn't directed at all," said the White Rabbit; "in fact, there's nothing written on the _outside_." He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added "It isn't a letter, after all: it's a set of verses." "Are they in the prisoner's handwriting?" asked another of the jurymen. "No, they're not," said the White Rabbit, "and that's the queerest thing about it." (The jury all looked puzzled.) "He must have imitated somebody else's
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up at the mouth with strings: into this they slipped the guinea-pig, head first, and then sat upon it.) "I'm glad I've seen that done," thought Alice. "I've so often read in the newspapers, at the end of trials," "There was some attempts at applause, which was immediately suppressed by the officers of the court," "and I never understood what it meant till now." "If that's all you know about it, you may stand down," continued the King. "I can't go no lower," said the Hatter: "I'm on the floor, as it is." "Then you may _sit_ down," the King replied. Here the other guinea-pig cheered, and was suppressed. "Come, that finished the guinea-pigs!" thought Alice. "Now we shall get on better." "I'd rather finish my tea," said the Hatter, with an anxious look at the Queen, who was reading the list of singers. "You may go," said the King, and the Hatter hurriedly left the court, without even waiting to put his shoes on. "--and just take his head off outside," the Queen added to one of the officers: but the Hatter was out of sight before the officer could get to the door. "Call the next witness!" said the King. The next witness was the Duchess's cook. She carried the pepper-box in her hand, and Alice guessed who it was, even before she got into the court, by the way the people near the door began sneezing all at once. "Give your evidence," said the King. "Shan't," said the cook. The King looked anxiously at the White Rabbit, who said in a low voice, "Your Majesty must cross-examine _this_ witness." "Well, if I must, I must," the King said, with a melancholy air, and, after folding his arms and frowning at the cook till his eyes were nearly out of sight, he said in a deep voice, "What are tarts made of?" "Pepper, mostly," said the cook. "Treacle," said a sleepy voice behind her. "Collar that Dormouse," the Queen shrieked out. "Behead that Dormouse! Turn that Dormouse out of court! Suppress him! Pinch him! Off with his whiskers!" For some minutes the whole court was in confusion, getting the Dormouse turned out, and, by the time they had settled down again, the cook had disappeared. "Never mind!" said the King, with an air of great relief. "Call the next witness." And he added in an undertone to the Queen, "Really, my dear, _you_ must cross-examine the next witness. It quite makes my forehead ache!" Alice watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list, feeling very curious to see what the next witness would be like, "--for they haven't got much evidence _yet_," she said to herself. Imagine her surprise, when the White Rabbit read out, at the top of his shrill little voice, the name "Alice!" CHAPTER XII. Alice's Evidence "Here!" cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such a hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt, upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there they lay sprawling about, reminding her very much of a globe of goldfish she had accidentally upset the week before. "Oh, I _beg_ your pardon!" she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and began picking them up again as quickly as she could, for the accident of the goldfish kept running in her head, and she had a vague sort of idea that they must be collected at once and put back into the jury-box, or they would die. "The trial cannot proceed," said the King in a very grave voice, "until all the jurymen are back in their proper places--_all_," he repeated with great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said so. Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon got it out again, and put it right; "not that it signifies much," she said to herself; "I should think it would be _quite_ as much use in the trial one way up as the other." As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the court. "What do you know about this business?" the King said to Alice.<|quote|>"Nothing,"</|quote|>said Alice. "Nothing _whatever?_" persisted the King. "Nothing whatever," said Alice. "That's very important," the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: "_Un_important, your Majesty means, of course," he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke. "_Un_important, of course, I meant," the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone, "important--unimportant--unimportant--important--" as if he were trying which word sounded best. Some of the jury wrote it down "important," and some "unimportant." Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates; "but it doesn't matter a bit," she thought to herself. At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in his note-book, cackled out "Silence!" and read out from his book, "Rule Forty-two. _All persons more than a mile high to leave the court_." Everybody looked at Alice. "_I'm_ not a mile high," said Alice. "You are," said the King. "Nearly two miles high," added the Queen. "Well, I shan't go, at any rate," said Alice: "besides, that's not a regular rule: you invented it just now." "It's the oldest rule in the book," said the King. "Then it ought to be Number One," said Alice. The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. "Consider your verdict," he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice. "There's more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty," said the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry; "this paper has just been picked up." "What's in it?" said the Queen. "I haven't opened it yet," said the White Rabbit, "but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to--to somebody." "It must have been that," said the King, "unless it was written to nobody, which isn't usual, you know." "Who is it directed to?" said one of the jurymen. "It isn't directed at all," said the White Rabbit; "in fact, there's nothing written on the _outside_." He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added "It isn't a letter, after all: it's a set of verses." "Are they in the prisoner's handwriting?" asked another of the jurymen. "No, they're not," said the White Rabbit, "and that's the queerest thing about it." (The jury all looked puzzled.) "He must have imitated somebody else's hand," said the King. (The jury all brightened up again.) "Please your Majesty," said the Knave, "I didn't write it, and they can't prove I did: there's no name signed at the end." "If you didn't sign it," said the King, "that only makes the matter worse. You _must_ have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your name like an honest man." There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day. "That _proves_ his guilt," said the Queen. "It proves nothing of the sort!" said Alice. "Why, you don't even know what they're about!" "Read them," said the King. The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. "Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?" he asked. "Begin at the beginning," the King said gravely, "and go on till you come to the end: then stop." These were the verses the White Rabbit read:-- "They told me you had been to her, And mentioned me to him: She gave me a good character, But said I could not swim. He sent them word I had not gone (We know it to be true): If she should push the matter on, What would become of you? I gave her one, they gave him two, You gave us three or more; They all returned from him to you, Though they were mine before. If I or she should chance to be Involved in this affair, He trusts to you to set them free, Exactly as we were. My notion was that you had been (Before she had this fit) An obstacle that came between Him, and ourselves, and it. Don't let him know she liked them best, For this must ever be A secret, kept from all the rest, Between yourself and me." "That's the most important piece of evidence we've heard yet," said the King, rubbing his hands; "so now let the jury--" "If any one of them can explain it," said Alice, (she had grown so large in the last few minutes that she wasn't a bit afraid of interrupting him,) "I'll give him sixpence. _I_ don't believe there's an atom of meaning in it." The jury all wrote down on their slates, "_She_ doesn't believe there's an atom of meaning in it," but none of them attempted to explain the paper. "If there's no meaning in
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voice, "Your Majesty must cross-examine _this_ witness." "Well, if I must, I must," the King said, with a melancholy air, and, after folding his arms and frowning at the cook till his eyes were nearly out of sight, he said in a deep voice, "What are tarts made of?" "Pepper, mostly," said the cook. "Treacle," said a sleepy voice behind her. "Collar that Dormouse," the Queen shrieked out. "Behead that Dormouse! Turn that Dormouse out of court! Suppress him! Pinch him! Off with his whiskers!" For some minutes the whole court was in confusion, getting the Dormouse turned out, and, by the time they had settled down again, the cook had disappeared. "Never mind!" said the King, with an air of great relief. "Call the next witness." And he added in an undertone to the Queen, "Really, my dear, _you_ must cross-examine the next witness. It quite makes my forehead ache!" Alice watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list, feeling very curious to see what the next witness would be like, "--for they haven't got much evidence _yet_," she said to herself. Imagine her surprise, when the White Rabbit read out, at the top of his shrill little voice, the name "Alice!" CHAPTER XII. Alice's Evidence "Here!" cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such a hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt, upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there they lay sprawling about, reminding her very much of a globe of goldfish she had accidentally upset the week before. "Oh, I _beg_ your pardon!" she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and began picking them up again as quickly as she could, for the accident of the goldfish kept running in her head, and she had a vague sort of idea that they must be collected at once and put back into the jury-box, or they would die. "The trial cannot proceed," said the King in a very grave voice, "until all the jurymen are back in their proper places--_all_," he repeated with great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said so. Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon got it out again, and put it right; "not that it signifies much," she said to herself; "I should think it would be _quite_ as much use in the trial one way up as the other." As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the court. "What do you know about this business?" the King said to Alice.<|quote|>"Nothing,"</|quote|>said Alice. "Nothing _whatever?_" persisted the King. "Nothing whatever," said Alice. "That's very important," the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: "_Un_important, your Majesty means, of course," he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke. "_Un_important, of course, I meant," the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone, "important--unimportant--unimportant--important--" as if he were trying which word sounded best. Some of the jury wrote it down "important," and some "unimportant." Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates; "but it doesn't matter a bit," she thought to herself. At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in his note-book, cackled out "Silence!" and read out from his book, "Rule Forty-two. _All persons more than a mile high to leave the court_." Everybody looked at Alice. "_I'm_ not a mile high," said Alice. "You are," said the King. "Nearly two miles high," added the Queen. "Well, I shan't go, at any rate," said Alice: "besides, that's not a regular rule: you invented it just now." "It's the oldest rule in the book," said the King. "Then it ought to be Number One," said Alice. The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. "Consider your verdict," he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice. "There's more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty," said the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry; "this paper has just been picked up." "What's in it?" said the Queen. "I haven't opened it yet," said the White Rabbit, "but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to--to somebody." "It must have been that," said the King, "unless it was written to nobody, which isn't usual, you know." "Who is it directed to?" said one of the jurymen. "It isn't directed at all," said the White Rabbit; "in fact, there's nothing written on the _outside_." He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added "It isn't a letter, after all: it's a set of verses." "Are they in the prisoner's handwriting?" asked another of the jurymen. "No, they're not," said the White Rabbit, "and that's the queerest thing about it." (The jury all looked puzzled.) "He must have imitated somebody else's hand," said the King. (The jury all brightened up again.) "Please your Majesty," said the Knave, "I didn't write it, and they can't prove I did: there's no name signed at the end." "If you didn't sign it," said the King, "that only makes the matter worse. You _must_ have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your name like an honest man." There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day. "That _proves_ his guilt," said the Queen. "It proves nothing of the sort!" said Alice. "Why, you don't even know what they're about!" "Read them," said the King. The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. "Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?" he asked. "Begin at the beginning," the King said gravely, "and go on till you come to the end: then stop." These were the verses the White Rabbit read:-- "They told me you had been to her, And mentioned me to him: She gave
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too,"
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Helen
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No, it s no good."<|quote|>"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too,"</|quote|>Helen yawned. "So dull." "Just
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mustn t play at friendship. No, it s no good."<|quote|>"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too,"</|quote|>Helen yawned. "So dull." "Just so, and possibly worse than
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you like." "It s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn t play at friendship. No, it s no good."<|quote|>"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too,"</|quote|>Helen yawned. "So dull." "Just so, and possibly worse than dull." "I should like to know how he got hold of your card." "But he said--something about a concert and an umbrella." "Then did the card see the wife--" "Helen, come to bed." "No, just a little longer, it is
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who did not mind losing a little of the second act. "Cold?" "No." "Tired?" "Doesn t matter." The earnest girl s train rumbled away over the bridge. "I say, Helen--" "Well?" "Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?" "I don t know." "I think we won t." "As you like." "It s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn t play at friendship. No, it s no good."<|quote|>"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too,"</|quote|>Helen yawned. "So dull." "Just so, and possibly worse than dull." "I should like to know how he got hold of your card." "But he said--something about a concert and an umbrella." "Then did the card see the wife--" "Helen, come to bed." "No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; oh yes; did you say money is the warp of the world?" "Yes." "Then what s the woof?" "Very much what one chooses," said Margaret. "It s something that isn t money--one can t say more." "Walking at night?" "Probably." "For Tibby, Oxford?" "It seems so."
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embankment, struck a note of dignity that is rare in English cities. The seats, almost deserted, were here and there occupied by gentlefolk in evening dress, who had strolled out from the houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the whisper of the rising tide. There is something continental about Chelsea Embankment. It is an open space used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than here. As Margaret and Helen sat down, the city behind them seemed to be a vast theatre, an opera-house in which some endless trilogy was performing, and they themselves a pair of satisfied subscribers, who did not mind losing a little of the second act. "Cold?" "No." "Tired?" "Doesn t matter." The earnest girl s train rumbled away over the bridge. "I say, Helen--" "Well?" "Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?" "I don t know." "I think we won t." "As you like." "It s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn t play at friendship. No, it s no good."<|quote|>"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too,"</|quote|>Helen yawned. "So dull." "Just so, and possibly worse than dull." "I should like to know how he got hold of your card." "But he said--something about a concert and an umbrella." "Then did the card see the wife--" "Helen, come to bed." "No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; oh yes; did you say money is the warp of the world?" "Yes." "Then what s the woof?" "Very much what one chooses," said Margaret. "It s something that isn t money--one can t say more." "Walking at night?" "Probably." "For Tibby, Oxford?" "It seems so." "For you?" "Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin to think it s that. For Mrs. Wilcox it was certainly Howards End." One s own name will carry immense distances. Mr. Wilcox, who was sitting with friends many seats away, heard this, rose to his feet, and strolled along towards the speakers. "It is sad to suppose that places may ever be more important than people," continued Margaret. "Why, Meg? They re so much nicer generally. I d rather think of that forester s house in Pomerania than of the fat Herr Forstmeister who lived in it."
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help," the effect of which was to alter poor people until they became exactly like people who were not so poor. The hostess pertinently remarked that she, as eldest son, might surely rank among the millionaire s legatees. Margaret weakly admitted the claim, and another claim was at once set up by Helen, who declared that she had been the millionaire s housemaid for over forty years, overfed and underpaid; was nothing to be done for her, so corpulent and poor? The millionaire then read out her last will and testament, in which she left the whole of her fortune to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Then she died. The serious parts of the discussion had been of higher merit than the playful--in a men s debate is the reverse more general?--but the meeting broke up hilariously enough, and a dozen happy ladies dispersed to their homes. Helen and Margaret walked with the earnest girl as far as Battersea Bridge Station, arguing copiously all the way. When she had gone they were conscious of an alleviation, and of the great beauty of the evening. They turned back towards Oakley Street. The lamps and the plane-trees, following the line of the embankment, struck a note of dignity that is rare in English cities. The seats, almost deserted, were here and there occupied by gentlefolk in evening dress, who had strolled out from the houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the whisper of the rising tide. There is something continental about Chelsea Embankment. It is an open space used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than here. As Margaret and Helen sat down, the city behind them seemed to be a vast theatre, an opera-house in which some endless trilogy was performing, and they themselves a pair of satisfied subscribers, who did not mind losing a little of the second act. "Cold?" "No." "Tired?" "Doesn t matter." The earnest girl s train rumbled away over the bridge. "I say, Helen--" "Well?" "Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?" "I don t know." "I think we won t." "As you like." "It s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn t play at friendship. No, it s no good."<|quote|>"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too,"</|quote|>Helen yawned. "So dull." "Just so, and possibly worse than dull." "I should like to know how he got hold of your card." "But he said--something about a concert and an umbrella." "Then did the card see the wife--" "Helen, come to bed." "No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; oh yes; did you say money is the warp of the world?" "Yes." "Then what s the woof?" "Very much what one chooses," said Margaret. "It s something that isn t money--one can t say more." "Walking at night?" "Probably." "For Tibby, Oxford?" "It seems so." "For you?" "Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin to think it s that. For Mrs. Wilcox it was certainly Howards End." One s own name will carry immense distances. Mr. Wilcox, who was sitting with friends many seats away, heard this, rose to his feet, and strolled along towards the speakers. "It is sad to suppose that places may ever be more important than people," continued Margaret. "Why, Meg? They re so much nicer generally. I d rather think of that forester s house in Pomerania than of the fat Herr Forstmeister who lived in it." "I believe we shall come to care about people less and less, Helen. The more people one knows the easier it becomes to replace them. It s one of the curses of London. I quite expect to end my life caring most for a place." Here Mr. Wilcox reached them. It was several weeks since they had met. "How do you do?" he cried. "I thought I recognised your voices. Whatever are you both doing down here?" His tones were protective. He implied that one ought not to sit out on Chelsea Embankment without a male escort. Helen resented this, but Margaret accepted it as part of the good man s equipment. "What an age it is since I ve seen you, Mr. Wilcox. I met Evie in the Tube, though, lately. I hope you have good news of your son." "Paul?" said Mr. Wilcox, extinguishing his cigarette, and sitting down between them. "Oh, Paul s all right. We had a line from Madeira. He ll be at work again by now." "Ugh--" said Helen, shuddering from complex causes. "I beg your pardon?" "Isn t the climate of Nigeria too horrible?" "Some one s got to go," he said simply.
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like babies. Give them the wherewithal to buy these things. When your Socialism comes it may be different, and we may think in terms of commodities instead of cash. Till it comes give people cash, for it is the warp of civilisation, whatever the woof may be. The imagination ought to play upon money and realise it vividly, for it s the--the second most important thing in the world. It is so slurred over and hushed up, there is so little clear thinking--oh, political economy, of course, but so few of us think clearly about our own private incomes, and admit that independent thoughts are in nine cases out of ten the result of independent means. Money: give Mr. Bast money, and don t bother about his ideals. He ll pick up those for himself." She leant back while the more earnest members of the club began to misconstrue her. The female mind, though cruelly practical in daily life, cannot bear to hear ideals belittled in conversation, and Miss Schlegel was asked however she could say such dreadful things, and what it would profit Mr. Bast if he gained the whole world and lost his own soul. She answered, "Nothing, but he would not gain his soul until he had gained a little of the world." Then they said, "No, we do not believe it," and she admitted that an overworked clerk may save his soul in the superterrestrial sense, where the effort will be taken for the deed, but she denied that he will ever explore the spiritual resources of this world, will ever know the rarer joys of the body, or attain to clear and passionate intercourse with his fellows. Others had attacked the fabric of Society--Property, Interest, etc.; she only fixed her eyes on a few human beings, to see how, under present conditions, they could be made happier. Doing good to humanity was useless: the many-coloured efforts thereto spreading over the vast area like films and resulting in an universal grey. To do good to one, or, as in this case, to a few, was the utmost she dare hope for. Between the idealists, and the political economists, Margaret had a bad time. Disagreeing elsewhere, they agreed in disowning her, and in keeping the administration of the millionaire s money in their own hands. The earnest girl brought forward a scheme of "personal supervision and mutual help," the effect of which was to alter poor people until they became exactly like people who were not so poor. The hostess pertinently remarked that she, as eldest son, might surely rank among the millionaire s legatees. Margaret weakly admitted the claim, and another claim was at once set up by Helen, who declared that she had been the millionaire s housemaid for over forty years, overfed and underpaid; was nothing to be done for her, so corpulent and poor? The millionaire then read out her last will and testament, in which she left the whole of her fortune to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Then she died. The serious parts of the discussion had been of higher merit than the playful--in a men s debate is the reverse more general?--but the meeting broke up hilariously enough, and a dozen happy ladies dispersed to their homes. Helen and Margaret walked with the earnest girl as far as Battersea Bridge Station, arguing copiously all the way. When she had gone they were conscious of an alleviation, and of the great beauty of the evening. They turned back towards Oakley Street. The lamps and the plane-trees, following the line of the embankment, struck a note of dignity that is rare in English cities. The seats, almost deserted, were here and there occupied by gentlefolk in evening dress, who had strolled out from the houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the whisper of the rising tide. There is something continental about Chelsea Embankment. It is an open space used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than here. As Margaret and Helen sat down, the city behind them seemed to be a vast theatre, an opera-house in which some endless trilogy was performing, and they themselves a pair of satisfied subscribers, who did not mind losing a little of the second act. "Cold?" "No." "Tired?" "Doesn t matter." The earnest girl s train rumbled away over the bridge. "I say, Helen--" "Well?" "Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?" "I don t know." "I think we won t." "As you like." "It s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn t play at friendship. No, it s no good."<|quote|>"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too,"</|quote|>Helen yawned. "So dull." "Just so, and possibly worse than dull." "I should like to know how he got hold of your card." "But he said--something about a concert and an umbrella." "Then did the card see the wife--" "Helen, come to bed." "No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; oh yes; did you say money is the warp of the world?" "Yes." "Then what s the woof?" "Very much what one chooses," said Margaret. "It s something that isn t money--one can t say more." "Walking at night?" "Probably." "For Tibby, Oxford?" "It seems so." "For you?" "Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin to think it s that. For Mrs. Wilcox it was certainly Howards End." One s own name will carry immense distances. Mr. Wilcox, who was sitting with friends many seats away, heard this, rose to his feet, and strolled along towards the speakers. "It is sad to suppose that places may ever be more important than people," continued Margaret. "Why, Meg? They re so much nicer generally. I d rather think of that forester s house in Pomerania than of the fat Herr Forstmeister who lived in it." "I believe we shall come to care about people less and less, Helen. The more people one knows the easier it becomes to replace them. It s one of the curses of London. I quite expect to end my life caring most for a place." Here Mr. Wilcox reached them. It was several weeks since they had met. "How do you do?" he cried. "I thought I recognised your voices. Whatever are you both doing down here?" His tones were protective. He implied that one ought not to sit out on Chelsea Embankment without a male escort. Helen resented this, but Margaret accepted it as part of the good man s equipment. "What an age it is since I ve seen you, Mr. Wilcox. I met Evie in the Tube, though, lately. I hope you have good news of your son." "Paul?" said Mr. Wilcox, extinguishing his cigarette, and sitting down between them. "Oh, Paul s all right. We had a line from Madeira. He ll be at work again by now." "Ugh--" said Helen, shuddering from complex causes. "I beg your pardon?" "Isn t the climate of Nigeria too horrible?" "Some one s got to go," he said simply. "England will never keep her trade overseas unless she is prepared to make sacrifices. Unless we get firm in West Africa, Ger--untold complications may follow. Now tell me all your news." "Oh, we ve had a splendid evening," cried Helen, who always woke up at the advent of a visitor. "We belong to a kind of club that reads papers, Margaret and I--all women, but there is a discussion after. This evening it was on how one ought to leave one s money--whether to one s family, or to the poor, and if so how--oh, most interesting." The man of business smiled. Since his wife s death he had almost doubled his income. He was an important figure at last, a reassuring name on company prospectuses, and life had treated him very well. The world seemed in his grasp as he listened to the River Thames, which still flowed inland from the sea. So wonderful to the girls, it held no mysteries for him. He had helped to shorten its long tidal trough by taking shares in the lock at Teddington, and if he and other capitalists thought good, some day it could be shortened again. With a good dinner inside him and an amiable but academic woman on either flank, he felt that his hands were on all the ropes of life, and that what he did not know could not be worth knowing. "Sounds a most original entertainment!" he exclaimed, and laughed in his pleasant way. "I wish Evie would go to that sort of thing. But she hasn t the time. She s taken to breeding Aberdeen terriers--jolly little dogs." "I expect we d better be doing the same, really." "We pretend we re improving ourselves, you see," said Helen a little sharply, for the Wilcox glamour is not of the kind that returns, and she had bitter memories of the days when a speech such as he had just made would have impressed her favourably. "We suppose it a good thing to waste an evening once a fortnight over a debate, but, as my sister says, it may be better to breed dogs." "Not at all. I don t agree with your sister. There s nothing like a debate to teach one quickness. I often wish I had gone in for them when I was a youngster. It would have helped me no end." "Quickness--?" "Yes.
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plane-trees, following the line of the embankment, struck a note of dignity that is rare in English cities. The seats, almost deserted, were here and there occupied by gentlefolk in evening dress, who had strolled out from the houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the whisper of the rising tide. There is something continental about Chelsea Embankment. It is an open space used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than here. As Margaret and Helen sat down, the city behind them seemed to be a vast theatre, an opera-house in which some endless trilogy was performing, and they themselves a pair of satisfied subscribers, who did not mind losing a little of the second act. "Cold?" "No." "Tired?" "Doesn t matter." The earnest girl s train rumbled away over the bridge. "I say, Helen--" "Well?" "Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?" "I don t know." "I think we won t." "As you like." "It s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn t play at friendship. No, it s no good."<|quote|>"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too,"</|quote|>Helen yawned. "So dull." "Just so, and possibly worse than dull." "I should like to know how he got hold of your card." "But he said--something about a concert and an umbrella." "Then did the card see the wife--" "Helen, come to bed." "No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; oh yes; did you say money is the warp of the world?" "Yes." "Then what s the woof?" "Very much what one chooses," said Margaret. "It s something that isn t money--one can t say more." "Walking at night?" "Probably." "For Tibby, Oxford?" "It seems so." "For you?" "Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin to think it s that. For Mrs. Wilcox it was certainly Howards End." One s own name will carry immense distances. Mr. Wilcox, who was sitting with friends many seats away, heard this, rose to his feet, and strolled along towards the speakers. "It is sad to suppose that places may ever be more important than people," continued Margaret. "Why, Meg? They re so much nicer generally. I d rather think of that forester s house in Pomerania than of the fat Herr Forstmeister who lived in it." "I believe we shall come to care about people less and less, Helen. The more people one knows the easier it becomes to replace them. It s one of the curses of London. I quite expect to end my life caring most for a place." Here Mr. Wilcox reached them. It was several weeks since they had met. "How do you do?" he cried. "I thought I recognised your voices. Whatever are you both doing down here?" His tones were protective. He implied that one ought not to sit out on Chelsea Embankment without a male escort. Helen resented this, but Margaret accepted it as part of the good man s equipment. "What an age it is since I ve seen you, Mr. Wilcox. I met Evie in the Tube, though, lately. I hope you have good news of your son." "Paul?" said Mr. Wilcox, extinguishing his cigarette, and sitting down between them. "Oh, Paul s all right. We had a line from Madeira. He ll be at work again by now." "Ugh--" said Helen, shuddering from complex causes. "I beg your pardon?" "Isn t the climate of Nigeria too horrible?" "Some one s got to go," he said simply. "England will never keep her trade overseas unless she is prepared to make sacrifices. Unless we get firm in West Africa, Ger--untold complications may follow. Now tell me all your news." "Oh, we ve had a splendid evening," cried Helen, who always woke up at the advent of a visitor. "We belong to a kind of club that reads papers, Margaret and I--all women, but there is a discussion after. This evening it was
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Howards End
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"Oh, but if you do we shall find you gone."
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Adela Quested
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the implication. Then she cried,<|quote|>"Oh, but if you do we shall find you gone."</|quote|>Mrs. Bhattacharya did not dispute
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Adela, not at first seeing the implication. Then she cried,<|quote|>"Oh, but if you do we shall find you gone."</|quote|>Mrs. Bhattacharya did not dispute it. But her husband called
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that she had known, since Thursdays began, that English ladies would come to see her on one of them, and so always stayed in. Everything pleased her, nothing surprised. She added, "We leave for Calcutta to-day." "Oh, do you?" said Adela, not at first seeing the implication. Then she cried,<|quote|>"Oh, but if you do we shall find you gone."</|quote|>Mrs. Bhattacharya did not dispute it. But her husband called from the distance, "Yes, yes, you come to us Thursday." "But you'll be in Calcutta." "No, no, we shall not." He said something swiftly to his wife in Bengali. "We expect you Thursday." "Thursday . . ." the woman echoed.
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certainly." "We shall enjoy it greatly, it would be a real pleasure. What about the time?" "All hours." "Tell us which you would prefer. We're quite strangers to your country; we don't know when you have visitors," said Miss Quested. Mrs. Bhattacharya seemed not to know either. Her gesture implied that she had known, since Thursdays began, that English ladies would come to see her on one of them, and so always stayed in. Everything pleased her, nothing surprised. She added, "We leave for Calcutta to-day." "Oh, do you?" said Adela, not at first seeing the implication. Then she cried,<|quote|>"Oh, but if you do we shall find you gone."</|quote|>Mrs. Bhattacharya did not dispute it. But her husband called from the distance, "Yes, yes, you come to us Thursday." "But you'll be in Calcutta." "No, no, we shall not." He said something swiftly to his wife in Bengali. "We expect you Thursday." "Thursday . . ." the woman echoed. "You can't have done such a dreadful thing as to put off going for our sake?" exclaimed Mrs. Moore. "No, of course not, we are not such people." He was laughing. "I believe that you have. Oh, please it distresses me beyond words." Everyone was laughing now, but with no
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deprecation, varying into a murmur of concern when she dropped her pocket-handkerchief. She tried doing nothing, to see what that produced, and they too did nothing. Mrs. Moore was equally unsuccessful. Mrs. Turton waited for them with a detached expression; she had known what nonsense it all was from the first. When they took their leave, Mrs. Moore had an impulse, and said to Mrs. Bhattacharya, whose face she liked, "I wonder whether you would allow us to call on you some day." "When?" she replied, inclining charmingly. "Whenever is convenient." "All days are convenient." "Thursday . . ." "Most certainly." "We shall enjoy it greatly, it would be a real pleasure. What about the time?" "All hours." "Tell us which you would prefer. We're quite strangers to your country; we don't know when you have visitors," said Miss Quested. Mrs. Bhattacharya seemed not to know either. Her gesture implied that she had known, since Thursdays began, that English ladies would come to see her on one of them, and so always stayed in. Everything pleased her, nothing surprised. She added, "We leave for Calcutta to-day." "Oh, do you?" said Adela, not at first seeing the implication. Then she cried,<|quote|>"Oh, but if you do we shall find you gone."</|quote|>Mrs. Bhattacharya did not dispute it. But her husband called from the distance, "Yes, yes, you come to us Thursday." "But you'll be in Calcutta." "No, no, we shall not." He said something swiftly to his wife in Bengali. "We expect you Thursday." "Thursday . . ." the woman echoed. "You can't have done such a dreadful thing as to put off going for our sake?" exclaimed Mrs. Moore. "No, of course not, we are not such people." He was laughing. "I believe that you have. Oh, please it distresses me beyond words." Everyone was laughing now, but with no suggestion that they had blundered. A shapeless discussion occurred, during which Mrs. Turton retired, smiling to herself. The upshot was that they were to come Thursday, but early in the morning, so as to wreck the Bhattacharya plans as little as possible, and Mr. Bhattacharya would send his carriage to fetch them, with servants to point out the way. Did he know where they lived? Yes, of course he knew, he knew everything; and he laughed again. They left among a flutter of compliments and smiles, and three ladies, who had hitherto taken no part in the reception, suddenly shot
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called one of the onlookers. "They pass Paris on the way, no doubt," said Mrs. Turton, as if she was describing the movements of migratory birds. Her manner had grown more distant since she had discovered that some of the group was Westernized, and might apply her own standards to her. "The shorter lady, she is my wife, she is Mrs. Bhattacharya," the onlooker explained. "The taller lady, she is my sister, she is Mrs. Das." The shorter and the taller ladies both adjusted their saris, and smiled. There was a curious uncertainty about their gestures, as if they sought for a new formula which neither East nor West could provide. When Mrs. Bhattacharya's husband spoke, she turned away from him, but she did not mind seeing the other men. Indeed all the ladies were uncertain, cowering, recovering, giggling, making tiny gestures of atonement or despair at all that was said, and alternately fondling the terrier or shrinking from him. Miss Quested now had her desired opportunity; friendly Indians were before her, and she tried to make them talk, but she failed, she strove in vain against the echoing walls of their civility. Whatever she said produced a murmur of deprecation, varying into a murmur of concern when she dropped her pocket-handkerchief. She tried doing nothing, to see what that produced, and they too did nothing. Mrs. Moore was equally unsuccessful. Mrs. Turton waited for them with a detached expression; she had known what nonsense it all was from the first. When they took their leave, Mrs. Moore had an impulse, and said to Mrs. Bhattacharya, whose face she liked, "I wonder whether you would allow us to call on you some day." "When?" she replied, inclining charmingly. "Whenever is convenient." "All days are convenient." "Thursday . . ." "Most certainly." "We shall enjoy it greatly, it would be a real pleasure. What about the time?" "All hours." "Tell us which you would prefer. We're quite strangers to your country; we don't know when you have visitors," said Miss Quested. Mrs. Bhattacharya seemed not to know either. Her gesture implied that she had known, since Thursdays began, that English ladies would come to see her on one of them, and so always stayed in. Everything pleased her, nothing surprised. She added, "We leave for Calcutta to-day." "Oh, do you?" said Adela, not at first seeing the implication. Then she cried,<|quote|>"Oh, but if you do we shall find you gone."</|quote|>Mrs. Bhattacharya did not dispute it. But her husband called from the distance, "Yes, yes, you come to us Thursday." "But you'll be in Calcutta." "No, no, we shall not." He said something swiftly to his wife in Bengali. "We expect you Thursday." "Thursday . . ." the woman echoed. "You can't have done such a dreadful thing as to put off going for our sake?" exclaimed Mrs. Moore. "No, of course not, we are not such people." He was laughing. "I believe that you have. Oh, please it distresses me beyond words." Everyone was laughing now, but with no suggestion that they had blundered. A shapeless discussion occurred, during which Mrs. Turton retired, smiling to herself. The upshot was that they were to come Thursday, but early in the morning, so as to wreck the Bhattacharya plans as little as possible, and Mr. Bhattacharya would send his carriage to fetch them, with servants to point out the way. Did he know where they lived? Yes, of course he knew, he knew everything; and he laughed again. They left among a flutter of compliments and smiles, and three ladies, who had hitherto taken no part in the reception, suddenly shot out of the summer-house like exquisitely coloured swallows, and salaamed them. Meanwhile the Collector had been going his rounds. He made pleasant remarks and a few jokes, which were applauded lustily, but he knew something to the discredit of nearly every one of his guests, and was consequently perfunctory. When they had not cheated, it was bhang, women, or worse, and even the desirables wanted to get something out of him. He believed that a "Bridge Party" did good rather than harm, or he would not have given one, but he was under no illusions, and at the proper moment he retired to the English side of the lawn. The impressions he left behind him were various. Many of the guests, especially the humbler and less anglicized, were genuinely grateful. To be addressed by so high an official was a permanent asset. They did not mind how long they stood, or how little happened, and when seven o'clock struck, they had to be turned out. Others were grateful with more intelligence. The Nawab Bahadur, indifferent for himself and for the distinction with which he was greeted, was moved by the mere kindness that must have prompted the invitation. He knew
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stood with their backs to the company and their faces pressed into a bank of shrubs. At a little distance stood their male relatives, watching the venture. The sight was significant: an island bared by the turning tide, and bound to grow. "I consider they ought to come over to me." "Come along, Mary, get it over." "I refuse to shake hands with any of the men, unless it has to be the Nawab Bahadur." "Whom have we so far?" He glanced along the line. "H'm! h'm! much as one expected. We know why he's here, I think over that contract, and he wants to get the right side of me for Mohurram, and he's the astrologer who wants to dodge the municipal building regulations, and he's that Parsi, and he's Hullo! there he goes smash into our hollyhocks. Pulled the left rein when he meant the right. All as usual." "They ought never to have been allowed to drive in; it's so bad for them," said Mrs. Turton, who had at last begun her progress to the summer-house, accompanied by Mrs. Moore, Miss Quested, and a terrier. "Why they come at all I don't know. They hate it as much as we do. Talk to Mrs. McBryde. Her husband made her give purdah parties until she struck." "This isn't a purdah party," corrected Miss Quested. "Oh, really," was the haughty rejoinder. "Do kindly tell us who these ladies are," asked Mrs. Moore. "You're superior to them, anyway. Don't forget that. You're superior to everyone in India except one or two of the Ranis, and they're on an equality." Advancing, she shook hands with the group and said a few words of welcome in Urdu. She had learnt the lingo, but only to speak to her servants, so she knew none of the politer forms and of the verbs only the imperative mood. As soon as her speech was over, she enquired of her companions, "Is that what you wanted?" "Please tell these ladies that I wish we could speak their language, but we have only just come to their country." "Perhaps we speak yours a little," one of the ladies said. "Why, fancy, she understands!" said Mrs. Turton. "Eastbourne, Piccadilly, High Park Corner," said another of the ladies. "Oh yes, they're English-speaking." "But now we can talk: how delightful!" cried Adela, her face lighting up. "She knows Paris also," called one of the onlookers. "They pass Paris on the way, no doubt," said Mrs. Turton, as if she was describing the movements of migratory birds. Her manner had grown more distant since she had discovered that some of the group was Westernized, and might apply her own standards to her. "The shorter lady, she is my wife, she is Mrs. Bhattacharya," the onlooker explained. "The taller lady, she is my sister, she is Mrs. Das." The shorter and the taller ladies both adjusted their saris, and smiled. There was a curious uncertainty about their gestures, as if they sought for a new formula which neither East nor West could provide. When Mrs. Bhattacharya's husband spoke, she turned away from him, but she did not mind seeing the other men. Indeed all the ladies were uncertain, cowering, recovering, giggling, making tiny gestures of atonement or despair at all that was said, and alternately fondling the terrier or shrinking from him. Miss Quested now had her desired opportunity; friendly Indians were before her, and she tried to make them talk, but she failed, she strove in vain against the echoing walls of their civility. Whatever she said produced a murmur of deprecation, varying into a murmur of concern when she dropped her pocket-handkerchief. She tried doing nothing, to see what that produced, and they too did nothing. Mrs. Moore was equally unsuccessful. Mrs. Turton waited for them with a detached expression; she had known what nonsense it all was from the first. When they took their leave, Mrs. Moore had an impulse, and said to Mrs. Bhattacharya, whose face she liked, "I wonder whether you would allow us to call on you some day." "When?" she replied, inclining charmingly. "Whenever is convenient." "All days are convenient." "Thursday . . ." "Most certainly." "We shall enjoy it greatly, it would be a real pleasure. What about the time?" "All hours." "Tell us which you would prefer. We're quite strangers to your country; we don't know when you have visitors," said Miss Quested. Mrs. Bhattacharya seemed not to know either. Her gesture implied that she had known, since Thursdays began, that English ladies would come to see her on one of them, and so always stayed in. Everything pleased her, nothing surprised. She added, "We leave for Calcutta to-day." "Oh, do you?" said Adela, not at first seeing the implication. Then she cried,<|quote|>"Oh, but if you do we shall find you gone."</|quote|>Mrs. Bhattacharya did not dispute it. But her husband called from the distance, "Yes, yes, you come to us Thursday." "But you'll be in Calcutta." "No, no, we shall not." He said something swiftly to his wife in Bengali. "We expect you Thursday." "Thursday . . ." the woman echoed. "You can't have done such a dreadful thing as to put off going for our sake?" exclaimed Mrs. Moore. "No, of course not, we are not such people." He was laughing. "I believe that you have. Oh, please it distresses me beyond words." Everyone was laughing now, but with no suggestion that they had blundered. A shapeless discussion occurred, during which Mrs. Turton retired, smiling to herself. The upshot was that they were to come Thursday, but early in the morning, so as to wreck the Bhattacharya plans as little as possible, and Mr. Bhattacharya would send his carriage to fetch them, with servants to point out the way. Did he know where they lived? Yes, of course he knew, he knew everything; and he laughed again. They left among a flutter of compliments and smiles, and three ladies, who had hitherto taken no part in the reception, suddenly shot out of the summer-house like exquisitely coloured swallows, and salaamed them. Meanwhile the Collector had been going his rounds. He made pleasant remarks and a few jokes, which were applauded lustily, but he knew something to the discredit of nearly every one of his guests, and was consequently perfunctory. When they had not cheated, it was bhang, women, or worse, and even the desirables wanted to get something out of him. He believed that a "Bridge Party" did good rather than harm, or he would not have given one, but he was under no illusions, and at the proper moment he retired to the English side of the lawn. The impressions he left behind him were various. Many of the guests, especially the humbler and less anglicized, were genuinely grateful. To be addressed by so high an official was a permanent asset. They did not mind how long they stood, or how little happened, and when seven o'clock struck, they had to be turned out. Others were grateful with more intelligence. The Nawab Bahadur, indifferent for himself and for the distinction with which he was greeted, was moved by the mere kindness that must have prompted the invitation. He knew the difficulties. Hamidullah also thought that the Collector had played up well. But others, such as Mahmoud Ali, were cynical; they were firmly convinced that Turton had been made to give the party by his official superiors and was all the time consumed with impotent rage, and they infected some who were inclined to a healthier view. Yet even Mahmoud Ali was glad he had come. Shrines are fascinating, especially when rarely opened, and it amused him to note the ritual of the English club, and to caricature it afterwards to his friends. After Mr. Turton, the official who did his duty best was Mr. Fielding, the Principal of the little Government College. He knew little of the district and less against the inhabitants, so he was in a less cynical state of mind. Athletic and cheerful, he romped about, making numerous mistakes which the parents of his pupils tried to cover up, for he was popular among them. When the moment for refreshments came, he did not move back to the English side, but burnt his mouth with gram. He talked to anyone and he ate anything. Amid much that was alien, he learnt that the two new ladies from England had been a great success, and that their politeness in wishing to be Mrs. Bhattacharya's guests had pleased not only her but all Indians who heard of it. It pleased Mr. Fielding also. He scarcely knew the two new ladies, still he decided to tell them what pleasure they had given by their friendliness. He found the younger of them alone. She was looking through a nick in the cactus hedge at the distant Marabar Hills, which had crept near, as was their custom at sunset; if the sunset had lasted long enough, they would have reached the town, but it was swift, being tropical. He gave her his information, and she was so much pleased and thanked him so heartily that he asked her and the other lady to tea. "I'ld like to come very much indeed, and so would Mrs. Moore, I know." "I'm rather a hermit, you know." "Much the best thing to be in this place." "Owing to my work and so on, I don't get up much to the club." "I know, I know, and we never get down from it. I envy you being with Indians." "Do you care to meet one
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of her companions, "Is that what you wanted?" "Please tell these ladies that I wish we could speak their language, but we have only just come to their country." "Perhaps we speak yours a little," one of the ladies said. "Why, fancy, she understands!" said Mrs. Turton. "Eastbourne, Piccadilly, High Park Corner," said another of the ladies. "Oh yes, they're English-speaking." "But now we can talk: how delightful!" cried Adela, her face lighting up. "She knows Paris also," called one of the onlookers. "They pass Paris on the way, no doubt," said Mrs. Turton, as if she was describing the movements of migratory birds. Her manner had grown more distant since she had discovered that some of the group was Westernized, and might apply her own standards to her. "The shorter lady, she is my wife, she is Mrs. Bhattacharya," the onlooker explained. "The taller lady, she is my sister, she is Mrs. Das." The shorter and the taller ladies both adjusted their saris, and smiled. There was a curious uncertainty about their gestures, as if they sought for a new formula which neither East nor West could provide. When Mrs. Bhattacharya's husband spoke, she turned away from him, but she did not mind seeing the other men. Indeed all the ladies were uncertain, cowering, recovering, giggling, making tiny gestures of atonement or despair at all that was said, and alternately fondling the terrier or shrinking from him. Miss Quested now had her desired opportunity; friendly Indians were before her, and she tried to make them talk, but she failed, she strove in vain against the echoing walls of their civility. Whatever she said produced a murmur of deprecation, varying into a murmur of concern when she dropped her pocket-handkerchief. She tried doing nothing, to see what that produced, and they too did nothing. Mrs. Moore was equally unsuccessful. Mrs. Turton waited for them with a detached expression; she had known what nonsense it all was from the first. When they took their leave, Mrs. Moore had an impulse, and said to Mrs. Bhattacharya, whose face she liked, "I wonder whether you would allow us to call on you some day." "When?" she replied, inclining charmingly. "Whenever is convenient." "All days are convenient." "Thursday . . ." "Most certainly." "We shall enjoy it greatly, it would be a real pleasure. What about the time?" "All hours." "Tell us which you would prefer. We're quite strangers to your country; we don't know when you have visitors," said Miss Quested. Mrs. Bhattacharya seemed not to know either. Her gesture implied that she had known, since Thursdays began, that English ladies would come to see her on one of them, and so always stayed in. Everything pleased her, nothing surprised. She added, "We leave for Calcutta to-day." "Oh, do you?" said Adela, not at first seeing the implication. Then she cried,<|quote|>"Oh, but if you do we shall find you gone."</|quote|>Mrs. Bhattacharya did not dispute it. But her husband called from the distance, "Yes, yes, you come to us Thursday." "But you'll be in Calcutta." "No, no, we shall not." He said something swiftly to his wife in Bengali. "We expect you Thursday." "Thursday . . ." the woman echoed. "You can't have done such a dreadful thing as to put off going for our sake?" exclaimed Mrs. Moore. "No, of course not, we are not such people." He was laughing. "I believe that you have. Oh, please it distresses me beyond words." Everyone was laughing now, but with no suggestion that they had blundered. A shapeless discussion occurred, during which Mrs. Turton retired, smiling to herself. The upshot was that they were to come Thursday, but early in the morning, so as to wreck the Bhattacharya plans as little as possible, and Mr. Bhattacharya would send his carriage to fetch them, with servants to point out the way. Did he know where they lived? Yes, of course he knew, he knew everything; and he laughed again. They left among a flutter of compliments and smiles, and three ladies, who had hitherto taken no part in the reception, suddenly shot out of the summer-house like exquisitely coloured swallows, and salaamed them. Meanwhile the Collector had been going his rounds. He made pleasant remarks and a few jokes, which were applauded lustily, but he knew something to the discredit
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A Passage To India
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"Yes."
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Mike Campbell
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the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No."<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"What a night!" Bill said.
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room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No."<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor,
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about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No."<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what
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I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No."<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well,
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us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No."<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said
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human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said. "You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me." "Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No."<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he wouldn't hit him again. Said he couldn't do it. Said it would be wicked. So the bull-fighter chap sort of rather staggered over to him. Cohn went back against the wall." "'So you won't hit me?' "'No,' "said Cohn." 'I'd be ashamed to.' "So the bull-fighter fellow hit him just as hard as he could in the face, and then sat down on the floor. He couldn't get up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed. He said if Cohn helped him he'd kill him, and he'd kill him anyway this morning if Cohn wasn't out of town. Cohn was crying, and Brett had told him off, and he wanted to shake hands. I've told you that before." "Tell the rest," Bill said. "It seems the bull-fighter chap was sitting on the floor. He was waiting to get strength enough to get up and hit Cohn again. Brett wasn't having any shaking hands, and Cohn was crying and telling her how much he loved her, and she was telling him not to be a ruddy ass. Then Cohn leaned down to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. No hard feelings, you know.
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could stay over for the funeral. The coffin was loaded into the baggage-car of the train, and the widow and the two children rode, sitting, all three together, in an open third-class railway-carriage. The train started with a jerk, and then ran smoothly, going down grade around the edge of the plateau and out into the fields of grain that blew in the wind on the plain on the way to Tafalla. The bull who killed Vicente Girones was named Bocanegra, was Number 118 of the bull-breeding establishment of Sanchez Tabemo, and was killed by Pedro Romero as the third bull of that same afternoon. His ear was cut by popular acclamation and given to Pedro Romero, who, in turn, gave it to Brett, who wrapped it in a handkerchief belonging to myself, and left both ear and handkerchief, along with a number of Muratti cigarette-stubs, shoved far back in the drawer of the bed-table that stood beside her bed in the Hotel Montoya, in Pamplona. * * * * * Back in the hotel, the night watchman was sitting on a bench inside the door. He had been there all night and was very sleepy. He stood up as I came in. Three of the waitresses came in at the same time. They had been to the morning show at the bull-ring. They went up-stairs laughing. I followed them up-stairs and went into my room. I took off my shoes and lay down on the bed. The window was open onto the balcony and the sunlight was bright in the room. I did not feel sleepy. It must have been half past three o'clock when I had gone to bed and the bands had waked me at six. My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my thumb and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one knocked on the door. "Come in." It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro." "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill." "What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said. "You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me." "Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No."<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he wouldn't hit him again. Said he couldn't do it. Said it would be wicked. So the bull-fighter chap sort of rather staggered over to him. Cohn went back against the wall." "'So you won't hit me?' "'No,' "said Cohn." 'I'd be ashamed to.' "So the bull-fighter fellow hit him just as hard as he could in the face, and then sat down on the floor. He couldn't get up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed. He said if Cohn helped him he'd kill him, and he'd kill him anyway this morning if Cohn wasn't out of town. Cohn was crying, and Brett had told him off, and he wanted to shake hands. I've told you that before." "Tell the rest," Bill said. "It seems the bull-fighter chap was sitting on the floor. He was waiting to get strength enough to get up and hit Cohn again. Brett wasn't having any shaking hands, and Cohn was crying and telling her how much he loved her, and she was telling him not to be a ruddy ass. Then Cohn leaned down to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. No hard feelings, you know. All for forgiveness. And the bull-fighter chap hit him in the face again." "That's quite a kid," Bill said. "He ruined Cohn," Mike said. "You know I don't think Cohn will ever want to knock people about again." "When did you see Brett?" "This morning. She came in to get some things. She's looking after this Romero lad." He poured out another bottle of beer. "Brett's rather cut up. But she loves looking after people. That's how we came to go off together. She was looking after me." "I know," I said. "I'm rather drunk," Mike said. "I think I'll _stay_ rather drunk. This is all awfully amusing, but it's not too pleasant. It's not too pleasant for me." He drank off the beer. "I gave Brett what for, you know. I said if she would go about with Jews and bull-fighters and such people, she must expect trouble." He leaned forward. "I say, Jake, do you mind if I drink that bottle of yours? She'll bring you another one." "Please," I said. "I wasn't drinking it, anyway." Mike started to open the bottle. "Would you mind opening it?" I pressed up the wire fastener and poured it for him. "You know," Mike went on, "Brett was rather good. She's always rather good. I gave her a fearful hiding about Jews and bull-fighters, and all those sort of people, and do you know what she said: 'Yes. I've had such a hell of a happy life with the British aristocracy!" '" He took a drink. "That was rather good. Ashley, chap she got the title from, was a sailor, you know. Ninth baronet. When he came home he wouldn't sleep in a bed. Always made Brett sleep on the floor. Finally, when he got really bad, he used to tell her he'd kill her. Always slept with a loaded service revolver. Brett used to take the shells out when he'd gone to sleep. She hasn't had an absolutely happy life. Brett. Damned shame, too. She enjoys things so." He stood up. His hand was shaky. "I'm going in the room. Try and get a little sleep." He smiled. "We go too long without sleep in these fiestas. I'm going to start now and get plenty of sleep. Damn bad thing not to get sleep. Makes you frightfully nervy." "We'll see you at noon at the Iru a," Bill said. Mike
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the sunlight was bright in the room. I did not feel sleepy. It must have been half past three o'clock when I had gone to bed and the bands had waked me at six. My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my thumb and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one knocked on the door. "Come in." It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro." "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill." "What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said. "You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me." "Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No."<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he
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The Sun Also Rises
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“I think she’s lovely.”
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Daisy
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“I like her,” said Daisy,<|quote|>“I think she’s lovely.”</|quote|>But the rest offended her—and
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and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy,<|quote|>“I think she’s lovely.”</|quote|>But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a
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except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy,<|quote|>“I think she’s lovely.”</|quote|>But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that
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for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!” It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy,<|quote|>“I think she’s lovely.”</|quote|>But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet
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screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it alone.” “I do leave it alone,” affirmed the accused hollowly. “We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: ‘There’s somebody that needs your help, Doc.’ ” “She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” said another friend, without gratitude, “but you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool.” “Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.” “Then you ought to leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet. “Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!” It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy,<|quote|>“I think she’s lovely.”</|quote|>But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself
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explained, “or any act of God.” Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.” “Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down any addresses here’s my little gold pencil.” … She looked around after a moment and told me the girl was “common but pretty,” and I knew that except for the half-hour she’d been alone with Gatsby she wasn’t having a good time. We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault—Gatsby had been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people only two weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now. “How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?” The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes. “Wha’?” A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf with her at the local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker’s defence: “Oh, she’s all right now. When she’s had five or six cocktails she always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it alone.” “I do leave it alone,” affirmed the accused hollowly. “We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: ‘There’s somebody that needs your help, Doc.’ ” “She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” said another friend, without gratitude, “but you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool.” “Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.” “Then you ought to leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet. “Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!” It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy,<|quote|>“I think she’s lovely.”</|quote|>But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort. “You didn’t look so interested.” “Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,” she said suddenly. “That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came
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merely grown used to it, grown to accept West Egg as a world complete in itself, with its own standards and its own great figures, second to nothing because it had no consciousness of being so, and now I was looking at it again, through Daisy’s eyes. It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment. They arrived at twilight, and, as we strolled out among the sparkling hundreds, Daisy’s voice was playing murmurous tricks in her throat. “These things excite me so,” she whispered. “If you want to kiss me any time during the evening, Nick, just let me know and I’ll be glad to arrange it for you. Just mention my name. Or present a green card. I’m giving out green—” “Look around,” suggested Gatsby. “I’m looking around. I’m having a marvellous—” “You must see the faces of many people you’ve heard about.” Tom’s arrogant eyes roamed the crowd. “We don’t go around very much,” he said; “in fact, I was just thinking I don’t know a soul here.” “Perhaps you know that lady.” Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely human orchid of a woman who sat in state under a white-plum tree. Tom and Daisy stared, with that peculiarly unreal feeling that accompanies the recognition of a hitherto ghostly celebrity of the movies. “She’s lovely,” said Daisy. “The man bending over her is her director.” He took them ceremoniously from group to group: “Mrs. Buchanan … and Mr. Buchanan—” After an instant’s hesitation he added: “the polo player.” “Oh no,” objected Tom quickly, “not me.” But evidently the sound of it pleased Gatsby for Tom remained “the polo player” for the rest of the evening. “I’ve never met so many celebrities,” Daisy exclaimed. “I liked that man—what was his name?—with the sort of blue nose.” Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer. “Well, I liked him anyhow.” “I’d a little rather not be the polo player,” said Tom pleasantly, “I’d rather look at all these famous people in—in oblivion.” Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative foxtrot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,” she explained, “or any act of God.” Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.” “Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down any addresses here’s my little gold pencil.” … She looked around after a moment and told me the girl was “common but pretty,” and I knew that except for the half-hour she’d been alone with Gatsby she wasn’t having a good time. We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault—Gatsby had been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people only two weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now. “How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?” The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes. “Wha’?” A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf with her at the local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker’s defence: “Oh, she’s all right now. When she’s had five or six cocktails she always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it alone.” “I do leave it alone,” affirmed the accused hollowly. “We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: ‘There’s somebody that needs your help, Doc.’ ” “She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” said another friend, without gratitude, “but you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool.” “Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.” “Then you ought to leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet. “Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!” It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy,<|quote|>“I think she’s lovely.”</|quote|>But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort. “You didn’t look so interested.” “Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,” she said suddenly. “That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. “Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion. I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and tired. “She didn’t like it,” he said immediately. “Of course she did.” “She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have a good time.” He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression. “I feel far away from her,” he said. “It’s hard to make her understand.” “You mean about the dance?” “The dance?” He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of his fingers. “Old sport, the dance is unimportant.” He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” After she had obliterated four years with that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five years ago. “And she doesn’t understand,” he said. “She used to be able to understand. We’d sit for hours—” He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers. “I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the past.” “Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you
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were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault—Gatsby had been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people only two weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now. “How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?” The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes. “Wha’?” A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf with her at the local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker’s defence: “Oh, she’s all right now. When she’s had five or six cocktails she always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it alone.” “I do leave it alone,” affirmed the accused hollowly. “We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: ‘There’s somebody that needs your help, Doc.’ ” “She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” said another friend, without gratitude, “but you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool.” “Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.” “Then you ought to leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet. “Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!” It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy,<|quote|>“I think she’s lovely.”</|quote|>But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they
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The Great Gatsby
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“On the contrary!”
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Theign
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as Hugh was in another.<|quote|>“On the contrary!”</|quote|>he oddly replied. But plainly
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one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another.<|quote|>“On the contrary!”</|quote|>he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he
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it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another.<|quote|>“On the contrary!”</|quote|>he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t
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daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another.<|quote|>“On the contrary!”</|quote|>he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the
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accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed, “does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.” “Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another.<|quote|>“On the contrary!”</|quote|>he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer,
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do a thing I ask.” “The chance will depend on yourself!” he returned with high dry emphasis. But he held out his hand for the note Hugh had given her and with which she approached him; and though face to face they seemed more separated than brought near by this contact without commerce. She turned away on one side when he had taken the missive, as Hugh had turned away on the other; Lord Theign drew forth the contents of the envelope and broodingly and inexpressively read the few lines; after which, as having done justice to their sense, he thrust the paper forth again till his daughter became aware and received it. She restored it to her friend while her father dandled off anew, but coming round this time, almost as by a circuit of the room, and meeting Hugh, who took advantage of it to repeat by a frank gesture his offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed, “does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.” “Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another.<|quote|>“On the contrary!”</|quote|>he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!” At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her. Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face--as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and
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on this a sombre second thought. “The only thing is that our awful American----!” But he warned her with a raised hand. “Not to speak of our awful Briton!” For the door had opened from the lobby, admitting Lord Theign, unattended, who, at sight of his daughter and her companion, pulled up and held them a minute in reprehensive view--all at least till Hugh undauntedly, indeed quite cheerfully, greeted him. “Since you find me again in your path, my lord, it’s because I’ve a small, but precious document to deliver you, if you’ll allow me to do so; which I feel it important myself to place in your hand.” He drew from his breast a pocket-book and extracted thence a small unsealed envelope; retaining the latter a trifle helplessly in his hand while Lord Theign only opposed to this demonstration an unmitigated blankness. He went none the less bravely on. “I mentioned to you the last time we somewhat infelicitously met that I intended to appeal to another and probably more closely qualified artistic authority on the subject of your so-called Moretto; and I in fact saw the picture half an hour ago with Bardi of Milan, who, there in presence of it, did absolute, did ideal justice, as I had hoped, to the claim I’ve been making. I then went with him to his hotel, close at hand, where he dashed me off this brief and rapid, but quite conclusive, Declaration, which, if you’ll be so good as to read it, will enable you perhaps to join us in regarding the vexed question as settled.” His lordship, having faced this speech without a sign, rested on the speaker a somewhat more confessed intelligence, then looked hard at the offered note and hard at the floor--all to avert himself actively afterward and, with his head a good deal elevated, add to his distance, as it were, from every one and everything so indelicately thrust on his attention. This movement had an ambiguous makeshift air, yet his companions, under the impression of it, exchanged a hopeless look. His daughter none the less lifted her voice. “If you won’t take what he has for you from Mr. Crimble, father, will you take it from me?” And then as after some apparent debate he appeared to decide to heed her, “It may be so long again,” she said, “before you’ve a chance to do a thing I ask.” “The chance will depend on yourself!” he returned with high dry emphasis. But he held out his hand for the note Hugh had given her and with which she approached him; and though face to face they seemed more separated than brought near by this contact without commerce. She turned away on one side when he had taken the missive, as Hugh had turned away on the other; Lord Theign drew forth the contents of the envelope and broodingly and inexpressively read the few lines; after which, as having done justice to their sense, he thrust the paper forth again till his daughter became aware and received it. She restored it to her friend while her father dandled off anew, but coming round this time, almost as by a circuit of the room, and meeting Hugh, who took advantage of it to repeat by a frank gesture his offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed, “does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.” “Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another.<|quote|>“On the contrary!”</|quote|>he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!” At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her. Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face--as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!” There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate “What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous connection!” “You speak,” she laughed, “as if it were too gross--I They’re surely coming back?” “Back to you, if you like--but not to me.” “Ah, what are you and I,” she tenderly argued, “but one and the same quantity? And though you may not as yet absolutely rejoice in--well, whatever they’re doing,” she cheerfully added, “you’ll get beautifully used to it.” “That’s just what I’m afraid of--what such horrid matters make of one!” “At the worst then, you see” --she maintained her optimism-- “the recipient of royal attentions!” “Oh,” said her companion, whom his honour seemed to leave comparatively cold, “it’s simply as if the gracious Personage were coming to condole!” Impatient of the lapse of time, in any case, she assured herself again of the hour. “Well, if he only does come!” “John--the wretch!” Lord Theign returned-- “will take care of that: he has nailed him and will bring him.” “What was it then,” his friend found occasion
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approached him; and though face to face they seemed more separated than brought near by this contact without commerce. She turned away on one side when he had taken the missive, as Hugh had turned away on the other; Lord Theign drew forth the contents of the envelope and broodingly and inexpressively read the few lines; after which, as having done justice to their sense, he thrust the paper forth again till his daughter became aware and received it. She restored it to her friend while her father dandled off anew, but coming round this time, almost as by a circuit of the room, and meeting Hugh, who took advantage of it to repeat by a frank gesture his offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed, “does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.” “Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another.<|quote|>“On the contrary!”</|quote|>he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!” At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her. Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face--as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!” There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of
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The Outcry
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"Things to eat."
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Kanga
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all bring Provisions." "Bring what?"<|quote|>"Things to eat."</|quote|>"Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I
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all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?"<|quote|>"Things to eat."</|quote|>"Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll
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it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?"<|quote|>"Things to eat."</|quote|>"Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give
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"I know." But he didn't really. "We're going to discover the North Pole." "Oh!" said Pooh again. "What _is_ the North Pole?" he asked. "It's just a thing you discover," said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself. "Oh! I see," said Pooh. "Are bears any good at discovering it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?"<|quote|>"Things to eat."</|quote|>"Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover
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his feet into the ground, and pushed hard against Christopher Robin's back, and Christopher Robin pushed hard against his, and pulled and pulled at his boot until he had got it on. "And that's that," said Pooh. "What do we do next?" "We are all going on an Expedition," said Christopher Robin, as he got up and brushed himself. "Thank you, Pooh." "Going on an Expotition?" said Pooh eagerly. "I don't think I've ever been on one of those. Where are we going to on this Expotition?" "Expedition, silly old Bear. It's got an 'x' in it." "Oh!" said Pooh. "I know." But he didn't really. "We're going to discover the North Pole." "Oh!" said Pooh again. "What _is_ the North Pole?" he asked. "It's just a thing you discover," said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself. "Oh! I see," said Pooh. "Are bears any good at discovering it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?"<|quote|>"Things to eat."</|quote|>"Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover it." "We are, are we?" said Rabbit. "Yes. And we've got to bring Pro--things to eat with us. In case we want to eat them. Now I'm going down to Piglet's. Tell Kanga, will you?" He left Rabbit and hurried down to Piglet's house. The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that it would be never, and was trying to remember what "_it_" was, and hoping it wasn't anything nice, when Pooh
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I don't much care if it snows or thaws, 'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice clean paws! Sing Ho! for a Bear! Sing Ho! for a Pooh! And I'll have a little something in an hour or two!" He was so pleased with this song that he sang it all the way to the top of the Forest, "and if I go on singing it much longer," he thought, "it will be time for the little something, and then the last line won't be true." So he turned it into a hum instead. Christopher Robin was sitting outside his door, putting on his Big Boots. As soon as he saw the Big Boots, Pooh knew that an Adventure was going to happen, and he brushed the honey off his nose with the back of his paw, and spruced himself up as well as he could, so as to look Ready for Anything. "Good-morning, Christopher Robin," he called out. "Hallo, Pooh Bear. I can't get this boot on." "That's bad," said Pooh. "Do you think you could very kindly lean against me, 'cos I keep pulling so hard that I fall over backwards." Pooh sat down, dug his feet into the ground, and pushed hard against Christopher Robin's back, and Christopher Robin pushed hard against his, and pulled and pulled at his boot until he had got it on. "And that's that," said Pooh. "What do we do next?" "We are all going on an Expedition," said Christopher Robin, as he got up and brushed himself. "Thank you, Pooh." "Going on an Expotition?" said Pooh eagerly. "I don't think I've ever been on one of those. Where are we going to on this Expotition?" "Expedition, silly old Bear. It's got an 'x' in it." "Oh!" said Pooh. "I know." But he didn't really. "We're going to discover the North Pole." "Oh!" said Pooh again. "What _is_ the North Pole?" he asked. "It's just a thing you discover," said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself. "Oh! I see," said Pooh. "Are bears any good at discovering it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?"<|quote|>"Things to eat."</|quote|>"Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover it." "We are, are we?" said Rabbit. "Yes. And we've got to bring Pro--things to eat with us. In case we want to eat them. Now I'm going down to Piglet's. Tell Kanga, will you?" He left Rabbit and hurried down to Piglet's house. The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that it would be never, and was trying to remember what "_it_" was, and hoping it wasn't anything nice, when Pooh came up. "Oh! Piglet," said Pooh excitedly, "we're going on an Expotition, all of us, with things to eat. To discover something." "To discover what?" said Piglet anxiously. "Oh! just something." "Nothing fierce?" "Christopher Robin didn't say anything about fierce. He just said it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore." "What I say," said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have
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Kanga agreed that this was probably what it was, and said that they would have to call it by some name. "I shall call it Pootel," said Christopher Robin. "Henry Pootel for short." And just when it was decided, Henry Pootel wriggled out of Kanga's arms and jumped to the ground. To his great joy Christopher Robin had left the door open. Never had Henry Pootel Piglet run so fast as he ran then, and he didn't stop running until he had got quite close to his house. But when he was a hundred yards away he stopped running, and rolled the rest of the way home, so as to get his own nice comfortable colour again.... So Kanga and Roo stayed in the Forest. And every Tuesday Roo spent the day with his great friend Rabbit, and every Tuesday Kanga spent the day with her great friend Pooh, teaching him to jump, and every Tuesday Piglet spent the day with his great friend Christopher Robin. So they were all happy again. CHAPTER VIII IN WHICH CHRISTOPHER ROBIN LEADS AN EXPOTITION TO THE NORTH POLE One fine day Pooh had stumped up to the top of the Forest to see if his friend Christopher Robin was interested in Bears at all. At breakfast that morning (a simple meal of marmalade spread lightly over a honeycomb or two) he had suddenly thought of a new song. It began like this: "_Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear._" When he had got as far as this, he scratched his head, and thought to himself "That's a very good start for a song, but what about the second line?" He tried singing "Ho," two or three times, but it didn't seem to help. "Perhaps it would be better," he thought, "if I sang Hi for the life of a Bear." So he sang it ... but it wasn't. "Very well, then," he said, "I shall sing that first line twice, and perhaps if I sing it very quickly, I shall find myself singing the third and fourth lines before I have time to think of them, and that will be a Good Song. Now then:" "Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear! Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear! I don't much mind if it rains or snows, 'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice new nose, I don't much care if it snows or thaws, 'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice clean paws! Sing Ho! for a Bear! Sing Ho! for a Pooh! And I'll have a little something in an hour or two!" He was so pleased with this song that he sang it all the way to the top of the Forest, "and if I go on singing it much longer," he thought, "it will be time for the little something, and then the last line won't be true." So he turned it into a hum instead. Christopher Robin was sitting outside his door, putting on his Big Boots. As soon as he saw the Big Boots, Pooh knew that an Adventure was going to happen, and he brushed the honey off his nose with the back of his paw, and spruced himself up as well as he could, so as to look Ready for Anything. "Good-morning, Christopher Robin," he called out. "Hallo, Pooh Bear. I can't get this boot on." "That's bad," said Pooh. "Do you think you could very kindly lean against me, 'cos I keep pulling so hard that I fall over backwards." Pooh sat down, dug his feet into the ground, and pushed hard against Christopher Robin's back, and Christopher Robin pushed hard against his, and pulled and pulled at his boot until he had got it on. "And that's that," said Pooh. "What do we do next?" "We are all going on an Expedition," said Christopher Robin, as he got up and brushed himself. "Thank you, Pooh." "Going on an Expotition?" said Pooh eagerly. "I don't think I've ever been on one of those. Where are we going to on this Expotition?" "Expedition, silly old Bear. It's got an 'x' in it." "Oh!" said Pooh. "I know." But he didn't really. "We're going to discover the North Pole." "Oh!" said Pooh again. "What _is_ the North Pole?" he asked. "It's just a thing you discover," said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself. "Oh! I see," said Pooh. "Are bears any good at discovering it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?"<|quote|>"Things to eat."</|quote|>"Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover it." "We are, are we?" said Rabbit. "Yes. And we've got to bring Pro--things to eat with us. In case we want to eat them. Now I'm going down to Piglet's. Tell Kanga, will you?" He left Rabbit and hurried down to Piglet's house. The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that it would be never, and was trying to remember what "_it_" was, and hoping it wasn't anything nice, when Pooh came up. "Oh! Piglet," said Pooh excitedly, "we're going on an Expotition, all of us, with things to eat. To discover something." "To discover what?" said Piglet anxiously. "Oh! just something." "Nothing fierce?" "Christopher Robin didn't say anything about fierce. He just said it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore." "What I say," said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody," said Eeyore. "I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole. And as they walked, they chattered to each other of this and that, all except Pooh, who was making up a song. "This is the first verse," he said to Piglet, when he was ready with it. "First verse of what?" "My song." "What song?" "This one." "Which one?" "Well, if you listen, Piglet, you'll hear it." "How do you know I'm not listening?" Pooh couldn't answer that one, so he began to sing. "They all went off to discover the Pole, Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all; It's a Thing you Discover, as I've been tole By Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all. Eeyore, Christopher Robin and Pooh And Rabbit's relations all went too-- And where the Pole was none of them knew.... Sing Hey! for Owl and Rabbit and all!" "Hush!" said Christopher Robin turning round to Pooh, "we're just coming to a Dangerous Place." "Hush!" said Pooh turning round quickly to Piglet. "Hush!" said Piglet to Kanga. "Hush!" said Kanga to Owl, while Roo said "Hush!" several times to himself very quietly. "Hush!" said Owl to Eeyore. "_Hush!_" said Eeyore in a terrible voice to all Rabbit's friends-and-relations, and "Hush!" they said hastily to each other all down the line, until it got to the last one of all. And the last and smallest friend-and-relation was so upset to find that the whole Expotition was saying "Hush!" to _him_, that he buried himself head downwards in a crack in the ground, and stayed there for two days until the danger
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rains or snows, 'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice new nose, I don't much care if it snows or thaws, 'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice clean paws! Sing Ho! for a Bear! Sing Ho! for a Pooh! And I'll have a little something in an hour or two!" He was so pleased with this song that he sang it all the way to the top of the Forest, "and if I go on singing it much longer," he thought, "it will be time for the little something, and then the last line won't be true." So he turned it into a hum instead. Christopher Robin was sitting outside his door, putting on his Big Boots. As soon as he saw the Big Boots, Pooh knew that an Adventure was going to happen, and he brushed the honey off his nose with the back of his paw, and spruced himself up as well as he could, so as to look Ready for Anything. "Good-morning, Christopher Robin," he called out. "Hallo, Pooh Bear. I can't get this boot on." "That's bad," said Pooh. "Do you think you could very kindly lean against me, 'cos I keep pulling so hard that I fall over backwards." Pooh sat down, dug his feet into the ground, and pushed hard against Christopher Robin's back, and Christopher Robin pushed hard against his, and pulled and pulled at his boot until he had got it on. "And that's that," said Pooh. "What do we do next?" "We are all going on an Expedition," said Christopher Robin, as he got up and brushed himself. "Thank you, Pooh." "Going on an Expotition?" said Pooh eagerly. "I don't think I've ever been on one of those. Where are we going to on this Expotition?" "Expedition, silly old Bear. It's got an 'x' in it." "Oh!" said Pooh. "I know." But he didn't really. "We're going to discover the North Pole." "Oh!" said Pooh again. "What _is_ the North Pole?" he asked. "It's just a thing you discover," said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself. "Oh! I see," said Pooh. "Are bears any good at discovering it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?"<|quote|>"Things to eat."</|quote|>"Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover it." "We are, are we?" said Rabbit. "Yes. And we've got to bring Pro--things to eat with us. In case we want to eat them. Now I'm going down to Piglet's. Tell Kanga, will you?" He left Rabbit and hurried down to Piglet's house. The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that it would be never, and was trying to remember what "_it_" was, and hoping it wasn't anything nice, when Pooh came up. "Oh! Piglet," said Pooh excitedly, "we're going on an Expotition, all of us, with things to eat. To discover something." "To discover what?" said Piglet anxiously. "Oh! just something." "Nothing fierce?" "Christopher Robin didn't say anything about fierce. He just said it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore." "What I say," said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't
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Winnie The Pooh
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Trying to look and feel like a European, the chauffeur interposed aggressively. He still wore a topi, despite the darkness, and his face, to which the Ruling Race had contributed little beyond bad teeth, peered out of it pathetically, and seemed to say, "What's it all about? Don't worry me so, you blacks and whites. Here I am, stuck in dam India same as you, and you got to fit me in better than this."
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No speaker
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left alone all the night."<|quote|>Trying to look and feel like a European, the chauffeur interposed aggressively. He still wore a topi, despite the darkness, and his face, to which the Ruling Race had contributed little beyond bad teeth, peered out of it pathetically, and seemed to say, "What's it all about? Don't worry me so, you blacks and whites. Here I am, stuck in dam India same as you, and you got to fit me in better than this."</|quote|>"Nussu will bring you out
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my dinner? I can't be left alone all the night."<|quote|>Trying to look and feel like a European, the chauffeur interposed aggressively. He still wore a topi, despite the darkness, and his face, to which the Ruling Race had contributed little beyond bad teeth, peered out of it pathetically, and seemed to say, "What's it all about? Don't worry me so, you blacks and whites. Here I am, stuck in dam India same as you, and you got to fit me in better than this."</|quote|>"Nussu will bring you out some suitable dinner upon a
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it is. I'll take three of you if one'll sit in front and nurse a pug. No more." "I will sit in front," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Then hop in: I've no notion who you are." "Heh no, what about my dinner? I can't be left alone all the night."<|quote|>Trying to look and feel like a European, the chauffeur interposed aggressively. He still wore a topi, despite the darkness, and his face, to which the Ruling Race had contributed little beyond bad teeth, peered out of it pathetically, and seemed to say, "What's it all about? Don't worry me so, you blacks and whites. Here I am, stuck in dam India same as you, and you got to fit me in better than this."</|quote|>"Nussu will bring you out some suitable dinner upon a bicycle," said the Nawab Bahadur, who had regained his usual dignity. "I shall despatch him with all possible speed. Meanwhile, repair my car." They sped off, and Mr. Harris, after a reproachful glance, squatted down upon his hams. When English
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hyena!" "How absolutely rotten!" "Can you give us a lift?" "Yes, indeed." "Take me too," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Heh, what about me?" cried Mr. Harris. "Now what's all this? I'm not an omnibus," said Miss Derek with decision. "I've a harmonium and two dogs in here with me as it is. I'll take three of you if one'll sit in front and nurse a pug. No more." "I will sit in front," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Then hop in: I've no notion who you are." "Heh no, what about my dinner? I can't be left alone all the night."<|quote|>Trying to look and feel like a European, the chauffeur interposed aggressively. He still wore a topi, despite the darkness, and his face, to which the Ruling Race had contributed little beyond bad teeth, peered out of it pathetically, and seemed to say, "What's it all about? Don't worry me so, you blacks and whites. Here I am, stuck in dam India same as you, and you got to fit me in better than this."</|quote|>"Nussu will bring you out some suitable dinner upon a bicycle," said the Nawab Bahadur, who had regained his usual dignity. "I shall despatch him with all possible speed. Meanwhile, repair my car." They sped off, and Mr. Harris, after a reproachful glance, squatted down upon his hams. When English and Indians were both present, he grew self-conscious, because he did not know to whom he belonged. For a little he was vexed by opposite currents in his blood, then they blended, and he belonged to no one but himself. But Miss Derek was in tearing spirits. She had succeeded
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started sooner: because English people are so calm at a crisis, it is not to be assumed that they are unimportant. The Nawab Bahadur had not come out very well. At that moment a large car approached from the opposite direction. Ronny advanced a few steps down the road, and with authority in his voice and gesture stopped it. It bore the inscription "Mudkul State" across its bonnet. All friskiness and friendliness, Miss Derek sat inside. "Mr. Heaslop, Miss Quested, what are you holding up an innocent female for?" "We've had a breakdown." "But how putrid!" "We ran into a hyena!" "How absolutely rotten!" "Can you give us a lift?" "Yes, indeed." "Take me too," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Heh, what about me?" cried Mr. Harris. "Now what's all this? I'm not an omnibus," said Miss Derek with decision. "I've a harmonium and two dogs in here with me as it is. I'll take three of you if one'll sit in front and nurse a pug. No more." "I will sit in front," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Then hop in: I've no notion who you are." "Heh no, what about my dinner? I can't be left alone all the night."<|quote|>Trying to look and feel like a European, the chauffeur interposed aggressively. He still wore a topi, despite the darkness, and his face, to which the Ruling Race had contributed little beyond bad teeth, peered out of it pathetically, and seemed to say, "What's it all about? Don't worry me so, you blacks and whites. Here I am, stuck in dam India same as you, and you got to fit me in better than this."</|quote|>"Nussu will bring you out some suitable dinner upon a bicycle," said the Nawab Bahadur, who had regained his usual dignity. "I shall despatch him with all possible speed. Meanwhile, repair my car." They sped off, and Mr. Harris, after a reproachful glance, squatted down upon his hams. When English and Indians were both present, he grew self-conscious, because he did not know to whom he belonged. For a little he was vexed by opposite currents in his blood, then they blended, and he belonged to no one but himself. But Miss Derek was in tearing spirits. She had succeeded in stealing the Mudkul car. Her Maharajah would be awfully sick, but she didn't mind, he could sack her if he liked. "I don't believe in these people letting you down," she said. "If I didn't snatch like the devil, I should be nowhere. He doesn't want the car, silly fool! Surely it's to the credit of his State I should be seen about in it at Chandrapore during my leave. He ought to look at it that way. Anyhow he's got to look at it that way. My Maharani's different my Maharani's a dear. That's her fox terrier, poor
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excitement knelt and swept her skirts about, until it was she if anyone who appeared to have attacked the car. The incident was a great relief to them both. They forgot their abortive personal relationship, and felt adventurous as they muddled about in the dust. "I believe it was a buffalo," she called to their host, who had not accompanied them. "Exactly." "Unless it was a hyena." Ronny approved this last conjecture. Hyenas prowl in nullahs and headlights dazzle them. "Excellent, a hyena," said the Indian with an angry irony and a gesture at the night. "Mr. Harris!" "Half a mo-ment. Give me ten minutes' time." "Sahib says hyena." "Don't worry Mr. Harris. He saved us from a nasty smash. Harris, well done!" "A smash, sahib, that would not have taken place had he obeyed and taken us Gangavati side, instead of Marabar." "My fault that. I told him to come this way because the road's better. Mr. Lesley has made it pukka right up to the hills." "Ah, now I begin to understand." Seeming to pull himself together, he apologized slowly and elaborately for the accident. Ronny murmured, "Not at all," but apologies were his due, and should have started sooner: because English people are so calm at a crisis, it is not to be assumed that they are unimportant. The Nawab Bahadur had not come out very well. At that moment a large car approached from the opposite direction. Ronny advanced a few steps down the road, and with authority in his voice and gesture stopped it. It bore the inscription "Mudkul State" across its bonnet. All friskiness and friendliness, Miss Derek sat inside. "Mr. Heaslop, Miss Quested, what are you holding up an innocent female for?" "We've had a breakdown." "But how putrid!" "We ran into a hyena!" "How absolutely rotten!" "Can you give us a lift?" "Yes, indeed." "Take me too," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Heh, what about me?" cried Mr. Harris. "Now what's all this? I'm not an omnibus," said Miss Derek with decision. "I've a harmonium and two dogs in here with me as it is. I'll take three of you if one'll sit in front and nurse a pug. No more." "I will sit in front," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Then hop in: I've no notion who you are." "Heh no, what about my dinner? I can't be left alone all the night."<|quote|>Trying to look and feel like a European, the chauffeur interposed aggressively. He still wore a topi, despite the darkness, and his face, to which the Ruling Race had contributed little beyond bad teeth, peered out of it pathetically, and seemed to say, "What's it all about? Don't worry me so, you blacks and whites. Here I am, stuck in dam India same as you, and you got to fit me in better than this."</|quote|>"Nussu will bring you out some suitable dinner upon a bicycle," said the Nawab Bahadur, who had regained his usual dignity. "I shall despatch him with all possible speed. Meanwhile, repair my car." They sped off, and Mr. Harris, after a reproachful glance, squatted down upon his hams. When English and Indians were both present, he grew self-conscious, because he did not know to whom he belonged. For a little he was vexed by opposite currents in his blood, then they blended, and he belonged to no one but himself. But Miss Derek was in tearing spirits. She had succeeded in stealing the Mudkul car. Her Maharajah would be awfully sick, but she didn't mind, he could sack her if he liked. "I don't believe in these people letting you down," she said. "If I didn't snatch like the devil, I should be nowhere. He doesn't want the car, silly fool! Surely it's to the credit of his State I should be seen about in it at Chandrapore during my leave. He ought to look at it that way. Anyhow he's got to look at it that way. My Maharani's different my Maharani's a dear. That's her fox terrier, poor little devil. I fished them out both with the driver. Imagine taking dogs to a Chiefs' Conference! As sensible as taking Chiefs, perhaps." She shrieked with laughter. "The harmonium the harmonium's my little mistake, I own. They rather had me over the harmonium. I meant it to stop on the train. Oh lor'!" Ronny laughed with restraint. He did not approve of English people taking service under the Native States, where they obtain a certain amount of influence, but at the expense of the general prestige. The humorous triumphs of a free lance are of no assistance to an administrator, and he told the young lady that she would outdo Indians at their own game if she went on much longer. "They always sack me before that happens, and then I get another job. The whole of India seethes with Maharanis and Ranis and Begums who clamour for such as me." "Really. I had no idea." "How could you have any idea, Mr. Heaslop? What should he know about Maharanis, Miss Quested? Nothing. At least I should hope not." "I understand those big people are not particularly interesting," said Adela, quietly, disliking the young woman's tone. Her hand touched Ronny's
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The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting. "We had some luck butting that tree." "All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again. "Wasn't the bridge. We skidded." "We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow this electric torch." The English people walked a few steps back into the darkness, united and happy. Thanks to their youth and upbringing, they were not upset by the accident. They traced back the writhing of the tyres to the source of their disturbance. It was just after the exit from a bridge; the animal had probably come up out of the nullah. Steady and smooth ran the marks of the car, ribbons neatly nicked with lozenges, then all went mad. Certainly some external force had impinged, but the road had been used by too many objects for any one track to be legible, and the torch created such high lights and black shadows that they could not interpret what it revealed. Moreover, Adela in her excitement knelt and swept her skirts about, until it was she if anyone who appeared to have attacked the car. The incident was a great relief to them both. They forgot their abortive personal relationship, and felt adventurous as they muddled about in the dust. "I believe it was a buffalo," she called to their host, who had not accompanied them. "Exactly." "Unless it was a hyena." Ronny approved this last conjecture. Hyenas prowl in nullahs and headlights dazzle them. "Excellent, a hyena," said the Indian with an angry irony and a gesture at the night. "Mr. Harris!" "Half a mo-ment. Give me ten minutes' time." "Sahib says hyena." "Don't worry Mr. Harris. He saved us from a nasty smash. Harris, well done!" "A smash, sahib, that would not have taken place had he obeyed and taken us Gangavati side, instead of Marabar." "My fault that. I told him to come this way because the road's better. Mr. Lesley has made it pukka right up to the hills." "Ah, now I begin to understand." Seeming to pull himself together, he apologized slowly and elaborately for the accident. Ronny murmured, "Not at all," but apologies were his due, and should have started sooner: because English people are so calm at a crisis, it is not to be assumed that they are unimportant. The Nawab Bahadur had not come out very well. At that moment a large car approached from the opposite direction. Ronny advanced a few steps down the road, and with authority in his voice and gesture stopped it. It bore the inscription "Mudkul State" across its bonnet. All friskiness and friendliness, Miss Derek sat inside. "Mr. Heaslop, Miss Quested, what are you holding up an innocent female for?" "We've had a breakdown." "But how putrid!" "We ran into a hyena!" "How absolutely rotten!" "Can you give us a lift?" "Yes, indeed." "Take me too," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Heh, what about me?" cried Mr. Harris. "Now what's all this? I'm not an omnibus," said Miss Derek with decision. "I've a harmonium and two dogs in here with me as it is. I'll take three of you if one'll sit in front and nurse a pug. No more." "I will sit in front," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Then hop in: I've no notion who you are." "Heh no, what about my dinner? I can't be left alone all the night."<|quote|>Trying to look and feel like a European, the chauffeur interposed aggressively. He still wore a topi, despite the darkness, and his face, to which the Ruling Race had contributed little beyond bad teeth, peered out of it pathetically, and seemed to say, "What's it all about? Don't worry me so, you blacks and whites. Here I am, stuck in dam India same as you, and you got to fit me in better than this."</|quote|>"Nussu will bring you out some suitable dinner upon a bicycle," said the Nawab Bahadur, who had regained his usual dignity. "I shall despatch him with all possible speed. Meanwhile, repair my car." They sped off, and Mr. Harris, after a reproachful glance, squatted down upon his hams. When English and Indians were both present, he grew self-conscious, because he did not know to whom he belonged. For a little he was vexed by opposite currents in his blood, then they blended, and he belonged to no one but himself. But Miss Derek was in tearing spirits. She had succeeded in stealing the Mudkul car. Her Maharajah would be awfully sick, but she didn't mind, he could sack her if he liked. "I don't believe in these people letting you down," she said. "If I didn't snatch like the devil, I should be nowhere. He doesn't want the car, silly fool! Surely it's to the credit of his State I should be seen about in it at Chandrapore during my leave. He ought to look at it that way. Anyhow he's got to look at it that way. My Maharani's different my Maharani's a dear. That's her fox terrier, poor little devil. I fished them out both with the driver. Imagine taking dogs to a Chiefs' Conference! As sensible as taking Chiefs, perhaps." She shrieked with laughter. "The harmonium the harmonium's my little mistake, I own. They rather had me over the harmonium. I meant it to stop on the train. Oh lor'!" Ronny laughed with restraint. He did not approve of English people taking service under the Native States, where they obtain a certain amount of influence, but at the expense of the general prestige. The humorous triumphs of a free lance are of no assistance to an administrator, and he told the young lady that she would outdo Indians at their own game if she went on much longer. "They always sack me before that happens, and then I get another job. The whole of India seethes with Maharanis and Ranis and Begums who clamour for such as me." "Really. I had no idea." "How could you have any idea, Mr. Heaslop? What should he know about Maharanis, Miss Quested? Nothing. At least I should hope not." "I understand those big people are not particularly interesting," said Adela, quietly, disliking the young woman's tone. Her hand touched Ronny's again in the darkness, and to the animal thrill there was now added a coincidence of opinion. "Ah, there you're wrong. They're priceless." "I would scarcely call her wrong," broke out the Nawab Bahadur, from his isolation on the front seat, whither they had relegated him. "A Native State, a Hindu State, the wife of a ruler of a Hindu State, may beyond doubt be a most excellent lady, and let it not be for a moment supposed that I suggest anything against the character of Her Highness the Maharani of Mudkul. But I fear she will be uneducated, I fear she will be superstitious. Indeed, how could she be otherwise? What opportunity of education has such a lady had? Oh, superstition is terrible, terrible! oh, it is the great defect in our Indian character!" and as if to point his criticism, the lights of the civil station appeared on a rise to the right. He grew more and more voluble. "Oh, it is the duty of each and every citizen to shake superstition off, and though I have little experience of Hindu States, and none of this particular one, namely Mudkul (the Ruler, I fancy, has a salute of but eleven guns) yet I cannot imagine that they have been as successful as British India, where we see reason and orderliness spreading in every direction, like a most health-giving flood!" Miss Derek said "Golly!" Undeterred by the expletive, the old man swept on. His tongue had been loosed and his mind had several points to make. He wanted to endorse Miss Quested's remark that big people are not interesting, because he was bigger himself than many an independent chief; at the same time, he must neither remind nor inform her that he was big, lest she felt she had committed a discourtesy. This was the groundwork of his oration; worked in with it was his gratitude to Miss Derek for the lift, his willingness to hold a repulsive dog in his arms, and his general regret for the trouble he had caused the human race during the evening. Also he wanted to be dropped near the city to get hold of his cleaner, and to see what mischief his grandson was up to. As he wove all these anxieties into a single rope, he suspected that his audience felt no interest, and that the City Magistrate fondled either maiden
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ribbons neatly nicked with lozenges, then all went mad. Certainly some external force had impinged, but the road had been used by too many objects for any one track to be legible, and the torch created such high lights and black shadows that they could not interpret what it revealed. Moreover, Adela in her excitement knelt and swept her skirts about, until it was she if anyone who appeared to have attacked the car. The incident was a great relief to them both. They forgot their abortive personal relationship, and felt adventurous as they muddled about in the dust. "I believe it was a buffalo," she called to their host, who had not accompanied them. "Exactly." "Unless it was a hyena." Ronny approved this last conjecture. Hyenas prowl in nullahs and headlights dazzle them. "Excellent, a hyena," said the Indian with an angry irony and a gesture at the night. "Mr. Harris!" "Half a mo-ment. Give me ten minutes' time." "Sahib says hyena." "Don't worry Mr. Harris. He saved us from a nasty smash. Harris, well done!" "A smash, sahib, that would not have taken place had he obeyed and taken us Gangavati side, instead of Marabar." "My fault that. I told him to come this way because the road's better. Mr. Lesley has made it pukka right up to the hills." "Ah, now I begin to understand." Seeming to pull himself together, he apologized slowly and elaborately for the accident. Ronny murmured, "Not at all," but apologies were his due, and should have started sooner: because English people are so calm at a crisis, it is not to be assumed that they are unimportant. The Nawab Bahadur had not come out very well. At that moment a large car approached from the opposite direction. Ronny advanced a few steps down the road, and with authority in his voice and gesture stopped it. It bore the inscription "Mudkul State" across its bonnet. All friskiness and friendliness, Miss Derek sat inside. "Mr. Heaslop, Miss Quested, what are you holding up an innocent female for?" "We've had a breakdown." "But how putrid!" "We ran into a hyena!" "How absolutely rotten!" "Can you give us a lift?" "Yes, indeed." "Take me too," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Heh, what about me?" cried Mr. Harris. "Now what's all this? I'm not an omnibus," said Miss Derek with decision. "I've a harmonium and two dogs in here with me as it is. I'll take three of you if one'll sit in front and nurse a pug. No more." "I will sit in front," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Then hop in: I've no notion who you are." "Heh no, what about my dinner? I can't be left alone all the night."<|quote|>Trying to look and feel like a European, the chauffeur interposed aggressively. He still wore a topi, despite the darkness, and his face, to which the Ruling Race had contributed little beyond bad teeth, peered out of it pathetically, and seemed to say, "What's it all about? Don't worry me so, you blacks and whites. Here I am, stuck in dam India same as you, and you got to fit me in better than this."</|quote|>"Nussu will bring you out some suitable dinner upon a bicycle," said the Nawab Bahadur, who had regained his usual dignity. "I shall despatch him with all possible speed. Meanwhile, repair my car." They sped off, and Mr. Harris, after a reproachful glance, squatted down upon his hams. When English and Indians were both present, he grew self-conscious, because he did not know to whom he belonged. For a little he was vexed by opposite currents in his blood, then they blended, and he belonged to no one but himself. But Miss Derek was in tearing spirits. She had succeeded in stealing the Mudkul car. Her Maharajah would be awfully sick, but she didn't mind, he could sack her if he liked. "I don't believe in these people letting you down," she said. "If I didn't snatch like the devil, I should be nowhere. He doesn't want the car, silly fool! Surely it's to the credit of his State I should be seen about in it at Chandrapore during my leave. He ought to look at it that way. Anyhow he's got to look at it that way. My Maharani's different my Maharani's a dear. That's her fox terrier, poor little devil. I fished them out both with the driver. Imagine taking dogs to a Chiefs' Conference! As sensible as taking Chiefs, perhaps." She shrieked with laughter. "The harmonium the harmonium's my little mistake, I own. They rather had me over the harmonium. I meant it to stop on the train. Oh lor'!" Ronny laughed with restraint. He did not approve of English people taking service under the Native States, where they obtain a certain amount of influence, but at the expense of the general prestige. The humorous triumphs of a free lance are of no assistance to an administrator, and he told the young lady that she would outdo Indians at their own game if she went on much longer. "They always sack me before that happens, and then I get another job. The whole of India seethes with Maharanis and Ranis and Begums who clamour for such as me." "Really. I had no idea." "How could you have any idea, Mr. Heaslop? What should he know about Maharanis, Miss Quested? Nothing. At least I should hope not." "I understand those big people are not particularly interesting," said Adela, quietly, disliking the young woman's tone. Her hand touched Ronny's again in the darkness, and to the animal thrill there was now added a coincidence of opinion. "Ah, there you're wrong. They're priceless." "I would scarcely call her wrong," broke out the Nawab Bahadur, from his isolation on the front seat, whither they had relegated him. "A Native State, a Hindu State, the wife of a ruler of a Hindu State, may beyond doubt be a most excellent lady, and let it not be for a moment supposed that I suggest anything against the character of Her Highness the Maharani of Mudkul. But I fear she will be uneducated, I fear she will be superstitious. Indeed,
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A Passage To India
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"But, son, what have we to do with genies? I never heard that any of my acquaintance had ever seen one. How came that vile genie to address himself to me, and not to you, to whom he had appeared before in the cave?"
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Mother
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genie; and said to him:<|quote|>"But, son, what have we to do with genies? I never heard that any of my acquaintance had ever seen one. How came that vile genie to address himself to me, and not to you, to whom he had appeared before in the cave?"</|quote|>"Mother," answered Aladdin, "the genie
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at the appearance of the genie; and said to him:<|quote|>"But, son, what have we to do with genies? I never heard that any of my acquaintance had ever seen one. How came that vile genie to address himself to me, and not to you, to whom he had appeared before in the cave?"</|quote|>"Mother," answered Aladdin, "the genie you saw is not the
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you should satisfy my impatience, and tell me exactly what passed between the genie and you while I was in a swoon;" which he readily complied with. She was in as great amazement at what her son told her, as at the appearance of the genie; and said to him:<|quote|>"But, son, what have we to do with genies? I never heard that any of my acquaintance had ever seen one. How came that vile genie to address himself to me, and not to you, to whom he had appeared before in the cave?"</|quote|>"Mother," answered Aladdin, "the genie you saw is not the one who appeared to me, though he resembles him in size; no, they had quite different persons and habits; they belong to different masters. If you remember, he that I first saw called himself the slave of the ring on
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best to put the two meals together; yet after this they found they should have enough left for supper, and two meals for the next day. When Aladdin's mother had taken away what was left, she went and sat by her son on the sofa, saying: "I expect now that you should satisfy my impatience, and tell me exactly what passed between the genie and you while I was in a swoon;" which he readily complied with. She was in as great amazement at what her son told her, as at the appearance of the genie; and said to him:<|quote|>"But, son, what have we to do with genies? I never heard that any of my acquaintance had ever seen one. How came that vile genie to address himself to me, and not to you, to whom he had appeared before in the cave?"</|quote|>"Mother," answered Aladdin, "the genie you saw is not the one who appeared to me, though he resembles him in size; no, they had quite different persons and habits; they belong to different masters. If you remember, he that I first saw called himself the slave of the ring on my finger; and this you saw, called himself the slave of the lamp you had in your hand: but I believe you did not hear him, for I think you fainted as soon as he began to speak." "What!" cried the mother, "was your lamp then the occasion of that
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us sit down and eat, for you have almost as much need of breakfast as myself; when we have done, I will tell you." Accordingly, both mother and son sat down, and ate with the better relish as the table was so well furnished. But all the time Aladdin's mother could not forbear looking at and admiring the dishes, though she could not judge whether they were silver or any other metal, and the novelty more than the value attracted her attention. The mother and son sat at breakfast till it was dinner-time, and then they thought it would be best to put the two meals together; yet after this they found they should have enough left for supper, and two meals for the next day. When Aladdin's mother had taken away what was left, she went and sat by her son on the sofa, saying: "I expect now that you should satisfy my impatience, and tell me exactly what passed between the genie and you while I was in a swoon;" which he readily complied with. She was in as great amazement at what her son told her, as at the appearance of the genie; and said to him:<|quote|>"But, son, what have we to do with genies? I never heard that any of my acquaintance had ever seen one. How came that vile genie to address himself to me, and not to you, to whom he had appeared before in the cave?"</|quote|>"Mother," answered Aladdin, "the genie you saw is not the one who appeared to me, though he resembles him in size; no, they had quite different persons and habits; they belong to different masters. If you remember, he that I first saw called himself the slave of the ring on my finger; and this you saw, called himself the slave of the lamp you had in your hand: but I believe you did not hear him, for I think you fainted as soon as he began to speak." "What!" cried the mother, "was your lamp then the occasion of that cursed genie's addressing himself rather to me than to you? Ah! my son, take it out of my sight, and put it where you please. I will never touch it. I had rather you would sell it, than run the hazard of being frightened to death again by touching it: and if you would take my advice, you would part also with the ring, and not have anything to do with genies, who, as our prophet has told us, are only devils." "With your leave, mother," replied Aladdin, "I shall take care how I sell a lamp which may be
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bring me something to eat." The genie disappeared immediately, and in an instant returned with a large silver tray, holding twelve covered dishes of the same metal, which contained the most delicious viands; six large white bread-cakes on two plates, two flagons of wine, and two silver cups. All these he placed upon a carpet, and disappeared: this was done before Aladdin's mother recovered from her swoon. Aladdin fetched some water, and sprinkled it in her face, to recover her: whether that or the smell of the meat brought her to life again, it was not long before she came to herself. "Mother," said Aladdin, "do not mind this; here is what will put you in heart, and at the same time satisfy my extreme hunger: do not let such delicious meat get cold." His mother was much surprised to see the great tray, twelve dishes, six loaves, the two flagons and cups, and to smell the savoury odour which exhaled from the dishes. "Child," said she, "to whom are we obliged for this great plenty and liberality; has the sultan been made acquainted with our poverty, and had compassion on us?" "It is no matter, mother," said Aladdin; "let us sit down and eat, for you have almost as much need of breakfast as myself; when we have done, I will tell you." Accordingly, both mother and son sat down, and ate with the better relish as the table was so well furnished. But all the time Aladdin's mother could not forbear looking at and admiring the dishes, though she could not judge whether they were silver or any other metal, and the novelty more than the value attracted her attention. The mother and son sat at breakfast till it was dinner-time, and then they thought it would be best to put the two meals together; yet after this they found they should have enough left for supper, and two meals for the next day. When Aladdin's mother had taken away what was left, she went and sat by her son on the sofa, saying: "I expect now that you should satisfy my impatience, and tell me exactly what passed between the genie and you while I was in a swoon;" which he readily complied with. She was in as great amazement at what her son told her, as at the appearance of the genie; and said to him:<|quote|>"But, son, what have we to do with genies? I never heard that any of my acquaintance had ever seen one. How came that vile genie to address himself to me, and not to you, to whom he had appeared before in the cave?"</|quote|>"Mother," answered Aladdin, "the genie you saw is not the one who appeared to me, though he resembles him in size; no, they had quite different persons and habits; they belong to different masters. If you remember, he that I first saw called himself the slave of the ring on my finger; and this you saw, called himself the slave of the lamp you had in your hand: but I believe you did not hear him, for I think you fainted as soon as he began to speak." "What!" cried the mother, "was your lamp then the occasion of that cursed genie's addressing himself rather to me than to you? Ah! my son, take it out of my sight, and put it where you please. I will never touch it. I had rather you would sell it, than run the hazard of being frightened to death again by touching it: and if you would take my advice, you would part also with the ring, and not have anything to do with genies, who, as our prophet has told us, are only devils." "With your leave, mother," replied Aladdin, "I shall take care how I sell a lamp which may be so serviceable both to you and me. Have you not been an eye-witness of what it has procured us? and it shall still continue to furnish us with subsistence. My false and wicked uncle would not have taken so much pains, and undertaken so long a journey, if it had not been to get into his possession this wonderful lamp, which he preferred before all the gold and silver which he knew was in the halls. He knew too well the worth of this lamp, not to prefer it to so great a treasure; and since chance hath discovered the virtue of it to us, let us make a profitable use of it, without making any great show, and exciting the envy and jealousy of our neighbours. However, since the genies frighten you so much, I will take it out of your sight, and put it where I may find it when I want it. The ring I cannot resolve to part with; for without that you had never seen me again; and though I am alive now, perhaps, if it was gone, I might not be so some moments hence; therefore I hope you will give me leave to
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assassin, deceiver, magician, and an enemy and destroyer of mankind. "Without doubt, child," added she, "he is a magician, and they are plagues to the world, and by their enchantments and sorceries have commerce with the devil. Bless God for preserving you from his wicked designs; for your death would have been inevitable, if you had not called upon Him, and implored His assistance." She said a great deal more against the magician's treachery; but finding that whilst she talked, Aladdin began to doze, she left him to his repose, and retired. Aladdin, who had not closed his eyes while he was in the subterranean abode, slept very soundly till late the next morning; when the first thing he said to his mother was, that he wanted something to eat, and that she could not do him a greater kindness than to give him his breakfast. "Alas! child," said she, "I have not a bit of bread to give you, you ate up all the provisions I had in the house yesterday; but have a little patience, and it shall not be long before I will bring you some: I have a little cotton, which I have spun; I will go and sell it, buy bread, and something for our dinner." "Mother," replied Aladdin, "keep your cotton for another time, and give me the lamp I brought home with me yesterday; I will go and sell it, and the money I shall get for it will serve both for breakfast and dinner, and perhaps supper too." Aladdin's mother took the lamp, and said to her son: "Here it is, but it is very dirty; if it was a little cleaner I believe it would bring something more." She took some fine sand and water to clean it; but had no sooner begun to rub it, than in an instant a hideous genie of gigantic size appeared before her, and said to her in a voice like thunder: "What wouldst thou have? I am ready to obey thee as thy slave, and the slave of all those who have that lamp in their hands; I and the other slaves of the lamp." Aladdin's mother, terrified at the sight of the genie, fainted; when the lad, who had seen such another phantom in the cavern, snatched the lamp out of his mother's hand, and said to the genie boldly: "I am hungry, bring me something to eat." The genie disappeared immediately, and in an instant returned with a large silver tray, holding twelve covered dishes of the same metal, which contained the most delicious viands; six large white bread-cakes on two plates, two flagons of wine, and two silver cups. All these he placed upon a carpet, and disappeared: this was done before Aladdin's mother recovered from her swoon. Aladdin fetched some water, and sprinkled it in her face, to recover her: whether that or the smell of the meat brought her to life again, it was not long before she came to herself. "Mother," said Aladdin, "do not mind this; here is what will put you in heart, and at the same time satisfy my extreme hunger: do not let such delicious meat get cold." His mother was much surprised to see the great tray, twelve dishes, six loaves, the two flagons and cups, and to smell the savoury odour which exhaled from the dishes. "Child," said she, "to whom are we obliged for this great plenty and liberality; has the sultan been made acquainted with our poverty, and had compassion on us?" "It is no matter, mother," said Aladdin; "let us sit down and eat, for you have almost as much need of breakfast as myself; when we have done, I will tell you." Accordingly, both mother and son sat down, and ate with the better relish as the table was so well furnished. But all the time Aladdin's mother could not forbear looking at and admiring the dishes, though she could not judge whether they were silver or any other metal, and the novelty more than the value attracted her attention. The mother and son sat at breakfast till it was dinner-time, and then they thought it would be best to put the two meals together; yet after this they found they should have enough left for supper, and two meals for the next day. When Aladdin's mother had taken away what was left, she went and sat by her son on the sofa, saying: "I expect now that you should satisfy my impatience, and tell me exactly what passed between the genie and you while I was in a swoon;" which he readily complied with. She was in as great amazement at what her son told her, as at the appearance of the genie; and said to him:<|quote|>"But, son, what have we to do with genies? I never heard that any of my acquaintance had ever seen one. How came that vile genie to address himself to me, and not to you, to whom he had appeared before in the cave?"</|quote|>"Mother," answered Aladdin, "the genie you saw is not the one who appeared to me, though he resembles him in size; no, they had quite different persons and habits; they belong to different masters. If you remember, he that I first saw called himself the slave of the ring on my finger; and this you saw, called himself the slave of the lamp you had in your hand: but I believe you did not hear him, for I think you fainted as soon as he began to speak." "What!" cried the mother, "was your lamp then the occasion of that cursed genie's addressing himself rather to me than to you? Ah! my son, take it out of my sight, and put it where you please. I will never touch it. I had rather you would sell it, than run the hazard of being frightened to death again by touching it: and if you would take my advice, you would part also with the ring, and not have anything to do with genies, who, as our prophet has told us, are only devils." "With your leave, mother," replied Aladdin, "I shall take care how I sell a lamp which may be so serviceable both to you and me. Have you not been an eye-witness of what it has procured us? and it shall still continue to furnish us with subsistence. My false and wicked uncle would not have taken so much pains, and undertaken so long a journey, if it had not been to get into his possession this wonderful lamp, which he preferred before all the gold and silver which he knew was in the halls. He knew too well the worth of this lamp, not to prefer it to so great a treasure; and since chance hath discovered the virtue of it to us, let us make a profitable use of it, without making any great show, and exciting the envy and jealousy of our neighbours. However, since the genies frighten you so much, I will take it out of your sight, and put it where I may find it when I want it. The ring I cannot resolve to part with; for without that you had never seen me again; and though I am alive now, perhaps, if it was gone, I might not be so some moments hence; therefore I hope you will give me leave to keep it, and to wear it always on my finger. Who knows what dangers you and I may be exposed to, which neither of us can foresee, and from which it may deliver us?" As Aladdin's arguments were just, his mother had nothing to say against them; she only replied, that he might do what he pleased; for her part, she would have nothing to do with genies, but would wash her hands of them. By the next night they had eaten all the provisions the genie had brought: and the next day Aladdin, who could not bear the thought of hunger, putting one of the silver dishes under his vest, went out early to sell it, and addressing himself to a Jew whom he met in the streets, took him aside, and pulling out the plate, asked him if he would buy it. The cunning Jew took the dish, examined it, and as soon as he found that it was good silver, asked Aladdin at how much he valued it. Aladdin, who knew not its value, and never had been used to such traffic, told him he would trust to his judgment and honour. The Jew was somewhat confounded at this plain dealing; and doubting whether Aladdin understood the material or the full value of what he offered to sell, took a piece of gold out of his purse and gave it to him, though it was but the sixtieth part of the worth of the plate. Aladdin, taking the money very eagerly, retired with so much haste, that the Jew, not content with the exorbitancy of his profit, was vexed he had not penetrated into his ignorance, and was going to run after him, to endeavour to get some change out of the piece of gold; but the lad ran so fast, and had got so far, that it would have been impossible for him to overtake him. Before Aladdin went home, he called at a baker's, bought some cakes of bread, changed his money, and on his return gave the rest to his mother, who went and purchased provisions enough to last them some time. After this manner they lived, till Aladdin had sold the twelve dishes singly, as necessity pressed, to the Jew, for the same money; who, after the first time, durst not offer him less, for fear of losing so good a bargain. When
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satisfy my extreme hunger: do not let such delicious meat get cold." His mother was much surprised to see the great tray, twelve dishes, six loaves, the two flagons and cups, and to smell the savoury odour which exhaled from the dishes. "Child," said she, "to whom are we obliged for this great plenty and liberality; has the sultan been made acquainted with our poverty, and had compassion on us?" "It is no matter, mother," said Aladdin; "let us sit down and eat, for you have almost as much need of breakfast as myself; when we have done, I will tell you." Accordingly, both mother and son sat down, and ate with the better relish as the table was so well furnished. But all the time Aladdin's mother could not forbear looking at and admiring the dishes, though she could not judge whether they were silver or any other metal, and the novelty more than the value attracted her attention. The mother and son sat at breakfast till it was dinner-time, and then they thought it would be best to put the two meals together; yet after this they found they should have enough left for supper, and two meals for the next day. When Aladdin's mother had taken away what was left, she went and sat by her son on the sofa, saying: "I expect now that you should satisfy my impatience, and tell me exactly what passed between the genie and you while I was in a swoon;" which he readily complied with. She was in as great amazement at what her son told her, as at the appearance of the genie; and said to him:<|quote|>"But, son, what have we to do with genies? I never heard that any of my acquaintance had ever seen one. How came that vile genie to address himself to me, and not to you, to whom he had appeared before in the cave?"</|quote|>"Mother," answered Aladdin, "the genie you saw is not the one who appeared to me, though he resembles him in size; no, they had quite different persons and habits; they belong to different masters. If you remember, he that I first saw called himself the slave of the ring on my finger; and this you saw, called himself the slave of the lamp you had in your hand: but I believe you did not hear him, for I think you fainted as soon as he began to speak." "What!" cried the mother, "was your lamp then the occasion of that cursed genie's addressing himself rather to me than to you? Ah! my son, take it out of my sight, and put it where you please. I will never touch it. I had rather you would sell it, than run the hazard of being frightened to death again by touching it: and if you would take my advice, you would part also with the ring, and not have anything to do with genies, who, as our prophet has told us, are only devils." "With your leave, mother," replied Aladdin, "I shall take care how I sell a lamp which may be so serviceable both to you and me. Have you not been an eye-witness of what it has procured us? and it shall still continue to furnish
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Arabian Nights (4)
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“Do you desire it very particularly?”
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Grace
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making a figure in it?<|quote|>“Do you desire it very particularly?”</|quote|>was, however, all she at
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irritated sense of his not making a figure in it?<|quote|>“Do you desire it very particularly?”</|quote|>was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should
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in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it?<|quote|>“Do you desire it very particularly?”</|quote|>was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to
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as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it?<|quote|>“Do you desire it very particularly?”</|quote|>was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off
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been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it?<|quote|>“Do you desire it very particularly?”</|quote|>was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said, “for still a little more?” He looked for this, verily, as if it was not in reason. “You know,” he then returned, “what he’ll feel that a sign of.” “Well, I’ll tell him what I mean.” “Then I’ll send him
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however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?” he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented. “I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.” “Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.” “Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it?<|quote|>“Do you desire it very particularly?”</|quote|>was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said, “for still a little more?” He looked for this, verily, as if it was not in reason. “You know,” he then returned, “what he’ll feel that a sign of.” “Well, I’ll tell him what I mean.” “Then I’ll send him to you.” He glanced at his watch and was going, but after a “Thanks, father,” she had stopped him. “There’s one thing more.” An embarrassment showed in her manner, but at the cost of some effect of earnest abruptness she surmounted it. “What does your American--Mr. Bender--want?” Lord Theign plainly felt the challenge. “‘My’ American? He’s none of mine!” “Well then Lord John’s.” “He’s none of his either--more, I mean, than any one else’s. He’s every one’s American, literally--to all appearance; and I’ve not to tell _you_, surely, with the freedom of your own visitors, how people stalk in and out here.” “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?” she still insisted. “Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could
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there, audibly mused. But his air changed and a lighter question came up to him as he saw his daughter reappear at the door from the terrace. “Well, the infant horde?” he immediately put to her. Lady Grace came in, dutifully accounting for them. “They’ve marched off--in a huge procession.” “Thank goodness! And our friends?” “All playing tennis,” she said-- “save those who are sitting it out.” To which she added, as to explain her return: “Mr. Crimble has gone?” Lord John took upon him to say. “He’s in the library, to which you addressed him--making discoveries.” “Not then, I hope,” she smiled, “to our disadvantage!” “To your very great honour and glory.” Lord John clearly valued the effect he might produce. “Your Moretto of Brescia--do you know what it really and spendidly is?” And then as the girl, in her surprise, but wondered: “A Mantovano, neither more nor less. Ever so much more swagger.” “A Mantovano?” Lady Grace echoed. “Why, how tremendously jolly!” Her father was struck. “Do you know the artist--of whom I had never heard?” “Yes, something of the little that _is_ known.” And she rejoiced as her knowledge came to her. “He’s a tremendous swell, because, great as he was, there are but seven proved examples----” “With this of yours,” Lord John broke in, “there are eight.” “Then why haven’t I known about him?” Lord Theign put it as if so many other people were guilty for this. His daughter was the first to plead for the vague body. “Why, I suppose in order that you should have exactly this pleasure, father.” “Oh, pleasures not desired are like acquaintances not sought--they rather bore one!” Lord Theign sighed. With which he moved away from her. Her eyes followed him an instant--then she smiled at their guest. “Is he bored at having the higher prize--if you’re sure it _is_ the higher?” “Mr. Crimble is sure--because if he isn’t,” Lord John added, “he’s a wretch.” “Well,” she returned, “as he’s certainly not a wretch it must be true. And fancy,” she exclaimed further, though as more particularly for herself, “our having suddenly incurred this immense debt to him!” “Oh, I shall pay Mr. Crimble!” said her father, who had turned round. The whole question appeared to have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.” His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?” he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented. “I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.” “Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.” “Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it?<|quote|>“Do you desire it very particularly?”</|quote|>was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said, “for still a little more?” He looked for this, verily, as if it was not in reason. “You know,” he then returned, “what he’ll feel that a sign of.” “Well, I’ll tell him what I mean.” “Then I’ll send him to you.” He glanced at his watch and was going, but after a “Thanks, father,” she had stopped him. “There’s one thing more.” An embarrassment showed in her manner, but at the cost of some effect of earnest abruptness she surmounted it. “What does your American--Mr. Bender--want?” Lord Theign plainly felt the challenge. “‘My’ American? He’s none of mine!” “Well then Lord John’s.” “He’s none of his either--more, I mean, than any one else’s. He’s every one’s American, literally--to all appearance; and I’ve not to tell _you_, surely, with the freedom of your own visitors, how people stalk in and out here.” “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?” she still insisted. “Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she asked. Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found at a stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there be a question of it when he only wants Sir Joshuas?” “He wants ours?” the girl gasped. “At absolutely any price.” “But you’re not,” she cried, “discussing it?” He hesitated as between chiding and contenting her--then he handsomely chose. “My dear child, for what do you take me?” With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately perspective, for the saloon. She sank into a chair when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as Hugh Crimble, in search of her, again stood before her. He presented himself as with winged sandals. “What luck to find you! I must take my spin back.” “You’ve seen everything as you wished?” “Oh,” he smiled, “I’ve seen wonders.” She showed her pleasure. “Yes, we’ve got some things.” “So Mr. Bender says!” he laughed. “You’ve got five or six--” “Only five or six?” she cried in bright alarm. “‘Only’?” he continued to laugh. “Why, that’s enormous, five or six things of the first importance! But I think I ought to mention to you,” he added, “a most barefaced ‘Rubens’ there in the library.” “It isn’t a Rubens?” “No more than I’m a Ruskin.” “Then you’ll brand us--expose us for it?” “No, I’ll let you off--I’ll be quiet if you’re good, if you go straight. I’ll only hold it _in terrorem_. One can’t be sure in these dreadful days--that’s always to remember; so that if you’re not good I’ll come down on you with it. But to balance against that threat,” he went on, “I’ve made the very grandest find. At least I believe I have!” She was all there for this news. “Of the Manto-vano--hidden in the other thing?” Hugh wondered--almost as if she had been before him. “You don’t mean to say _you’ve_ had the idea of that?” “No, but my father has told me.” “And is your father,” he eagerly asked, “really gratified?” With her conscious eyes on him--her eyes could clearly
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happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.” “Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.” “Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it?<|quote|>“Do you desire it very particularly?”</|quote|>was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said, “for still a little more?” He looked for this, verily, as if it was not in reason. “You know,” he then returned, “what he’ll feel that a sign of.” “Well, I’ll tell him what I mean.” “Then I’ll send him to you.” He glanced at his watch and was going, but after a “Thanks, father,” she had stopped him. “There’s one thing more.” An embarrassment showed in her manner, but at the cost of some effect of earnest abruptness she surmounted it. “What does your American--Mr. Bender--want?” Lord Theign plainly felt the challenge. “‘My’ American? He’s none of mine!” “Well then Lord John’s.” “He’s none of his either--more, I mean, than any one else’s. He’s every one’s American, literally--to all appearance; and I’ve not to tell _you_, surely, with the freedom of your own visitors, how people stalk in and out here.” “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?” she still insisted. “Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she asked. Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found at a stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there be a question of it when he only wants Sir Joshuas?” “He wants ours?” the girl gasped. “At absolutely any price.” “But you’re not,” she cried, “discussing it?” He hesitated as between chiding and contenting her--then he handsomely chose. “My dear child, for what do you take me?” With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately perspective, for the saloon. She sank into a chair when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as Hugh Crimble, in search of her, again stood before her. He presented himself as with winged sandals. “What luck to find you! I must take my spin back.” “You’ve seen everything as you
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The Outcry
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"Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp"
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Mr. Hastings
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the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein."<|quote|>"Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp"</|quote|>"What?" cried Poirot, in apparently
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"But we were speaking of the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein."<|quote|>"Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp"</|quote|>"What?" cried Poirot, in apparently lively astonishment. "Dr. Bauerstein arrested
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it is obvious!" "Not to me. No doubt I am very dense, but I cannot see what the proximity of the coast has got to do with the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp." "Nothing at all, of course," replied Poirot, smiling. "But we were speaking of the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein."<|quote|>"Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp"</|quote|>"What?" cried Poirot, in apparently lively astonishment. "Dr. Bauerstein arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Yes." "Impossible! That would be too good a farce! Who told you that, my friend?" "Well, no one exactly told me," I confessed. "But he is arrested." "Oh, yes, very likely. But for espionage,
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you not know it?" "Not the least in the world." But, pausing a moment, he added: "Still, it does not surprise me. After all, we are only four miles from the coast." "The coast?" I asked, puzzled. "What has that got to do with it?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Surely, it is obvious!" "Not to me. No doubt I am very dense, but I cannot see what the proximity of the coast has got to do with the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp." "Nothing at all, of course," replied Poirot, smiling. "But we were speaking of the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein."<|quote|>"Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp"</|quote|>"What?" cried Poirot, in apparently lively astonishment. "Dr. Bauerstein arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Yes." "Impossible! That would be too good a farce! Who told you that, my friend?" "Well, no one exactly told me," I confessed. "But he is arrested." "Oh, yes, very likely. But for espionage, _mon ami_." "Espionage?" I gasped. "Precisely." "Not for poisoning Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Not unless our friend Japp has taken leave of his senses," replied Poirot placidly. "But but I thought you thought so too?" Poirot gave me one look, which conveyed a wondering pity, and his full sense of the utter
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breakfast, I decided to go down to the village, and see if Poirot had returned yet; but, before I could start, a well-known face blocked one of the windows, and the well-known voice said: "_Bonjour, mon ami!_" "Poirot," I exclaimed, with relief, and seizing him by both hands, I dragged him into the room. "I was never so glad to see anyone. Listen, I have said nothing to anybody but John. Is that right?" "My friend," replied Poirot, "I do not know what you are talking about." "Dr. Bauerstein's arrest, of course," I answered impatiently. "Is Bauerstein arrested, then?" "Did you not know it?" "Not the least in the world." But, pausing a moment, he added: "Still, it does not surprise me. After all, we are only four miles from the coast." "The coast?" I asked, puzzled. "What has that got to do with it?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Surely, it is obvious!" "Not to me. No doubt I am very dense, but I cannot see what the proximity of the coast has got to do with the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp." "Nothing at all, of course," replied Poirot, smiling. "But we were speaking of the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein."<|quote|>"Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp"</|quote|>"What?" cried Poirot, in apparently lively astonishment. "Dr. Bauerstein arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Yes." "Impossible! That would be too good a farce! Who told you that, my friend?" "Well, no one exactly told me," I confessed. "But he is arrested." "Oh, yes, very likely. But for espionage, _mon ami_." "Espionage?" I gasped. "Precisely." "Not for poisoning Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Not unless our friend Japp has taken leave of his senses," replied Poirot placidly. "But but I thought you thought so too?" Poirot gave me one look, which conveyed a wondering pity, and his full sense of the utter absurdity of such an idea. "Do you mean to say," I asked, slowly adapting myself to the new idea, "that Dr. Bauerstein is a spy?" Poirot nodded. "Have you never suspected it?" "It never entered my head." "It did not strike you as peculiar that a famous London doctor should bury himself in a little village like this, and should be in the habit of walking about at all hours of the night, fully dressed?" "No," I confessed, "I never thought of such a thing." "He is, of course, a German by birth," said Poirot thoughtfully, "though he has practised
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head. Yes, decidedly, the little man was clever. After some reflecting, I decided to take John into my confidence, and leave him to make the matter public or not, as he thought fit. He gave vent to a prodigious whistle, as I imparted the news. "Great Scott! You _were_ right, then. I couldn't believe it at the time." "No, it is astonishing until you get used to the idea, and see how it makes everything fit in. Now, what are we to do? Of course, it will be generally known to-morrow." John reflected. "Never mind," he said at last, "we won't say anything at present. There is no need. As you say, it will be known soon enough." But to my intense surprise, on getting down early the next morning, and eagerly opening the newspapers, there was not a word about the arrest! There was a column of mere padding about "The Styles Poisoning Case," but nothing further. It was rather inexplicable, but I supposed that, for some reason or other, Japp wished to keep it out of the papers. It worried me just a little, for it suggested the possibility that there might be further arrests to come. After breakfast, I decided to go down to the village, and see if Poirot had returned yet; but, before I could start, a well-known face blocked one of the windows, and the well-known voice said: "_Bonjour, mon ami!_" "Poirot," I exclaimed, with relief, and seizing him by both hands, I dragged him into the room. "I was never so glad to see anyone. Listen, I have said nothing to anybody but John. Is that right?" "My friend," replied Poirot, "I do not know what you are talking about." "Dr. Bauerstein's arrest, of course," I answered impatiently. "Is Bauerstein arrested, then?" "Did you not know it?" "Not the least in the world." But, pausing a moment, he added: "Still, it does not surprise me. After all, we are only four miles from the coast." "The coast?" I asked, puzzled. "What has that got to do with it?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Surely, it is obvious!" "Not to me. No doubt I am very dense, but I cannot see what the proximity of the coast has got to do with the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp." "Nothing at all, of course," replied Poirot, smiling. "But we were speaking of the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein."<|quote|>"Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp"</|quote|>"What?" cried Poirot, in apparently lively astonishment. "Dr. Bauerstein arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Yes." "Impossible! That would be too good a farce! Who told you that, my friend?" "Well, no one exactly told me," I confessed. "But he is arrested." "Oh, yes, very likely. But for espionage, _mon ami_." "Espionage?" I gasped. "Precisely." "Not for poisoning Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Not unless our friend Japp has taken leave of his senses," replied Poirot placidly. "But but I thought you thought so too?" Poirot gave me one look, which conveyed a wondering pity, and his full sense of the utter absurdity of such an idea. "Do you mean to say," I asked, slowly adapting myself to the new idea, "that Dr. Bauerstein is a spy?" Poirot nodded. "Have you never suspected it?" "It never entered my head." "It did not strike you as peculiar that a famous London doctor should bury himself in a little village like this, and should be in the habit of walking about at all hours of the night, fully dressed?" "No," I confessed, "I never thought of such a thing." "He is, of course, a German by birth," said Poirot thoughtfully, "though he has practised so long in this country that nobody thinks of him as anything but an Englishman. He was naturalized about fifteen years ago. A very clever man a Jew, of course." "The blackguard!" I cried indignantly. "Not at all. He is, on the contrary, a patriot. Think what he stands to lose. I admire the man myself." But I could not look at it in Poirot's philosophical way. "And this is the man with whom Mrs. Cavendish has been wandering about all over the country!" I cried indignantly. "Yes. I should fancy he had found her very useful," remarked Poirot. "So long as gossip busied itself in coupling their names together, any other vagaries of the doctor's passed unobserved." "Then you think he never really cared for her?" I asked eagerly rather too eagerly, perhaps, under the circumstances. "That, of course, I cannot say, but shall I tell you my own private opinion, Hastings?" "Yes." "Well, it is this: that Mrs. Cavendish does not care, and never has cared one little jot about Dr. Bauerstein!" "Do you really think so?" I could not disguise my pleasure. "I am quite sure of it. And I will tell you why." "Yes?" "Because she
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and look up Bauerstein. Somebody ought to be keeping an eye on the fellow. At the same time, it would be wise to allay any suspicions he might have as to his being suspected. I remembered how Poirot had relied on my diplomacy. Accordingly, I went to the little house with the "Apartments" card inserted in the window, where I knew he lodged, and tapped on the door. An old woman came and opened it. "Good afternoon," I said pleasantly. "Is Dr. Bauerstein in?" She stared at me. "Haven't you heard?" "Heard what?" "About him." "What about him?" "He's took." "Took? Dead?" "No, took by the perlice." "By the police!" I gasped. "Do you mean they've arrested him?" "Yes, that's it, and" I waited to hear no more, but tore up the village to find Poirot. CHAPTER X. THE ARREST To my extreme annoyance, Poirot was not in, and the old Belgian who answered my knock informed me that he believed he had gone to London. I was dumbfounded. What on earth could Poirot be doing in London! Was it a sudden decision on his part, or had he already made up his mind when he parted from me a few hours earlier? I retraced my steps to Styles in some annoyance. With Poirot away, I was uncertain how to act. Had he foreseen this arrest? Had he not, in all probability, been the cause of it? Those questions I could not resolve. But in the meantime what was I to do? Should I announce the arrest openly at Styles, or not? Though I did not acknowledge it to myself, the thought of Mary Cavendish was weighing on me. Would it not be a terrible shock to her? For the moment, I set aside utterly any suspicions of her. She could not be implicated otherwise I should have heard some hint of it. Of course, there was no possibility of being able permanently to conceal Dr. Bauerstein's arrest from her. It would be announced in every newspaper on the morrow. Still, I shrank from blurting it out. If only Poirot had been accessible, I could have asked his advice. What possessed him to go posting off to London in this unaccountable way? In spite of myself, my opinion of his sagacity was immeasurably heightened. I would never have dreamt of suspecting the doctor, had not Poirot put it into my head. Yes, decidedly, the little man was clever. After some reflecting, I decided to take John into my confidence, and leave him to make the matter public or not, as he thought fit. He gave vent to a prodigious whistle, as I imparted the news. "Great Scott! You _were_ right, then. I couldn't believe it at the time." "No, it is astonishing until you get used to the idea, and see how it makes everything fit in. Now, what are we to do? Of course, it will be generally known to-morrow." John reflected. "Never mind," he said at last, "we won't say anything at present. There is no need. As you say, it will be known soon enough." But to my intense surprise, on getting down early the next morning, and eagerly opening the newspapers, there was not a word about the arrest! There was a column of mere padding about "The Styles Poisoning Case," but nothing further. It was rather inexplicable, but I supposed that, for some reason or other, Japp wished to keep it out of the papers. It worried me just a little, for it suggested the possibility that there might be further arrests to come. After breakfast, I decided to go down to the village, and see if Poirot had returned yet; but, before I could start, a well-known face blocked one of the windows, and the well-known voice said: "_Bonjour, mon ami!_" "Poirot," I exclaimed, with relief, and seizing him by both hands, I dragged him into the room. "I was never so glad to see anyone. Listen, I have said nothing to anybody but John. Is that right?" "My friend," replied Poirot, "I do not know what you are talking about." "Dr. Bauerstein's arrest, of course," I answered impatiently. "Is Bauerstein arrested, then?" "Did you not know it?" "Not the least in the world." But, pausing a moment, he added: "Still, it does not surprise me. After all, we are only four miles from the coast." "The coast?" I asked, puzzled. "What has that got to do with it?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Surely, it is obvious!" "Not to me. No doubt I am very dense, but I cannot see what the proximity of the coast has got to do with the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp." "Nothing at all, of course," replied Poirot, smiling. "But we were speaking of the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein."<|quote|>"Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp"</|quote|>"What?" cried Poirot, in apparently lively astonishment. "Dr. Bauerstein arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Yes." "Impossible! That would be too good a farce! Who told you that, my friend?" "Well, no one exactly told me," I confessed. "But he is arrested." "Oh, yes, very likely. But for espionage, _mon ami_." "Espionage?" I gasped. "Precisely." "Not for poisoning Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Not unless our friend Japp has taken leave of his senses," replied Poirot placidly. "But but I thought you thought so too?" Poirot gave me one look, which conveyed a wondering pity, and his full sense of the utter absurdity of such an idea. "Do you mean to say," I asked, slowly adapting myself to the new idea, "that Dr. Bauerstein is a spy?" Poirot nodded. "Have you never suspected it?" "It never entered my head." "It did not strike you as peculiar that a famous London doctor should bury himself in a little village like this, and should be in the habit of walking about at all hours of the night, fully dressed?" "No," I confessed, "I never thought of such a thing." "He is, of course, a German by birth," said Poirot thoughtfully, "though he has practised so long in this country that nobody thinks of him as anything but an Englishman. He was naturalized about fifteen years ago. A very clever man a Jew, of course." "The blackguard!" I cried indignantly. "Not at all. He is, on the contrary, a patriot. Think what he stands to lose. I admire the man myself." But I could not look at it in Poirot's philosophical way. "And this is the man with whom Mrs. Cavendish has been wandering about all over the country!" I cried indignantly. "Yes. I should fancy he had found her very useful," remarked Poirot. "So long as gossip busied itself in coupling their names together, any other vagaries of the doctor's passed unobserved." "Then you think he never really cared for her?" I asked eagerly rather too eagerly, perhaps, under the circumstances. "That, of course, I cannot say, but shall I tell you my own private opinion, Hastings?" "Yes." "Well, it is this: that Mrs. Cavendish does not care, and never has cared one little jot about Dr. Bauerstein!" "Do you really think so?" I could not disguise my pleasure. "I am quite sure of it. And I will tell you why." "Yes?" "Because she cares for someone else, _mon ami_." "Oh!" What did he mean? In spite of myself, an agreeable warmth spread over me. I am not a vain man where women are concerned, but I remembered certain evidences, too lightly thought of at the time, perhaps, but which certainly seemed to indicate My pleasing thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance of Miss Howard. She glanced round hastily to make sure there was no one else in the room, and quickly produced an old sheet of brown paper. This she handed to Poirot, murmuring as she did so the cryptic words: "On top of the wardrobe." Then she hurriedly left the room. Poirot unfolded the sheet of paper eagerly, and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. He spread it out on the table. "Come here, Hastings. Now tell me, what is that initial J. or L.?" It was a medium sized sheet of paper, rather dusty, as though it had lain by for some time. But it was the label that was attracting Poirot's attention. At the top, it bore the printed stamp of Messrs. Parkson's, the well-known theatrical costumiers, and it was addressed to " (the debatable initial) Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court, Styles St. Mary, Essex." "It might be T., or it might be L.," I said, after studying the thing for a minute or two. "It certainly isn't a J." "Good," replied Poirot, folding up the paper again. "I, also, am of your way of thinking. It is an L., depend upon it!" "Where did it come from?" I asked curiously. "Is it important?" "Moderately so. It confirms a surmise of mine. Having deduced its existence, I set Miss Howard to search for it, and, as you see, she has been successful." "What did she mean by" On the top of the wardrobe'?" "She meant," replied Poirot promptly, "that she found it on top of a wardrobe." "A funny place for a piece of brown paper," I mused. "Not at all. The top of a wardrobe is an excellent place for brown paper and cardboard boxes. I have kept them there myself. Neatly arranged, there is nothing to offend the eye." "Poirot," I asked earnestly, "have you made up your mind about this crime?" "Yes that is to say, I believe I know how it was committed." "Ah!" "Unfortunately, I have no proof beyond my surmise, unless" With sudden energy, he
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There was a column of mere padding about "The Styles Poisoning Case," but nothing further. It was rather inexplicable, but I supposed that, for some reason or other, Japp wished to keep it out of the papers. It worried me just a little, for it suggested the possibility that there might be further arrests to come. After breakfast, I decided to go down to the village, and see if Poirot had returned yet; but, before I could start, a well-known face blocked one of the windows, and the well-known voice said: "_Bonjour, mon ami!_" "Poirot," I exclaimed, with relief, and seizing him by both hands, I dragged him into the room. "I was never so glad to see anyone. Listen, I have said nothing to anybody but John. Is that right?" "My friend," replied Poirot, "I do not know what you are talking about." "Dr. Bauerstein's arrest, of course," I answered impatiently. "Is Bauerstein arrested, then?" "Did you not know it?" "Not the least in the world." But, pausing a moment, he added: "Still, it does not surprise me. After all, we are only four miles from the coast." "The coast?" I asked, puzzled. "What has that got to do with it?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Surely, it is obvious!" "Not to me. No doubt I am very dense, but I cannot see what the proximity of the coast has got to do with the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp." "Nothing at all, of course," replied Poirot, smiling. "But we were speaking of the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein."<|quote|>"Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp"</|quote|>"What?" cried Poirot, in apparently lively astonishment. "Dr. Bauerstein arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Yes." "Impossible! That would be too good a farce! Who told you that, my friend?" "Well, no one exactly told me," I confessed. "But he is arrested." "Oh, yes, very likely. But for espionage, _mon ami_." "Espionage?" I gasped. "Precisely." "Not for poisoning Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Not unless our friend Japp has taken leave of his senses," replied Poirot placidly. "But but I thought you thought so too?" Poirot gave me one look, which conveyed a wondering pity, and his full sense of the utter absurdity of such an idea. "Do you mean to say," I asked, slowly adapting myself to the new idea, "that Dr. Bauerstein is a spy?" Poirot nodded. "Have you never suspected it?" "It never entered my head." "It did not strike you as peculiar that a famous London doctor should bury himself in a little village like this, and should be in the habit of walking about at all hours of the night, fully dressed?" "No," I confessed, "I never thought of such a thing." "He is, of course, a German by birth," said Poirot thoughtfully, "though he has practised so long in this country that nobody thinks of him as anything but an Englishman. He was naturalized about fifteen years ago. A very clever man a Jew, of course." "The blackguard!" I cried indignantly. "Not at all. He is, on the contrary, a patriot. Think what he stands to lose. I admire the man myself." But I could not look at it in Poirot's philosophical way. "And this is the man with whom Mrs. Cavendish has
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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quite pleasantly and calmly.
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No speaker
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come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!"<|quote|>quite pleasantly and calmly.</|quote|>"Thank you so much," began
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once. Miss Avery said, "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!"<|quote|>quite pleasantly and calmly.</|quote|>"Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke off at
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to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times." Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened at once. Miss Avery said, "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!"<|quote|>quite pleasantly and calmly.</|quote|>"Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own. "Come right into the hall first," said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fitted up
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Could you kindly let me in?" "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of course." But after that came silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house disconsolately. "I hope Miss Avery is not ill," hazarded Margaret. "Well, if you ll excuse me," said Madge, "perhaps I ought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times." Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened at once. Miss Avery said, "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!"<|quote|>quite pleasantly and calmly.</|quote|>"Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own. "Come right into the hall first," said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from Wickham Place. The carpet had been laid, the big work-table drawn up near the window; the bookcases filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father s sword--this is what bewildered her particularly--had been drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst the
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lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the first cry she succeeded. "Well, well!" replied some one inside the house. "If it isn t Mrs. Wilcox come at last!" "Have you got the key, auntie?" "Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible. "Auntie, it s Mrs. Wilcox--" Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come together." "Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat." The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccentric lately," she said nervously. "Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?" "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of course." But after that came silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house disconsolately. "I hope Miss Avery is not ill," hazarded Margaret. "Well, if you ll excuse me," said Madge, "perhaps I ought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times." Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened at once. Miss Avery said, "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!"<|quote|>quite pleasantly and calmly.</|quote|>"Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own. "Come right into the hall first," said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from Wickham Place. The carpet had been laid, the big work-table drawn up near the window; the bookcases filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father s sword--this is what bewildered her particularly--had been drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst the sober volumes. Miss Avery must have worked for days. "I m afraid this isn t what we meant," she began. "Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be touched. For instance, these books are my brother s. We are storing them for him and for my sister, who is abroad. When you kindly undertook to look after things, we never expected you to do so much." "The house has been empty long enough," said the old woman. Margaret refused to argue. "I dare say we didn t explain," she said civilly. "It has been a mistake, and very
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clad in no classical garb, yet fairer than all springs; fairer even than she who walks through the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces before her and the zephyr behind. The two women walked up the lane full of outward civility. But Margaret was thinking how difficult it was to be earnest about furniture on such a day, and the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, they reached Howards End. Petulant cries of "Auntie!" severed the air. There was no reply, and the front door was locked. "Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?" asked Margaret. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily." Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room window, but the curtain inside was drawn tightly. So with the drawing-room and the hall. The appearance of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember their being there on her other visit; her impression was that Mr. Bryce had taken everything away. They tried the back. Here again they received no answer, and could see nothing; the kitchen-window was fitted with a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood propped up against them, which looked ominously like the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the first cry she succeeded. "Well, well!" replied some one inside the house. "If it isn t Mrs. Wilcox come at last!" "Have you got the key, auntie?" "Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible. "Auntie, it s Mrs. Wilcox--" Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come together." "Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat." The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccentric lately," she said nervously. "Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?" "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of course." But after that came silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house disconsolately. "I hope Miss Avery is not ill," hazarded Margaret. "Well, if you ll excuse me," said Madge, "perhaps I ought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times." Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened at once. Miss Avery said, "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!"<|quote|>quite pleasantly and calmly.</|quote|>"Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own. "Come right into the hall first," said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from Wickham Place. The carpet had been laid, the big work-table drawn up near the window; the bookcases filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father s sword--this is what bewildered her particularly--had been drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst the sober volumes. Miss Avery must have worked for days. "I m afraid this isn t what we meant," she began. "Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be touched. For instance, these books are my brother s. We are storing them for him and for my sister, who is abroad. When you kindly undertook to look after things, we never expected you to do so much." "The house has been empty long enough," said the old woman. Margaret refused to argue. "I dare say we didn t explain," she said civilly. "It has been a mistake, and very likely our mistake." "Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake for fifty years. The house is Mrs. Wilcox s, and she would not desire it to stand empty any longer." To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said: "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox s house, the mother of Mr. Charles." "Mistake upon mistake," said Miss Avery. "Mistake upon mistake." "Well, I don t know," said Margaret, sitting down in one of her own chairs. "I really don t know what s to be done." She could not help laughing. The other said: "Yes, it should be a merry house enough." "I don t know--I dare say. Well, thank you very much, Miss Avery. Yes, that s all right. Delightful." "There is still the parlour." She went through the door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the drawing-room furniture from Wickham Place. "And the dining-room." More curtains were drawn, more windows were flung open to the spring. "Then through here--" Miss Avery continued passing and reprising through the hall. Her voice was lost, but Margaret heard her pulling up the kitchen blind. "I ve not finished here yet," she announced, returning. "There s still a deal to do. The farm lads
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don t. You really mustn t. I will direct you myself if it comes to that. I must get my hat. Now" "--roguishly--" "Mrs. Wilcox, don t you move while I m gone." Stunned, Margaret did not move from the best parlour, over which the touch of art nouveau had fallen. But the other rooms looked in keeping, though they conveyed the peculiar sadness of a rural interior. Here had lived an elder race, to which we look back with disquietude. The country which we visit at week-ends was really a home to it, and the graver sides of life, the deaths, the partings, the yearnings for love, have their deepest expression in the heart of the fields. All was not sadness. The sun was shining without. The thrush sang his two syllables on the budding guelder-rose. Some children were playing uproariously in heaps of golden straw. It was the presence of sadness at all that surprised Margaret, and ended by giving her a feeling of completeness. In these English farms, if anywhere, one might see life steadily and see it whole, group in one vision its transitoriness and its eternal youth, connect--connect without bitterness until all men are brothers. But her thoughts were interrupted by the return of Miss Avery s niece, and were so tranquillising that she suffered the interruption gladly. It was quicker to go out by the back door, and, after due explanations, they went out by it. The niece was now mortified by innumerable chickens, who rushed up to her feet for food, and by a shameless and maternal sow. She did not know what animals were coming to. But her gentility withered at the touch of the sweet air. The wind was rising, scattering the straw and ruffling the tails of the ducks as they floated in families over Evie s pendant. One of those delicious gales of spring, in which leaves still in bud seem to rustle, swept over the land and then fell silent. "Georgie," sang the thrush. "Cuckoo," came furtively from the cliff of pine-trees. "Georgie, pretty Georgie," and the other birds joined in with nonsense. The hedge was a half-painted picture which would be finished in a few days. Celandines grew on its banks, lords and ladies and primroses in the defended hollows; the wild rose-bushes, still bearing their withered hips, showed also the promise of blossom. Spring had come, clad in no classical garb, yet fairer than all springs; fairer even than she who walks through the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces before her and the zephyr behind. The two women walked up the lane full of outward civility. But Margaret was thinking how difficult it was to be earnest about furniture on such a day, and the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, they reached Howards End. Petulant cries of "Auntie!" severed the air. There was no reply, and the front door was locked. "Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?" asked Margaret. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily." Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room window, but the curtain inside was drawn tightly. So with the drawing-room and the hall. The appearance of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember their being there on her other visit; her impression was that Mr. Bryce had taken everything away. They tried the back. Here again they received no answer, and could see nothing; the kitchen-window was fitted with a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood propped up against them, which looked ominously like the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the first cry she succeeded. "Well, well!" replied some one inside the house. "If it isn t Mrs. Wilcox come at last!" "Have you got the key, auntie?" "Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible. "Auntie, it s Mrs. Wilcox--" Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come together." "Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat." The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccentric lately," she said nervously. "Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?" "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of course." But after that came silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house disconsolately. "I hope Miss Avery is not ill," hazarded Margaret. "Well, if you ll excuse me," said Madge, "perhaps I ought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times." Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened at once. Miss Avery said, "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!"<|quote|>quite pleasantly and calmly.</|quote|>"Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own. "Come right into the hall first," said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from Wickham Place. The carpet had been laid, the big work-table drawn up near the window; the bookcases filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father s sword--this is what bewildered her particularly--had been drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst the sober volumes. Miss Avery must have worked for days. "I m afraid this isn t what we meant," she began. "Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be touched. For instance, these books are my brother s. We are storing them for him and for my sister, who is abroad. When you kindly undertook to look after things, we never expected you to do so much." "The house has been empty long enough," said the old woman. Margaret refused to argue. "I dare say we didn t explain," she said civilly. "It has been a mistake, and very likely our mistake." "Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake for fifty years. The house is Mrs. Wilcox s, and she would not desire it to stand empty any longer." To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said: "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox s house, the mother of Mr. Charles." "Mistake upon mistake," said Miss Avery. "Mistake upon mistake." "Well, I don t know," said Margaret, sitting down in one of her own chairs. "I really don t know what s to be done." She could not help laughing. The other said: "Yes, it should be a merry house enough." "I don t know--I dare say. Well, thank you very much, Miss Avery. Yes, that s all right. Delightful." "There is still the parlour." She went through the door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the drawing-room furniture from Wickham Place. "And the dining-room." More curtains were drawn, more windows were flung open to the spring. "Then through here--" Miss Avery continued passing and reprising through the hall. Her voice was lost, but Margaret heard her pulling up the kitchen blind. "I ve not finished here yet," she announced, returning. "There s still a deal to do. The farm lads will carry your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need to go into expense at Hilton." "It is all a mistake," repeated Margaret, feeling that she must put her foot down. "A misunderstanding. Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to live at Howards End." "Oh, indeed! On account of his hay fever?" "We have settled to build a new home for ourselves in Sussex, and part of this furniture--my part--will go down there presently." She looked at Miss Avery intently, trying to understand the kink in her brain. Here was no maundering old woman. Her wrinkles were shrewd and humorous. She looked capable of scathing wit and also of high but unostentatious nobility. "You think that you won t come back to live here, Mrs. Wilcox, but you will." "That remains to be seen," said Margaret, smiling. "We have no intention of doing so for the present. We happen to need a much larger house. Circumstances oblige us to give big parties. Of course, some day--one never knows, does one?" Miss Avery retorted: "Some day! Tcha! tcha! Don t talk about some day. You are living here now." "Am I?" "You are living here, and have been for the last ten minutes, if you ask me." It was a senseless remark, but with a queer feeling of disloyalty Margaret rose from her chair. She felt that Henry had been obscurely censured. They went into the dining-room, where the sunlight poured in upon her mother s chiffonier, and upstairs, where many an old god peeped from a new niche. The furniture fitted extraordinarily well. In the central room--over the hall, the room that Helen had slept in four years ago--Miss Avery had placed Tibby s old bassinette. "The nursery," she said. Margaret turned away without speaking. At last everything was seen. The kitchen and lobby were still stacked with furniture and straw, but, as far as she could make out, nothing had been broken or scratched. A pathetic display of ingenuity! Then they took a friendly stroll in the garden. It had gone wild since her last visit. The gravel sweep was weedy, and grass had sprung up at the very jaws of the garage. And Evie s rockery was only bumps. Perhaps Evie was responsible for Miss Avery s oddness. But Margaret suspected that the cause lay deeper, and that the girl s silly letter had but loosed
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in a few days. Celandines grew on its banks, lords and ladies and primroses in the defended hollows; the wild rose-bushes, still bearing their withered hips, showed also the promise of blossom. Spring had come, clad in no classical garb, yet fairer than all springs; fairer even than she who walks through the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces before her and the zephyr behind. The two women walked up the lane full of outward civility. But Margaret was thinking how difficult it was to be earnest about furniture on such a day, and the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, they reached Howards End. Petulant cries of "Auntie!" severed the air. There was no reply, and the front door was locked. "Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?" asked Margaret. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily." Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room window, but the curtain inside was drawn tightly. So with the drawing-room and the hall. The appearance of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember their being there on her other visit; her impression was that Mr. Bryce had taken everything away. They tried the back. Here again they received no answer, and could see nothing; the kitchen-window was fitted with a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood propped up against them, which looked ominously like the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the first cry she succeeded. "Well, well!" replied some one inside the house. "If it isn t Mrs. Wilcox come at last!" "Have you got the key, auntie?" "Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible. "Auntie, it s Mrs. Wilcox--" Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come together." "Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat." The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccentric lately," she said nervously. "Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?" "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of course." But after that came silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house disconsolately. "I hope Miss Avery is not ill," hazarded Margaret. "Well, if you ll excuse me," said Madge, "perhaps I ought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times." Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened at once. Miss Avery said, "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!"<|quote|>quite pleasantly and calmly.</|quote|>"Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own. "Come right into the hall first," said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from Wickham Place. The carpet had been laid, the big work-table drawn up near the window; the bookcases filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father s sword--this is what bewildered her particularly--had been drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst the sober volumes. Miss Avery must have worked for days. "I m afraid this isn t what we meant," she began. "Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be touched. For instance, these books are my brother s. We are storing them for him and for my sister, who is abroad. When you kindly undertook to look after things, we never expected you to do so much." "The house has been empty long enough," said the old woman. Margaret refused to argue. "I dare say we didn t explain," she said civilly. "It has been a mistake, and very likely our mistake." "Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake for fifty years. The house is Mrs. Wilcox s, and she would not desire it to stand empty any longer." To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said: "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox s house, the mother of Mr. Charles." "Mistake upon mistake," said Miss Avery. "Mistake upon mistake." "Well, I don t know," said Margaret, sitting down in one of her own chairs. "I really don t know what s to be done." She could not help laughing. The other said: "Yes, it should be a merry house enough." "I don t know--I dare say. Well, thank you very much, Miss Avery. Yes, that s all right. Delightful." "There is still the parlour." She went through the door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the drawing-room furniture from Wickham Place. "And the dining-room." More curtains were drawn, more windows were flung open to the spring. "Then through here--" Miss Avery
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Howards End
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“I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last”
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Lord John
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he had to support himself.<|quote|>“I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last”</|quote|>--and his impatient sincerity took
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to his wonder, so that he had to support himself.<|quote|>“I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last”</|quote|>--and his impatient sincerity took after another instant the jump--
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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 perhaps gently guess what it is I want to say.” This time indeed she left him to his wonder, so that he had to support himself.<|quote|>“I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last”</|quote|>--and his impatient sincerity took after another instant the jump-- “well, I regularly worship you. You’re my absolute ideal. I think of you the whole time.” She measured out consideration as if it had been a yard of pretty ribbon. “Are you sure you _know_ me enough?” “I think I
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_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 perhaps gently guess what it is I want to say.” This time indeed she left him to his wonder, so that he had to support himself.<|quote|>“I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last”</|quote|>--and his impatient sincerity took after another instant the jump-- “well, I regularly worship you. You’re my absolute ideal. I think of you the whole time.” She measured out consideration as if it had been a yard of pretty ribbon. “Are you sure you _know_ me enough?” “I think I know a perfect woman when I see one!” Nothing now at least could have been more prompt, and while a decent pity for such a mistake showed in her smile he followed it up. “Isn’t what you rather mean that you haven’t cared sufficiently to know _me?_ If so, that
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“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 perhaps gently guess what it is I want to say.” This time indeed she left him to his wonder, so that he had to support himself.<|quote|>“I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last”</|quote|>--and his impatient sincerity took after another instant the jump-- “well, I regularly worship you. You’re my absolute ideal. I think of you the whole time.” She measured out consideration as if it had been a yard of pretty ribbon. “Are you sure you _know_ me enough?” “I think I know a perfect woman when I see one!” Nothing now at least could have been more prompt, and while a decent pity for such a mistake showed in her smile he followed it up. “Isn’t what you rather mean that you haven’t cared sufficiently to know _me?_ If so, that can be little by little mended, Lady Grace.” He was in fact altogether gallant about it. “I’m aware of the limits of what I have to show or to offer, but I defy you to find a limit to my possible devotion.” She deferred to that, but taking it in a lower key. “I believe you’d be very good to me.” “Well, isn’t _that_ something to start with?” --he fairly pounced on it. “I’ll do any blest thing in life you like, I’ll accept any condition you impose, if you’ll only tell me you see your way.” “Shouldn’t I have
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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 perhaps gently guess what it is I want to say.” This time indeed she left him to his wonder, so that he had to support himself.<|quote|>“I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last”</|quote|>--and his impatient sincerity took after another instant the jump-- “well, I regularly worship you. You’re my absolute ideal. I think of you the whole time.” She measured out consideration as if it had been a yard of pretty ribbon. “Are you sure you _know_ me enough?” “I think I know a perfect woman when I see one!” Nothing now at least could have been more prompt, and while a decent pity for such a mistake showed in her smile he followed it up. “Isn’t what you rather mean that you haven’t cared sufficiently to know _me?_ If so, that can be little by little mended, Lady Grace.” He was in fact altogether gallant about it. “I’m aware of the limits of what I have to show or to offer, but I defy you to find a limit to my possible devotion.” She deferred to that, but taking it in a lower key. “I believe you’d be very good to me.” “Well, isn’t _that_ something to start with?” --he fairly pounced on it. “I’ll do any blest thing in life you like, I’ll accept any condition you impose, if you’ll only tell me you see your way.” “Shouldn’t I have a little more first to see yours?” she asked. “When you say you’ll do anything in life I like, isn’t there anything you yourself want strongly enough to do?” He cast a stare about on the suggestions of the scene. “Anything that will make money, you mean?” “Make money or make reputation--or even just make the time pass.” “Oh, what I have to look to in the way of a career?” If that was her meaning he could show after an instant that he didn’t fear it. “Well, your father, dear delightful man, has been so good as to give me to understand that he backs me for a decent deserving creature; and I’ve noticed, as you doubtless yourself have, that when Lord Theign backs a fellow----!” He left the obvious moral for her to take up--which she did, but all interrogatively. “The fellow at once comes in for something awfully good?” “I don’t in the least mind your laughing at me,” Lord John returned, “for when I put him the question of the lift he’d give me by speaking to you first he bade me simply remember the complete personal liberty in which he leaves you, and yet which
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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 perhaps gently guess what it is I want to say.” This time indeed she left him to his wonder, so that he had to support himself.<|quote|>“I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last”</|quote|>--and his impatient sincerity took after another instant the jump-- “well, I regularly worship you. You’re my absolute ideal. I think of you the whole time.” She measured out consideration as if it had been a yard of pretty ribbon. “Are you sure you _know_ me enough?” “I think I know a perfect woman when I see one!” Nothing now at least could have been more prompt, and while a decent pity for such a mistake showed in her smile he followed it up. “Isn’t what you rather mean that you haven’t cared sufficiently to know _me?_ If so, that can be little by little mended, Lady Grace.” He was in fact altogether gallant about it. “I’m aware of the limits of what I have to show or to offer, but I defy you to find a limit to my possible devotion.” She deferred to that, but taking it in a lower key. “I believe you’d be very good to me.” “Well, isn’t _that_ something to start with?” --he fairly pounced on it. “I’ll do any blest thing in life you like, I’ll accept any condition you impose, if you’ll only tell me you see your way.” “Shouldn’t I have a little more first to see yours?” she asked. “When you say you’ll do anything in life I like, isn’t there anything you yourself want strongly enough to do?” He cast a stare about on the suggestions of the scene. “Anything that will make money, you mean?” “Make money or make reputation--or even just make the time pass.” “Oh, what I have to look to in the way of a career?” If that was her meaning he could show after an instant that he didn’t fear it. “Well, your father, dear delightful man, has been so good as to give me to understand that he backs me for a decent deserving creature; and I’ve noticed, as you doubtless yourself have, that when Lord Theign backs a fellow----!” He left the obvious moral for her to take up--which she did, but all interrogatively. “The fellow at once comes in for something awfully good?” “I don’t in the least mind your laughing at me,” Lord John returned, “for when I put him the question of the lift he’d give me by speaking to you first he bade me simply remember the complete personal liberty in which he leaves you, and yet which doesn’t come--take my word!” said the young man sagely-- “from his being at all indifferent.” “No,” she answered-- “father isn’t indifferent. But father’s ‘great’” “Great indeed!” --her friend took it as with full comprehension. This appeared not to prevent, however, a second and more anxious thought. “Too great for _you?_” “Well, he makes me feel--even as his daughter--my extreme comparative smallness.” It was easy, Lord John indicated, to see what she meant “He’s a _grand seigneur_, and a serious one--that’s what he is: the very type and model of it, down to the ground. So you can imagine,” the young man said, “what he makes me feel--most of all when he’s so awfully good-natured to me. His being as ‘great’ as you say and yet backing me--such as I am!--doesn’t _that_ strike you as a good note for me, the best you could possibly require? For he really _would_ like what I propose to you.” She might have been noting, while she thought, that he had risen to ingenuity, to fineness, on the wings of his argument; under the effect of which her reply had the air of a concession. “Yes--he would like it.” “Then he _has_ spoken to you?” her suitor eagerly asked. “He hasn’t needed--he has ways of letting one know.” “Yes, yes, he has ways; all his own--like everything else he has. He’s wonderful.” She fully agreed. “He’s wonderful.” The tone of it appeared somehow to shorten at once for Lord John the rest of his approach to a conclusion. “So you do see your way?” “Ah--!” she said with a quick sad shrinkage. “I mean,” her visitor hastened to explain, “if he does put it to you as the very best idea he has for you. When he does that--as I believe him ready to do--will you really and fairly listen to him? I’m certain, honestly, that when you know me better--!” His confidence in short donned a bravery. “I’ve been feeling this quarter of an hour,” the girl returned, “that I do know you better.” “Then isn’t that all I want?--unless indeed I ought perhaps to ask rather if it isn’t all _you_ do! At any rate,” said Lord John, “I may see you again here?” She waited a moment. “You must have patience with me.” “I _am_ having it But _after_ your father’s appeal.” “Well,” she said, “that must come first.” “Then you won’t
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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 perhaps gently guess what it is I want to say.” This time indeed she left him to his wonder, so that he had to support himself.<|quote|>“I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last”</|quote|>--and his impatient sincerity took after another instant the jump-- “well, I regularly worship you. You’re my absolute ideal. I think of you the whole time.” She measured out consideration as if it had been a yard of pretty ribbon. “Are you sure you _know_ me enough?” “I think I know a perfect woman when I see one!” Nothing now at least could have been more prompt, and while a decent pity for such a mistake showed in her smile he followed it up. “Isn’t what you rather mean that you haven’t cared sufficiently to know _me?_ If so, that can be little by little mended, Lady Grace.” He was in fact altogether gallant about it. “I’m aware of the limits of what I have to show or to offer, but I defy you to find a limit to my possible devotion.” She deferred to that, but taking it in a lower key. “I believe you’d be very good to me.” “Well, isn’t _that_ something to start with?” --he fairly pounced on it. “I’ll do any blest thing in life you like, I’ll accept any condition you impose, if you’ll only tell me you see your way.” “Shouldn’t I have a little more first to see yours?” she asked. “When you say you’ll do anything in life I like, isn’t there anything you yourself want strongly enough to do?” He cast a stare about on the suggestions of the scene. “Anything that will make money, you mean?” “Make money or make reputation--or even just make the time pass.” “Oh, what I have to look to in the way of a career?” If that was her meaning he could show after an instant that he didn’t fear it. “Well, your father, dear delightful man, has been so good as to give me to understand that he backs me for a decent deserving creature; and I’ve noticed, as you doubtless yourself have, that when Lord Theign backs a fellow----!” He left the obvious moral for her to take up--which she did, but all interrogatively. “The fellow at once comes in for something awfully good?” “I don’t in the least mind your laughing at me,” Lord John returned, “for when I put him the question of the lift he’d give me by speaking to you first he bade me simply remember the complete personal liberty in which he leaves you, and yet which doesn’t come--take my word!” said the young man sagely-- “from his being at all indifferent.” “No,” she answered-- “father isn’t indifferent. But father’s ‘great’” “Great indeed!” --her friend took it as with full comprehension. This appeared not to prevent, however, a second and more anxious thought. “Too
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The Outcry
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said Brett,
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No speaker
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"Well," I said. "My God!"<|quote|>said Brett,</|quote|>"the things a woman goes
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do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!"<|quote|>said Brett,</|quote|>"the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do
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half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!"<|quote|>said Brett,</|quote|>"the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't
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and past the gate into the street that led into town. Pedro Romero was in the caf . He was at a table with other bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!"<|quote|>said Brett,</|quote|>"the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't you have a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke
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you think it's meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?" "Sure." "I can't just stay tight all the time." "No." "Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this." "Sure." "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch." "What do you want me to do?" "Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him." Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the street that led into town. Pedro Romero was in the caf . He was at a table with other bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!"<|quote|>said Brett,</|quote|>"the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't you have a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars." It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook
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was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you." "I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside." "Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect." "You don't have to do that." "Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?" "Sure." "I can't just stay tight all the time." "No." "Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this." "Sure." "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch." "What do you want me to do?" "Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him." Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the street that led into town. Pedro Romero was in the caf . He was at a table with other bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!"<|quote|>said Brett,</|quote|>"the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't you have a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars." It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand," Brett said. "I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So
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me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike." "Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?" "Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you." "I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside." "Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect." "You don't have to do that." "Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?" "Sure." "I can't just stay tight all the time." "No." "Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this." "Sure." "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch." "What do you want me to do?" "Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him." Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the street that led into town. Pedro Romero was in the caf . He was at a table with other bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!"<|quote|>said Brett,</|quote|>"the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't you have a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars." It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand," Brett said. "I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?" "No." "All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat like that," Brett said. "Good. I'll get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right. "Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the caf , twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. CHAPTER 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna," he said. "Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row." "Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said. "Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub." "Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and insult Mike and try and spoil
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can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect." "You don't have to do that." "Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?" "Sure." "I can't just stay tight all the time." "No." "Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this." "Sure." "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch." "What do you want me to do?" "Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him." Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the street that led into town. Pedro Romero was in the caf . He was at a table with other bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!"<|quote|>said Brett,</|quote|>"the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't you have a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars." It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was
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The Sun Also Rises
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"No offence meant, old chap,"
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Jem Wimble
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never forgotten what I am."<|quote|>"No offence meant, old chap,"</|quote|>said Jem; and then from
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fought for them; but I've never forgotten what I am."<|quote|>"No offence meant, old chap,"</|quote|>said Jem; and then from behind his hand he whispered
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so you do do that sort of thing?" said Jem, grinning. "You look in pretty good condition, mate." "No!" said the Englishman fiercely. "I've joined them, and married, and I'm a pakeha Maori and a great chief, and I've often fought for them; but I've never forgotten what I am."<|quote|>"No offence meant, old chap,"</|quote|>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
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feast." "Eh?" cried Jem. "They'll kill a man, and cook him and eat him after." "Gammon!" "Gammon, eh?" cried the Englishman; and he turned to his savage companion with a word or two. The savage relapsed into his former quiescent state, uttered a loud grunt, and smacked his lips. "And so you do do that sort of thing?" said Jem, grinning. "You look in pretty good condition, mate." "No!" said the Englishman fiercely. "I've joined them, and married, and I'm a pakeha Maori and a great chief, and I've often fought for them; but I've never forgotten what I am."<|quote|>"No offence meant, old chap,"</|quote|>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
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attitude, turned up his eyes till the whites only were visible, distorted his face hideously, and thrust out his great tongue till it was far below his chin. "Brayvo! Brayvo! Brayvo!" cried Jem, hammering the side of the boat; "brayvo, waxworks! I say, mate, will he always go off like that when you pull the string?" "Yes," said the Englishman, laughing; "and two hundred more like him." "Then it must be a werry pretty sight indeed; eh, Mas' Don?" "Ah, it's all very well to laugh," said the Englishman good-humouredly; "but when they mean mischief, it's heads off and a feast." "Eh?" cried Jem. "They'll kill a man, and cook him and eat him after." "Gammon!" "Gammon, eh?" cried the Englishman; and he turned to his savage companion with a word or two. The savage relapsed into his former quiescent state, uttered a loud grunt, and smacked his lips. "And so you do do that sort of thing?" said Jem, grinning. "You look in pretty good condition, mate." "No!" said the Englishman fiercely. "I've joined them, and married, and I'm a pakeha Maori and a great chief, and I've often fought for them; but I've never forgotten what I am."<|quote|>"No offence meant, old chap,"</|quote|>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
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that the shaft had hit its mark. "Never you mind about that," he said surlily. "But you are a lifer, and have run away, haven't you?" continued Jem, in a bantering tone. The man's aspect was for the moment so fierce that Don involuntarily stole his hand towards the pistol at his side. But his countenance softened directly after. "That's neither here nor there, mate," said the man. "There's been chaps sent out abroad who were innocent, and others who have been punished more than they deserved; and you aren't the sort of fellow to go talking like that, and making trouble for a fellow who never did you any harm." "Not I," said Jem; "it's no business of mine." "And he isn't the fellow to make trouble," put in Don. "That he isn't," said the man, smiling. "'Sides I'm a Maori chief now, and I've got a couple of hundred stout fellows who would fight for me. Eh, Ngati?" he said, addressing some words in the savage tongue. "Pah, ha, ha!" roared the great fellow beside him, brandishing his spear; and seizing the greenstone paddle-like weapon, which hung from his neck, in his left hand, as he struck an attitude, turned up his eyes till the whites only were visible, distorted his face hideously, and thrust out his great tongue till it was far below his chin. "Brayvo! Brayvo! Brayvo!" cried Jem, hammering the side of the boat; "brayvo, waxworks! I say, mate, will he always go off like that when you pull the string?" "Yes," said the Englishman, laughing; "and two hundred more like him." "Then it must be a werry pretty sight indeed; eh, Mas' Don?" "Ah, it's all very well to laugh," said the Englishman good-humouredly; "but when they mean mischief, it's heads off and a feast." "Eh?" cried Jem. "They'll kill a man, and cook him and eat him after." "Gammon!" "Gammon, eh?" cried the Englishman; and he turned to his savage companion with a word or two. The savage relapsed into his former quiescent state, uttered a loud grunt, and smacked his lips. "And so you do do that sort of thing?" said Jem, grinning. "You look in pretty good condition, mate." "No!" said the Englishman fiercely. "I've joined them, and married, and I'm a pakeha Maori and a great chief, and I've often fought for them; but I've never forgotten what I am."<|quote|>"No offence meant, old chap,"</|quote|>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
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behave kindly to us." "Till we got fat," said Jem, chuckling; "and then they'd have a tuck out. No, thank ye, Mas' Don; my Sally wouldn't like it. You see, I'm nice and plump and round now, and they'd soon use me. You're a great long growing boy, thin as a lath, and it'd take years to make you fit to kill, so as it don't matter for you." "There is a chance open to us now for escape," said Don bitterly; "to get right away, and journey to some port, where we could get a passage to England as sailors, and you treat it with ridicule." "Not I, Mas' Don, lad." "You do, Jem. Such a chance may never occur again; and I shall never be happy till I have told my mother what is the real truth about our going away." "But you did write it to her, Mas' Don." "Write! What is writing to speaking? I thought you meant to stand by me." "So I do, Mas' Don, when a good chance comes. It hasn't come yet." "Ahoy!" A hail came out of the dense growth some fifty yards away. "There," said Jem, "you see we couldn't get off; some one coming back." "Ahoy!" came again; "boat ahoy!" "Ahoy! Ahoy!" shouted back Jem, and the two boat-keepers watched the moving ferns in front of them, expecting to see the straw hat of a messmate directly; but instead there appeared the black white-tipped feathers, and then the hideously tattooed bluish face of a savage, followed directly after by another, and two stalwart men came out on to the sands, and began to walk slowly down toward the boat. "Cock your pistol, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "quiet-like; don't let 'em see. They've got their spears and choppers. Precious ready too with their _ahoys_." "Why, it's that tattooed Englishman, Jem, and that savage who called me his pakeha." "And like his impudence!" said Jem. "You're right though, so it is." "Morning, mate," said the Englishman, who, save that he was a little lighter in colour than his hideous-looking companion, could hardly be distinguished from him. "Morning, my hearty," said Jem. "What is it? Want a passage home?" "Do I want what?" growled the man. "Not I; too well off here." "Wouldn't be safe to go back, p'r'aps," said Jem meaningly. The man darted a fierce look at him, which told that the shaft had hit its mark. "Never you mind about that," he said surlily. "But you are a lifer, and have run away, haven't you?" continued Jem, in a bantering tone. The man's aspect was for the moment so fierce that Don involuntarily stole his hand towards the pistol at his side. But his countenance softened directly after. "That's neither here nor there, mate," said the man. "There's been chaps sent out abroad who were innocent, and others who have been punished more than they deserved; and you aren't the sort of fellow to go talking like that, and making trouble for a fellow who never did you any harm." "Not I," said Jem; "it's no business of mine." "And he isn't the fellow to make trouble," put in Don. "That he isn't," said the man, smiling. "'Sides I'm a Maori chief now, and I've got a couple of hundred stout fellows who would fight for me. Eh, Ngati?" he said, addressing some words in the savage tongue. "Pah, ha, ha!" roared the great fellow beside him, brandishing his spear; and seizing the greenstone paddle-like weapon, which hung from his neck, in his left hand, as he struck an attitude, turned up his eyes till the whites only were visible, distorted his face hideously, and thrust out his great tongue till it was far below his chin. "Brayvo! Brayvo! Brayvo!" cried Jem, hammering the side of the boat; "brayvo, waxworks! I say, mate, will he always go off like that when you pull the string?" "Yes," said the Englishman, laughing; "and two hundred more like him." "Then it must be a werry pretty sight indeed; eh, Mas' Don?" "Ah, it's all very well to laugh," said the Englishman good-humouredly; "but when they mean mischief, it's heads off and a feast." "Eh?" cried Jem. "They'll kill a man, and cook him and eat him after." "Gammon!" "Gammon, eh?" cried the Englishman; and he turned to his savage companion with a word or two. The savage relapsed into his former quiescent state, uttered a loud grunt, and smacked his lips. "And so you do do that sort of thing?" said Jem, grinning. "You look in pretty good condition, mate." "No!" said the Englishman fiercely. "I've joined them, and married, and I'm a pakeha Maori and a great chief, and I've often fought for them; but I've never forgotten what I am."<|quote|>"No offence meant, old chap,"</|quote|>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!" he said, excitedly; "my pakeha; Maori pakeha." "What
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with their _ahoys_." "Why, it's that tattooed Englishman, Jem, and that savage who called me his pakeha." "And like his impudence!" said Jem. "You're right though, so it is." "Morning, mate," said the Englishman, who, save that he was a little lighter in colour than his hideous-looking companion, could hardly be distinguished from him. "Morning, my hearty," said Jem. "What is it? Want a passage home?" "Do I want what?" growled the man. "Not I; too well off here." "Wouldn't be safe to go back, p'r'aps," said Jem meaningly. The man darted a fierce look at him, which told that the shaft had hit its mark. "Never you mind about that," he said surlily. "But you are a lifer, and have run away, haven't you?" continued Jem, in a bantering tone. The man's aspect was for the moment so fierce that Don involuntarily stole his hand towards the pistol at his side. But his countenance softened directly after. "That's neither here nor there, mate," said the man. "There's been chaps sent out abroad who were innocent, and others who have been punished more than they deserved; and you aren't the sort of fellow to go talking like that, and making trouble for a fellow who never did you any harm." "Not I," said Jem; "it's no business of mine." "And he isn't the fellow to make trouble," put in Don. "That he isn't," said the man, smiling. "'Sides I'm a Maori chief now, and I've got a couple of hundred stout fellows who would fight for me. Eh, Ngati?" he said, addressing some words in the savage tongue. "Pah, ha, ha!" roared the great fellow beside him, brandishing his spear; and seizing the greenstone paddle-like weapon, which hung from his neck, in his left hand, as he struck an attitude, turned up his eyes till the whites only were visible, distorted his face hideously, and thrust out his great tongue till it was far below his chin. "Brayvo! Brayvo! Brayvo!" cried Jem, hammering the side of the boat; "brayvo, waxworks! I say, mate, will he always go off like that when you pull the string?" "Yes," said the Englishman, laughing; "and two hundred more like him." "Then it must be a werry pretty sight indeed; eh, Mas' Don?" "Ah, it's all very well to laugh," said the Englishman good-humouredly; "but when they mean mischief, it's heads off and a feast." "Eh?" cried Jem. "They'll kill a man, and cook him and eat him after." "Gammon!" "Gammon, eh?" cried the Englishman; and he turned to his savage companion with a word or two. The savage relapsed into his former quiescent state, uttered a loud grunt, and smacked his lips. "And so you do do that sort of thing?" said Jem, grinning. "You look in pretty good condition, mate." "No!" said the Englishman fiercely. "I've joined them, and married, and I'm a pakeha Maori and a great chief, and I've often fought for them; but I've never forgotten what I am."<|quote|>"No offence meant, old chap,"</|quote|>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
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Don Lavington
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"That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly."
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Cuss
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then at his sleeve." "Well?"<|quote|>"That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly."</|quote|>I was saying, "said he,"
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black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?"<|quote|>"That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly."</|quote|>I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription
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right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?"<|quote|>"That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly."</|quote|>I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I," can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes, "said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was
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_that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?"<|quote|>"That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly."</|quote|>I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I," can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes, "said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any
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wouldn t say. Was it medical?" Damn you! What are you fishing after? "I apologised. Dignified sniff and cough. He resumed. He d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned his head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm." "Well?" "No hand just an empty sleeve." Lord! "I thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?"<|quote|>"That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly."</|quote|>I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I," can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes, "said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. Well? said I, clearing my throat, there s nothing in it." "Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see right down it. He extended it
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and he sat down. When his nerves had been steadied by a glass of cheap sherry the only drink the good vicar had available he told him of the interview he had just had. "Went in," he gasped, "and began to demand a subscription for that Nurse Fund. He d stuck his hands in his pockets as I came in, and he sat down lumpily in his chair. Sniffed. I told him I d heard he took an interest in scientific things. He said" yes. "Sniffed again. Kept on sniffing all the time; evidently recently caught an infernal cold. No wonder, wrapped up like that! I developed the nurse idea, and all the while kept my eyes open. Bottles chemicals everywhere. Balance, test-tubes in stands, and a smell of evening primrose. Would he subscribe? Said he d consider it. Asked him, point-blank, was he researching. Said he was. A long research? Got quite cross." A damnable long research, "said he, blowing the cork out, so to speak." Oh, "said I. And out came the grievance. The man was just on the boil, and my question boiled him over. He had been given a prescription, most valuable prescription what for he wouldn t say. Was it medical?" Damn you! What are you fishing after? "I apologised. Dignified sniff and cough. He resumed. He d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned his head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm." "Well?" "No hand just an empty sleeve." Lord! "I thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?"<|quote|>"That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly."</|quote|>I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I," can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes, "said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. Well? said I, clearing my throat, there s nothing in it." "Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see right down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly just like that until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to see an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then" "Well?" "Something exactly like a finger and thumb it felt nipped my nose." Bunting began to laugh. "There wasn t anything there!" said Cuss, his voice running up into a shriek at the "there." "It s all very well for you to laugh, but I tell you I was so startled, I hit his cuff hard, and turned around, and cut out of the room I left him" Cuss stopped. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his panic. He turned round in a helpless way and took a second glass of the excellent vicar s very inferior sherry. "When I hit his cuff," said Cuss, "I tell you, it felt exactly like hitting an arm. And there wasn t an arm! There wasn t the ghost of an arm!" Mr. Bunting thought it over. He looked suspiciously at Cuss. "It s a most remarkable story," he said. He looked very wise and grave indeed. "It s really," said Mr. Bunting with judicial emphasis, "a most remarkable story." CHAPTER
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it at the schoolroom concert (in aid of the church lamps), and thereafter whenever one or two of the villagers were gathered together and the stranger appeared, a bar or so of this tune, more or less sharp or flat, was whistled in the midst of them. Also belated little children would call "Bogey Man!" after him, and make off tremulously elated. Cuss, the general practitioner, was devoured by curiosity. The bandages excited his professional interest, the report of the thousand and one bottles aroused his jealous regard. All through April and May he coveted an opportunity of talking to the stranger, and at last, towards Whitsuntide, he could stand it no longer, but hit upon the subscription-list for a village nurse as an excuse. He was surprised to find that Mr. Hall did not know his guest s name. "He give a name," said Mrs. Hall an assertion which was quite unfounded "but I didn t rightly hear it." She thought it seemed so silly not to know the man s name. Cuss rapped at the parlour door and entered. There was a fairly audible imprecation from within. "Pardon my intrusion," said Cuss, and then the door closed and cut Mrs. Hall off from the rest of the conversation. She could hear the murmur of voices for the next ten minutes, then a cry of surprise, a stirring of feet, a chair flung aside, a bark of laughter, quick steps to the door, and Cuss appeared, his face white, his eyes staring over his shoulder. He left the door open behind him, and without looking at her strode across the hall and went down the steps, and she heard his feet hurrying along the road. He carried his hat in his hand. She stood behind the door, looking at the open door of the parlour. Then she heard the stranger laughing quietly, and then his footsteps came across the room. She could not see his face where she stood. The parlour door slammed, and the place was silent again. Cuss went straight up the village to Bunting the vicar. "Am I mad?" Cuss began abruptly, as he entered the shabby little study. "Do I look like an insane person?" "What s happened?" said the vicar, putting the ammonite on the loose sheets of his forth-coming sermon. "That chap at the inn" "Well?" "Give me something to drink," said Cuss, and he sat down. When his nerves had been steadied by a glass of cheap sherry the only drink the good vicar had available he told him of the interview he had just had. "Went in," he gasped, "and began to demand a subscription for that Nurse Fund. He d stuck his hands in his pockets as I came in, and he sat down lumpily in his chair. Sniffed. I told him I d heard he took an interest in scientific things. He said" yes. "Sniffed again. Kept on sniffing all the time; evidently recently caught an infernal cold. No wonder, wrapped up like that! I developed the nurse idea, and all the while kept my eyes open. Bottles chemicals everywhere. Balance, test-tubes in stands, and a smell of evening primrose. Would he subscribe? Said he d consider it. Asked him, point-blank, was he researching. Said he was. A long research? Got quite cross." A damnable long research, "said he, blowing the cork out, so to speak." Oh, "said I. And out came the grievance. The man was just on the boil, and my question boiled him over. He had been given a prescription, most valuable prescription what for he wouldn t say. Was it medical?" Damn you! What are you fishing after? "I apologised. Dignified sniff and cough. He resumed. He d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned his head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm." "Well?" "No hand just an empty sleeve." Lord! "I thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?"<|quote|>"That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly."</|quote|>I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I," can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes, "said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. Well? said I, clearing my throat, there s nothing in it." "Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see right down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly just like that until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to see an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then" "Well?" "Something exactly like a finger and thumb it felt nipped my nose." Bunting began to laugh. "There wasn t anything there!" said Cuss, his voice running up into a shriek at the "there." "It s all very well for you to laugh, but I tell you I was so startled, I hit his cuff hard, and turned around, and cut out of the room I left him" Cuss stopped. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his panic. He turned round in a helpless way and took a second glass of the excellent vicar s very inferior sherry. "When I hit his cuff," said Cuss, "I tell you, it felt exactly like hitting an arm. And there wasn t an arm! There wasn t the ghost of an arm!" Mr. Bunting thought it over. He looked suspiciously at Cuss. "It s a most remarkable story," he said. He looked very wise and grave indeed. "It s really," said Mr. Bunting with judicial emphasis, "a most remarkable story." CHAPTER V. THE BURGLARY AT THE VICARAGE The facts of the burglary at the vicarage came to us chiefly through the medium of the vicar and his wife. It occurred in the small hours of Whit Monday, the day devoted in Iping to the Club festivities. Mrs. Bunting, it seems, woke up suddenly in the stillness that comes before the dawn, with the strong impression that the door of their bedroom had opened and closed. She did not arouse her husband at first, but sat up in bed listening. She then distinctly heard the pad, pad, pad of bare feet coming out of the adjoining dressing-room and walking along the passage towards the staircase. As soon as she felt assured of this, she aroused the Rev. Mr. Bunting as quietly as possible. He did not strike a light, but putting on his spectacles, her dressing-gown and his bath slippers, he went out on the landing to listen. He heard quite distinctly a fumbling going on at his study desk down-stairs, and then a violent sneeze. At that he returned to his bedroom, armed himself with the most obvious weapon, the poker, and descended the staircase as noiselessly as possible. Mrs. Bunting came out on the landing. The hour was about four, and the ultimate darkness of the night was past. There was a faint shimmer of light in the hall, but the study doorway yawned impenetrably black. Everything was still except the faint creaking of the stairs under Mr. Bunting s tread, and the slight movements in the study. Then something snapped, the drawer was opened, and there was a rustle of papers. Then came an imprecation, and a match was struck and the study was flooded with yellow light. Mr. Bunting was now in the hall, and through the crack of the door he could see the desk and the open drawer and a candle burning on the desk. 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
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the place was silent again. Cuss went straight up the village to Bunting the vicar. "Am I mad?" Cuss began abruptly, as he entered the shabby little study. "Do I look like an insane person?" "What s happened?" said the vicar, putting the ammonite on the loose sheets of his forth-coming sermon. "That chap at the inn" "Well?" "Give me something to drink," said Cuss, and he sat down. When his nerves had been steadied by a glass of cheap sherry the only drink the good vicar had available he told him of the interview he had just had. "Went in," he gasped, "and began to demand a subscription for that Nurse Fund. He d stuck his hands in his pockets as I came in, and he sat down lumpily in his chair. Sniffed. I told him I d heard he took an interest in scientific things. He said" yes. "Sniffed again. Kept on sniffing all the time; evidently recently caught an infernal cold. No wonder, wrapped up like that! I developed the nurse idea, and all the while kept my eyes open. Bottles chemicals everywhere. Balance, test-tubes in stands, and a smell of evening primrose. Would he subscribe? Said he d consider it. Asked him, point-blank, was he researching. Said he was. A long research? Got quite cross." A damnable long research, "said he, blowing the cork out, so to speak." Oh, "said I. And out came the grievance. The man was just on the boil, and my question boiled him over. He had been given a prescription, most valuable prescription what for he wouldn t say. Was it medical?" Damn you! What are you fishing after? "I apologised. Dignified sniff and cough. He resumed. He d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned his head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm." "Well?" "No hand just an empty sleeve." Lord! "I thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?"<|quote|>"That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly."</|quote|>I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I," can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes, "said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. Well? said I, clearing my throat, there s nothing in it." "Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see right down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly just like that until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to see an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then" "Well?" "Something exactly like a finger and thumb it felt nipped my nose." Bunting began to laugh. "There wasn t anything there!" said Cuss, his voice running up into a shriek at the "there." "It s all very well for you to laugh, but I tell you I was so startled, I hit
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The Invisible Man
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"No thanks, I've got everything safe. How did you sleep?"
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Brenda
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say, can't I carry something?"<|quote|>"No thanks, I've got everything safe. How did you sleep?"</|quote|>"Beautifully." "I bet you didn't."
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looking up at her. "I say, can't I carry something?"<|quote|>"No thanks, I've got everything safe. How did you sleep?"</|quote|>"Beautifully." "I bet you didn't." "Well, I'm not a very
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half-finished panel of petit-point embroidery and a vast, disordered sheaf of Sunday newspapers, above which only her eyes and forehead appeared as though over a yashmak. Beaver emerged from the shadows below and stood at the foot of the stairs looking up at her. "I say, can't I carry something?"<|quote|>"No thanks, I've got everything safe. How did you sleep?"</|quote|>"Beautifully." "I bet you didn't." "Well, I'm not a very good sleeper." "Next time you come you shall have a different room. But I daresay you won't ever come again. People so seldom do. It is very sad because it's such fun for us having them and we never make
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and gold, gules and azure by the emblazoned coats, broken by the leaded devices into countless points and patches of coloured light. Brenda descended the great staircase step by step through alternations of dusk and rainbow. Both hands were occupied, holding to her breast a bag, a small hat, a half-finished panel of petit-point embroidery and a vast, disordered sheaf of Sunday newspapers, above which only her eyes and forehead appeared as though over a yashmak. Beaver emerged from the shadows below and stood at the foot of the stairs looking up at her. "I say, can't I carry something?"<|quote|>"No thanks, I've got everything safe. How did you sleep?"</|quote|>"Beautifully." "I bet you didn't." "Well, I'm not a very good sleeper." "Next time you come you shall have a different room. But I daresay you won't ever come again. People so seldom do. It is very sad because it's such fun for us having them and we never make any new friends living down here." "Tony's gone to church." "Yes, he likes that. He'll be back soon. Let's go out for a minute or two, it looks lovely." When Tony came back they were sitting in the library. Beaver was telling Brenda's fortune with cards. "... Now cut to
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I told you not to go repeating whatever Ben Hacket tells you? Miss Tendril didn't want to hear about Peppermint. And don't ever use that rude word "cat" again." "It only means to be sick." "Well, Miss Tendril isn't interested in being sick..." As the gathering between porch and lychgate began to disperse, Tony set off towards the gardens. There was a good choice of buttonholes in the hothouses; he picked lemon carnations with crinkled, crimson edges for himself and Beaver and a camellia for his wife. Shafts of November sunshine streamed down from lancet and oriel, tinctured in green and gold, gules and azure by the emblazoned coats, broken by the leaded devices into countless points and patches of coloured light. Brenda descended the great staircase step by step through alternations of dusk and rainbow. Both hands were occupied, holding to her breast a bag, a small hat, a half-finished panel of petit-point embroidery and a vast, disordered sheaf of Sunday newspapers, above which only her eyes and forehead appeared as though over a yashmak. Beaver emerged from the shadows below and stood at the foot of the stairs looking up at her. "I say, can't I carry something?"<|quote|>"No thanks, I've got everything safe. How did you sleep?"</|quote|>"Beautifully." "I bet you didn't." "Well, I'm not a very good sleeper." "Next time you come you shall have a different room. But I daresay you won't ever come again. People so seldom do. It is very sad because it's such fun for us having them and we never make any new friends living down here." "Tony's gone to church." "Yes, he likes that. He'll be back soon. Let's go out for a minute or two, it looks lovely." When Tony came back they were sitting in the library. Beaver was telling Brenda's fortune with cards. "... Now cut to me again," he was saying, "and I'll see if it's any clearer... Oh yes... there is going to be a sudden death which will cause you great pleasure and profit. In fact you are going to kill someone. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman... yes, a woman... then you are going to go on a long journey across the sea, marry six dark men and have eleven children, grow a beard and die." "Beast. And all this time I've been thinking it was serious. Hullo, Tony. Jolly church?" "Most enjoyable; how about some sherry?" When they
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assure you." "I haven't used it here lately. When I am asked to supply elsewhere it is the one I invariably choose. Let me see now, I always make a note of the times I use it." The old clergyman opened the manuscript book he was carrying. It had a limp black cover and the pages were yellow with age. "Ah yes, here we are. I preached it first in Jellalabad when the Coldstream Guards were there; then I used it in the Red Sea coming home from my fourth leave; then at Sidmouth... Mentone... Winchester... to the Girl Guides at their summer rally in 1921... the Church Stage Guild at Leicester... twice at Bournemouth during the winter of 1926 when poor Ada was so ill... No, I don't seem to have used it here since 1911, when you would have been too young to enjoy it..." The vicar's sister had engaged John in conversation. He was telling her the story of Peppermint: "...he'd have been all right, Ben says, if he had been able to cat the rum up, but mules can't cat, neither can horses..." Nanny grasped him firmly and hurried him towards home. "How many times have I told you not to go repeating whatever Ben Hacket tells you? Miss Tendril didn't want to hear about Peppermint. And don't ever use that rude word "cat" again." "It only means to be sick." "Well, Miss Tendril isn't interested in being sick..." As the gathering between porch and lychgate began to disperse, Tony set off towards the gardens. There was a good choice of buttonholes in the hothouses; he picked lemon carnations with crinkled, crimson edges for himself and Beaver and a camellia for his wife. Shafts of November sunshine streamed down from lancet and oriel, tinctured in green and gold, gules and azure by the emblazoned coats, broken by the leaded devices into countless points and patches of coloured light. Brenda descended the great staircase step by step through alternations of dusk and rainbow. Both hands were occupied, holding to her breast a bag, a small hat, a half-finished panel of petit-point embroidery and a vast, disordered sheaf of Sunday newspapers, above which only her eyes and forehead appeared as though over a yashmak. Beaver emerged from the shadows below and stood at the foot of the stairs looking up at her. "I say, can't I carry something?"<|quote|>"No thanks, I've got everything safe. How did you sleep?"</|quote|>"Beautifully." "I bet you didn't." "Well, I'm not a very good sleeper." "Next time you come you shall have a different room. But I daresay you won't ever come again. People so seldom do. It is very sad because it's such fun for us having them and we never make any new friends living down here." "Tony's gone to church." "Yes, he likes that. He'll be back soon. Let's go out for a minute or two, it looks lovely." When Tony came back they were sitting in the library. Beaver was telling Brenda's fortune with cards. "... Now cut to me again," he was saying, "and I'll see if it's any clearer... Oh yes... there is going to be a sudden death which will cause you great pleasure and profit. In fact you are going to kill someone. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman... yes, a woman... then you are going to go on a long journey across the sea, marry six dark men and have eleven children, grow a beard and die." "Beast. And all this time I've been thinking it was serious. Hullo, Tony. Jolly church?" "Most enjoyable; how about some sherry?" When they were alone together, just before luncheon, he said, "Darling, you're being heroic with Beaver." "Oh, I quite enjoy coping--in fact I'm bitching him rather." "So I saw. Well, I'll look after him this afternoon and he's going this evening." "Is he? I'll be quite sorry. You know that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it--making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides, Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me," said Tony. After luncheon Tony said, "Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now--my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff--but I think it's good of its kind." It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in the art of being shown over houses; he had been brought up to it in fact, ever since he had begun to accompany his mother, whose hobby it had always been, and later, with changing circumstances, profession. He made apt and appreciative comments and greatly enhanced the
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him the living at the instance of his dentist. He had a noble and sonorous voice and was reckoned the best preacher for many miles around. His sermons had been composed in his more active days for delivery at the garrison chapel; he had done nothing to adapt them to the changed conditions of his ministry and they mostly concluded with some reference to homes and dear ones far away. The villagers did not find this in any way surprising. Few of the things said in church seemed to have any particular reference to themselves. They enjoyed their vicar's sermons very much and they knew that when he began about their distant homes, it was time to be dusting their knees and feeling for their umbrellas. "...And so as we stand here bareheaded at this solemn hour of the week," he read, his powerful old voice swelling up for peroration, "let us remember our Gracious Queen Empress in whose service we are here, and pray that she may long be spared to send us at her bidding to do our duty in the uttermost parts of the earth; and let us think of our dear ones far away and the homes we have left in her name, and remember that though miles of barren continent and leagues of ocean divide us, we are never so near to them as on these Sunday mornings, united with them across dune and mountain in our loyalty to our sovereign and thanksgiving for her welfare; one with them as proud subjects of her sceptre and crown." (" "The Reverend Tendril "e do speak uncommon "igh of the Queen," a gardener's wife had once remarked to Tony.) After the choir had filed out, during the last hymn, the congregation crouched silently for a few seconds and then made for the door. There was no sign of recognition until they were outside among the graves; then there was an exchange of greetings, solicitous, cordial, garrulous. Tony spoke to the vet's wife and Mr Partridge from the shop; then he was joined by the vicar. "Lady Brenda is not ill, I hope?" "No, nothing serious." This was the invariable formula when he appeared at church without her. "A most interesting sermon, Vicar." "My dear boy, I'm delighted to hear you say so. It is one of my favourites. But have you never heard it before?" "No, I assure you." "I haven't used it here lately. When I am asked to supply elsewhere it is the one I invariably choose. Let me see now, I always make a note of the times I use it." The old clergyman opened the manuscript book he was carrying. It had a limp black cover and the pages were yellow with age. "Ah yes, here we are. I preached it first in Jellalabad when the Coldstream Guards were there; then I used it in the Red Sea coming home from my fourth leave; then at Sidmouth... Mentone... Winchester... to the Girl Guides at their summer rally in 1921... the Church Stage Guild at Leicester... twice at Bournemouth during the winter of 1926 when poor Ada was so ill... No, I don't seem to have used it here since 1911, when you would have been too young to enjoy it..." The vicar's sister had engaged John in conversation. He was telling her the story of Peppermint: "...he'd have been all right, Ben says, if he had been able to cat the rum up, but mules can't cat, neither can horses..." Nanny grasped him firmly and hurried him towards home. "How many times have I told you not to go repeating whatever Ben Hacket tells you? Miss Tendril didn't want to hear about Peppermint. And don't ever use that rude word "cat" again." "It only means to be sick." "Well, Miss Tendril isn't interested in being sick..." As the gathering between porch and lychgate began to disperse, Tony set off towards the gardens. There was a good choice of buttonholes in the hothouses; he picked lemon carnations with crinkled, crimson edges for himself and Beaver and a camellia for his wife. Shafts of November sunshine streamed down from lancet and oriel, tinctured in green and gold, gules and azure by the emblazoned coats, broken by the leaded devices into countless points and patches of coloured light. Brenda descended the great staircase step by step through alternations of dusk and rainbow. Both hands were occupied, holding to her breast a bag, a small hat, a half-finished panel of petit-point embroidery and a vast, disordered sheaf of Sunday newspapers, above which only her eyes and forehead appeared as though over a yashmak. Beaver emerged from the shadows below and stood at the foot of the stairs looking up at her. "I say, can't I carry something?"<|quote|>"No thanks, I've got everything safe. How did you sleep?"</|quote|>"Beautifully." "I bet you didn't." "Well, I'm not a very good sleeper." "Next time you come you shall have a different room. But I daresay you won't ever come again. People so seldom do. It is very sad because it's such fun for us having them and we never make any new friends living down here." "Tony's gone to church." "Yes, he likes that. He'll be back soon. Let's go out for a minute or two, it looks lovely." When Tony came back they were sitting in the library. Beaver was telling Brenda's fortune with cards. "... Now cut to me again," he was saying, "and I'll see if it's any clearer... Oh yes... there is going to be a sudden death which will cause you great pleasure and profit. In fact you are going to kill someone. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman... yes, a woman... then you are going to go on a long journey across the sea, marry six dark men and have eleven children, grow a beard and die." "Beast. And all this time I've been thinking it was serious. Hullo, Tony. Jolly church?" "Most enjoyable; how about some sherry?" When they were alone together, just before luncheon, he said, "Darling, you're being heroic with Beaver." "Oh, I quite enjoy coping--in fact I'm bitching him rather." "So I saw. Well, I'll look after him this afternoon and he's going this evening." "Is he? I'll be quite sorry. You know that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it--making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides, Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me," said Tony. After luncheon Tony said, "Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now--my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff--but I think it's good of its kind." It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in the art of being shown over houses; he had been brought up to it in fact, ever since he had begun to accompany his mother, whose hobby it had always been, and later, with changing circumstances, profession. He made apt and appreciative comments and greatly enhanced the pleasure Tony always took in exposing his treasures. They saw it all: the shuttered drawing-room, like a school speech hall, the cloistral passages, the dark inner courtyard, the chapel where, until Tony's succession, family prayers had been daily read to the assembled household, the plate-room and estate office, the bedrooms and attics, the water-tank concealed among the battlements. They climbed the spiral staircase into the works of the clock and waited to see it strike half-past three. Thence they descended with ringing ears to the collections--enamel, ivories, seals, snuff-boxes, china, ormulu, cloisonn?; they paused before each picture in the oak gallery and discussed its associations; they took out the more remarkable folios in the library and examined prints of the original buildings, manuscript account-books of the old Abbey, travel journals of Tony's ancestors. At intervals Beaver would say, "The So-and-so's have got one rather like that at Such-and-such a place" ", and Tony would say, "Yes, I've seen it but I think mine is the earlier." Eventually they came back to the smoking-room and Tony left Beaver to Brenda. She was stitching away at the petit-point, hunched in an armchair. "Well," she asked, without looking up from her needlework, "what did you think of it?" "Magnificent." "You don't have to say that to me, you know." "Well, a lot of the things are very fine." "Yes, the _things_ are all right, I suppose." "But don't you like the house?" "Me? I _detest_ it... at least I don't mean that really, but I do wish sometimes that it wasn't _all_, every bit of it, so appallingly ugly. Only I'd die rather than say that to Tony. We could never live anywhere else, of course. He's crazy about the place... It's funny. None of us minded very much when my brother Reggie sold _our_ house--and that was built by Vanbrugh, you know... I suppose we're lucky to be able to afford to keep it up at all. Do you know how much it costs just to live here? We should be quite rich if it wasn't for that. As it is we support fifteen servants indoors, besides gardeners and carpenters and a night-watchman and all the people at the farm and odd little men constantly popping in to wind the clocks and cook the accounts and clean the moat, while Tony and I have to fuss about whether it's cheaper to take
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her sceptre and crown." (" "The Reverend Tendril "e do speak uncommon "igh of the Queen," a gardener's wife had once remarked to Tony.) After the choir had filed out, during the last hymn, the congregation crouched silently for a few seconds and then made for the door. There was no sign of recognition until they were outside among the graves; then there was an exchange of greetings, solicitous, cordial, garrulous. Tony spoke to the vet's wife and Mr Partridge from the shop; then he was joined by the vicar. "Lady Brenda is not ill, I hope?" "No, nothing serious." This was the invariable formula when he appeared at church without her. "A most interesting sermon, Vicar." "My dear boy, I'm delighted to hear you say so. It is one of my favourites. But have you never heard it before?" "No, I assure you." "I haven't used it here lately. When I am asked to supply elsewhere it is the one I invariably choose. Let me see now, I always make a note of the times I use it." The old clergyman opened the manuscript book he was carrying. It had a limp black cover and the pages were yellow with age. "Ah yes, here we are. I preached it first in Jellalabad when the Coldstream Guards were there; then I used it in the Red Sea coming home from my fourth leave; then at Sidmouth... Mentone... Winchester... to the Girl Guides at their summer rally in 1921... the Church Stage Guild at Leicester... twice at Bournemouth during the winter of 1926 when poor Ada was so ill... No, I don't seem to have used it here since 1911, when you would have been too young to enjoy it..." The vicar's sister had engaged John in conversation. He was telling her the story of Peppermint: "...he'd have been all right, Ben says, if he had been able to cat the rum up, but mules can't cat, neither can horses..." Nanny grasped him firmly and hurried him towards home. "How many times have I told you not to go repeating whatever Ben Hacket tells you? Miss Tendril didn't want to hear about Peppermint. And don't ever use that rude word "cat" again." "It only means to be sick." "Well, Miss Tendril isn't interested in being sick..." As the gathering between porch and lychgate began to disperse, Tony set off towards the gardens. There was a good choice of buttonholes in the hothouses; he picked lemon carnations with crinkled, crimson edges for himself and Beaver and a camellia for his wife. Shafts of November sunshine streamed down from lancet and oriel, tinctured in green and gold, gules and azure by the emblazoned coats, broken by the leaded devices into countless points and patches of coloured light. Brenda descended the great staircase step by step through alternations of dusk and rainbow. Both hands were occupied, holding to her breast a bag, a small hat, a half-finished panel of petit-point embroidery and a vast, disordered sheaf of Sunday newspapers, above which only her eyes and forehead appeared as though over a yashmak. Beaver emerged from the shadows below and stood at the foot of the stairs looking up at her. "I say, can't I carry something?"<|quote|>"No thanks, I've got everything safe. How did you sleep?"</|quote|>"Beautifully." "I bet you didn't." "Well, I'm not a very good sleeper." "Next time you come you shall have a different room. But I daresay you won't ever come again. People so seldom do. It is very sad because it's such fun for us having them and we never make any new friends living down here." "Tony's gone to church." "Yes, he likes that. He'll be back soon. Let's go out for a minute or two, it looks lovely." When Tony came back they were sitting in the library. Beaver was telling Brenda's fortune with cards. "... Now cut to me again," he was saying, "and I'll see if it's any clearer... Oh yes... there is going to be a sudden death which will cause you great pleasure and profit. In fact you are going to kill someone. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman... yes, a woman... then you are going to go on a long journey across the sea, marry six dark men and have eleven children, grow a beard and die." "Beast. And all this time I've been thinking it was serious. Hullo, Tony. Jolly church?" "Most enjoyable; how about some sherry?" When they were alone together, just before luncheon, he said, "Darling, you're being heroic with Beaver." "Oh, I quite enjoy coping--in fact I'm bitching him rather." "So I saw. Well, I'll look after him this afternoon and he's going this evening." "Is he? I'll be quite sorry. You know that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it--making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides, Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me," said Tony. After luncheon Tony said, "Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now--my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff--but I think it's good of its kind." It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in the art of being shown over houses; he had been brought up to it in fact, ever since he had begun to accompany his mother, whose hobby it had always been, and later, with changing circumstances, profession. He made apt and appreciative comments and greatly enhanced the pleasure Tony always took in exposing his treasures. They saw it all: the shuttered drawing-room, like a school speech hall, the cloistral passages, the dark inner courtyard, the chapel where, until Tony's succession, family prayers had been daily read to the assembled household, the plate-room and estate office, the bedrooms and attics, the water-tank concealed among the battlements. They
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Jem, we must escape."
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Don Lavington
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Oh, my head, my head!"<|quote|>"Jem, we must escape."</|quote|>"Escape? I on'y wish we
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means me all the time? Oh, my head, my head!"<|quote|>"Jem, we must escape."</|quote|>"Escape? I on'y wish we could. Oh, my head: how
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away." "Then you've done it now, my lad. My Sally will think I've forsook her." "And they at home will think of me as a thief. Oh, fool--fool--fool!" "What's the use o' calling yourself a fool, Mas' Don, when you means me all the time? Oh, my head, my head!"<|quote|>"Jem, we must escape."</|quote|>"Escape? I on'y wish we could. Oh, my head: how it do ache." "They will take us off to the tender, and then away in some ship, and they will not know at home where we are gone Jem, get up." "What's the good, sir? My head feels like feet,
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made up a bundle o' wittles as if I was a-going, and she saw me take it out under my arm, and she called to me to stop, but I wouldn't, because I was so waxy." "And I made up a bundle too, Jem. I--I did half think of going away." "Then you've done it now, my lad. My Sally will think I've forsook her." "And they at home will think of me as a thief. Oh, fool--fool--fool!" "What's the use o' calling yourself a fool, Mas' Don, when you means me all the time? Oh, my head, my head!"<|quote|>"Jem, we must escape."</|quote|>"Escape? I on'y wish we could. Oh, my head: how it do ache." "They will take us off to the tender, and then away in some ship, and they will not know at home where we are gone Jem, get up." "What's the good, sir? My head feels like feet, and if I tried to stand up I should go down flop!" "Let me help you, Jem. Here, give me your hand. How dark it is? Where's your hand?" "Gently, my lad; that's my hye. Arn't much use here in the dark, but may want 'em by-and-by. That's better. Thank
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got your chance." "But that was all nonsense, Jem. I was only thinking then like a stupid, discontented boy. I don't want to go. What will they say?" "Dunno what they'll say," said Jem dolefully, "but I know what my Sally will say. I used to talk about going and leaving her, but that was because I too was a hidyut. I didn't want to go and leave her, poor little lass. Too fond on her, Mas' Don. She only shows a bit o' temper." "Jem, she'll think you've run away and deserted her." "Safe, Mas' Don. You see, I made up a bundle o' wittles as if I was a-going, and she saw me take it out under my arm, and she called to me to stop, but I wouldn't, because I was so waxy." "And I made up a bundle too, Jem. I--I did half think of going away." "Then you've done it now, my lad. My Sally will think I've forsook her." "And they at home will think of me as a thief. Oh, fool--fool--fool!" "What's the use o' calling yourself a fool, Mas' Don, when you means me all the time? Oh, my head, my head!"<|quote|>"Jem, we must escape."</|quote|>"Escape? I on'y wish we could. Oh, my head: how it do ache." "They will take us off to the tender, and then away in some ship, and they will not know at home where we are gone Jem, get up." "What's the good, sir? My head feels like feet, and if I tried to stand up I should go down flop!" "Let me help you, Jem. Here, give me your hand. How dark it is? Where's your hand?" "Gently, my lad; that's my hye. Arn't much use here in the dark, but may want 'em by-and-by. That's better. Thank ye, sir. Here, hold tight." "Can't you stand, Jem?" "Stand, sir? Yes: but what's the matter? It's like being in a round-about at the fair." "You'll be better soon." "Better, sir? Well, I can't be worse. Oh, my head, my head! I wish I'd got him as did it headed up in one of our barrels, I'd give him such a roll up and down the ware'us floor as 'ud make him as giddy as me." "Now try and think, Jem," said Don excitedly. "They must not believe at home that we are such cowards as to run away." "No,
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face, and locked. "The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!" "Yes, Mas' Don." "They won't let us go." "No, Mas' Don, that they won't." "I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this." "I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance." "But what are we to do?" "I d'know, sir." "We must let my uncle know at once." "Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?" "Not a bit, sir." "But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell yer, sir." "Yes?" "They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates." "Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?" "I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home, they'll think you've cut away." "Jem!" cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open. "Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the desk," said Jem ill-naturedly-- "oh, how my head do ache!--and now you've got your chance." "But that was all nonsense, Jem. I was only thinking then like a stupid, discontented boy. I don't want to go. What will they say?" "Dunno what they'll say," said Jem dolefully, "but I know what my Sally will say. I used to talk about going and leaving her, but that was because I too was a hidyut. I didn't want to go and leave her, poor little lass. Too fond on her, Mas' Don. She only shows a bit o' temper." "Jem, she'll think you've run away and deserted her." "Safe, Mas' Don. You see, I made up a bundle o' wittles as if I was a-going, and she saw me take it out under my arm, and she called to me to stop, but I wouldn't, because I was so waxy." "And I made up a bundle too, Jem. I--I did half think of going away." "Then you've done it now, my lad. My Sally will think I've forsook her." "And they at home will think of me as a thief. Oh, fool--fool--fool!" "What's the use o' calling yourself a fool, Mas' Don, when you means me all the time? Oh, my head, my head!"<|quote|>"Jem, we must escape."</|quote|>"Escape? I on'y wish we could. Oh, my head: how it do ache." "They will take us off to the tender, and then away in some ship, and they will not know at home where we are gone Jem, get up." "What's the good, sir? My head feels like feet, and if I tried to stand up I should go down flop!" "Let me help you, Jem. Here, give me your hand. How dark it is? Where's your hand?" "Gently, my lad; that's my hye. Arn't much use here in the dark, but may want 'em by-and-by. That's better. Thank ye, sir. Here, hold tight." "Can't you stand, Jem?" "Stand, sir? Yes: but what's the matter? It's like being in a round-about at the fair." "You'll be better soon." "Better, sir? Well, I can't be worse. Oh, my head, my head! I wish I'd got him as did it headed up in one of our barrels, I'd give him such a roll up and down the ware'us floor as 'ud make him as giddy as me." "Now try and think, Jem," said Don excitedly. "They must not believe at home that we are such cowards as to run away." "No, sir; my Sally mustn't think that." "Then what shall we do?" "Try to get out, sir, of course." "Can you walk?" "Well, sir, if I can't, I'll crawl. What yer going to do?" "Try the door. Perhaps they have left it unlocked." "Not likely," said Jem. "Wish I'd got a candle. It's like being a rat in a box trap. It _is_ dark." "This way, Jem. Your hand." "All right, sir. Frontards: my hands don't grow out o' my back." "That's it. Now together. Let's get to the wall." There was a rustling noise and then a rattle. "Phew! Shins!" cried Jem. "Oh, dear me. That's barrel staves, I know the feel on 'em. Such sharp edges, Mas' Don. Mind you don't tread on the edge of a hoop, or it'll fly up and hit you right in the middle." _Flip_! "There, I told you so. Hurt you much, my lad?" "Not very much, Jem. Now then; feel your way with me. Let's go all round the place, perhaps there's another way out." "All right, sir. Well, it might be, but I say as it couldn't be darker than this if you was brown sugar, and shut up in a
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the brave and daring young fellows there to come on board my good ship _Great Briton_, and help me till I've settled my quarrel with my enemies,' so we have persuaded you." "You are adding insult to what you have done, sir. Now let us pass. You and your miserable press-gang shall smart for this. Stand aside, sir." "What, after taking all this trouble? Hardly." "Here, I'm all right again now, Mas' Don. Press-gang, eh?" cried Jem. "Here, let me get at him." Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard. "Ah, I wish we had fifty of you," said the bluff man. "Don't hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can't do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king." "You cowards!" cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light. "Come along," he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out. "Do you hear?" cried the bluff man again. "Come along!" "How can I, when he's sticking on like a rat?" growled the man who held Don. "Did you ever see such a young ruffian?" The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold. "Don't be a young fool," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "It's plucky, but it's no good. Can't you see we're seven to one?" "I don't care if you're a hundred," raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly. "Bravo, boy! That's right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that." He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do," he said. "I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked. "The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!" "Yes, Mas' Don." "They won't let us go." "No, Mas' Don, that they won't." "I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this." "I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance." "But what are we to do?" "I d'know, sir." "We must let my uncle know at once." "Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?" "Not a bit, sir." "But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell yer, sir." "Yes?" "They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates." "Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?" "I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home, they'll think you've cut away." "Jem!" cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open. "Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the desk," said Jem ill-naturedly-- "oh, how my head do ache!--and now you've got your chance." "But that was all nonsense, Jem. I was only thinking then like a stupid, discontented boy. I don't want to go. What will they say?" "Dunno what they'll say," said Jem dolefully, "but I know what my Sally will say. I used to talk about going and leaving her, but that was because I too was a hidyut. I didn't want to go and leave her, poor little lass. Too fond on her, Mas' Don. She only shows a bit o' temper." "Jem, she'll think you've run away and deserted her." "Safe, Mas' Don. You see, I made up a bundle o' wittles as if I was a-going, and she saw me take it out under my arm, and she called to me to stop, but I wouldn't, because I was so waxy." "And I made up a bundle too, Jem. I--I did half think of going away." "Then you've done it now, my lad. My Sally will think I've forsook her." "And they at home will think of me as a thief. Oh, fool--fool--fool!" "What's the use o' calling yourself a fool, Mas' Don, when you means me all the time? Oh, my head, my head!"<|quote|>"Jem, we must escape."</|quote|>"Escape? I on'y wish we could. Oh, my head: how it do ache." "They will take us off to the tender, and then away in some ship, and they will not know at home where we are gone Jem, get up." "What's the good, sir? My head feels like feet, and if I tried to stand up I should go down flop!" "Let me help you, Jem. Here, give me your hand. How dark it is? Where's your hand?" "Gently, my lad; that's my hye. Arn't much use here in the dark, but may want 'em by-and-by. That's better. Thank ye, sir. Here, hold tight." "Can't you stand, Jem?" "Stand, sir? Yes: but what's the matter? It's like being in a round-about at the fair." "You'll be better soon." "Better, sir? Well, I can't be worse. Oh, my head, my head! I wish I'd got him as did it headed up in one of our barrels, I'd give him such a roll up and down the ware'us floor as 'ud make him as giddy as me." "Now try and think, Jem," said Don excitedly. "They must not believe at home that we are such cowards as to run away." "No, sir; my Sally mustn't think that." "Then what shall we do?" "Try to get out, sir, of course." "Can you walk?" "Well, sir, if I can't, I'll crawl. What yer going to do?" "Try the door. Perhaps they have left it unlocked." "Not likely," said Jem. "Wish I'd got a candle. It's like being a rat in a box trap. It _is_ dark." "This way, Jem. Your hand." "All right, sir. Frontards: my hands don't grow out o' my back." "That's it. Now together. Let's get to the wall." There was a rustling noise and then a rattle. "Phew! Shins!" cried Jem. "Oh, dear me. That's barrel staves, I know the feel on 'em. Such sharp edges, Mas' Don. Mind you don't tread on the edge of a hoop, or it'll fly up and hit you right in the middle." _Flip_! "There, I told you so. Hurt you much, my lad?" "Not very much, Jem. Now then; feel your way with me. Let's go all round the place, perhaps there's another way out." "All right, sir. Well, it might be, but I say as it couldn't be darker than this if you was brown sugar, and shut up in a barrel in the middle o' the night." "Now I am touching the wall, Jem," said Don. "I'm going to feel all round. Can you hear anything?" "Only you speaking, my lad." "Come along then." "All right, Mas' Don. My head aches as if it was a tub with the cooper at work hammering of it." Don went slowly along the side of the great cellar, guiding himself in the intense darkness by running: his hands over the damp bricks; but there was nothing but bare wall till he had passed down two sides, and was half-way along the third, when he uttered a hasty ejaculation. "It's all right, Jem. Here is a way into another cellar." "Mind how you go, sir. Steady." "Yes, but make haste." "There's a door," whispered Don. "Loose my hand." He hastily felt all over the door, but it was perfectly blank, not so much as a keyhole to be found, and though he pressed and strained at it, he could make no impression. "It's no use, Jem. Let's try the other door." "I don't believe there are no other door," said Jem. "That's the way out." "No, no; the way out is on the other side." "This here is t'other side," said Jem, "only we arn't over there now." "I'm sure it can't be." "And I'm sure it can be, my lad. Nothing arn't more puzzling than being shut up in the dark. You loses yourself directly, and then you can't find yourself again." "But the door where the men went out is over there." "Yah! That it arn't," cried Jem. "Don't throw your fisties about that how. That's my nose." "I'm very sorry, Jem. I did not mean--" "Course you didn't, but that's what I said. When you're in the dark you don't know where you are, nor where any one else is." "Let's try down that other side, and I'll show you that you are wrong." "Can't show me, my lad. You may make me feel, but you did that just now when you hit me on the nose. Well? Fun' it?" "No, not yet," said Don, as he crept slowly along from the doorway; and then carefully on and on, till he must have come to the place from which they started. "No, not yet," grumbled Jem. "Nor more you won't if you go on for ever." "I'm afraid you're right, Jem."
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threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do," he said. "I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked. "The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!" "Yes, Mas' Don." "They won't let us go." "No, Mas' Don, that they won't." "I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this." "I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance." "But what are we to do?" "I d'know, sir." "We must let my uncle know at once." "Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?" "Not a bit, sir." "But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell yer, sir." "Yes?" "They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates." "Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?" "I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home, they'll think you've cut away." "Jem!" cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open. "Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the desk," said Jem ill-naturedly-- "oh, how my head do ache!--and now you've got your chance." "But that was all nonsense, Jem. I was only thinking then like a stupid, discontented boy. I don't want to go. What will they say?" "Dunno what they'll say," said Jem dolefully, "but I know what my Sally will say. I used to talk about going and leaving her, but that was because I too was a hidyut. I didn't want to go and leave her, poor little lass. Too fond on her, Mas' Don. She only shows a bit o' temper." "Jem, she'll think you've run away and deserted her." "Safe, Mas' Don. You see, I made up a bundle o' wittles as if I was a-going, and she saw me take it out under my arm, and she called to me to stop, but I wouldn't, because I was so waxy." "And I made up a bundle too, Jem. I--I did half think of going away." "Then you've done it now, my lad. My Sally will think I've forsook her." "And they at home will think of me as a thief. Oh, fool--fool--fool!" "What's the use o' calling yourself a fool, Mas' Don, when you means me all the time? Oh, my head, my head!"<|quote|>"Jem, we must escape."</|quote|>"Escape? I on'y wish we could. Oh, my head: how it do ache." "They will take us off to the tender, and then away in some ship, and they will not know at home where we are gone Jem, get up." "What's the good, sir? My head feels like feet, and if I tried to stand up I should go down flop!" "Let me help you, Jem. Here, give me your hand. How dark it is? Where's your hand?" "Gently, my lad; that's my hye. Arn't much use here in the dark, but may want 'em by-and-by. That's better. Thank ye, sir. Here, hold tight." "Can't you stand, Jem?" "Stand, sir? Yes: but what's the matter? It's like being in a round-about at the fair." "You'll be better soon." "Better, sir? Well, I can't be worse. Oh, my head, my head! I wish I'd got him as did it headed up in one of our barrels, I'd give him such a roll up and down the ware'us floor as 'ud make him as giddy as me." "Now try and think, Jem," said Don excitedly. "They must not believe at home that we are such cowards as to run away." "No, sir; my Sally mustn't think that." "Then what shall we do?" "Try to get out, sir, of course." "Can you walk?" "Well, sir, if I can't, I'll crawl. What yer going to do?" "Try the door. Perhaps they have left it unlocked." "Not likely," said Jem. "Wish I'd got a candle. It's like being a rat in a box trap. It _is_ dark." "This way, Jem. Your hand." "All right, sir. Frontards: my hands don't grow out o' my back." "That's it. Now together. Let's get to the wall." There was a rustling noise and then a rattle. "Phew! Shins!" cried Jem. "Oh, dear me. That's barrel staves, I know the feel on 'em. Such sharp edges, Mas' Don. Mind you don't tread on the edge of a hoop, or it'll fly up and hit you right in the middle." _Flip_! "There, I told you so. Hurt you much, my lad?" "Not very much, Jem. Now then; feel your way with me. Let's go all round the place, perhaps there's another way out." "All right, sir. Well, it might be, but I say as it couldn't be darker than this if you was brown sugar, and shut up in a barrel in the middle o' the night." "Now I am touching the wall, Jem," said Don. "I'm going to feel all round. Can you hear anything?" "Only you speaking, my lad." "Come along then." "All right, Mas' Don. My head aches as if it was a tub with the cooper at work hammering of it." Don went slowly along the side of the great cellar, guiding himself in the intense darkness by
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Don Lavington
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was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock gravity. Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not be. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content them. Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too.
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No speaker
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"Sir, you do me honour,"<|quote|>was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock gravity. Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not be. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content them. Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too.</|quote|>"It was really like being
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aloud is no everyday talent." "Sir, you do me honour,"<|quote|>was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock gravity. Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not be. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content them. Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too.</|quote|>"It was really like being at a play," said she.
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with his descriptions; but this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know him in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly is, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday talent." "Sir, you do me honour,"<|quote|>was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock gravity. Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not be. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content them. Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too.</|quote|>"It was really like being at a play," said she. "I wish Sir Thomas had been here." Crawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram, with all her incompetency and languor, could feel this, the inference of what her niece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating. "You
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without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately." "No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree," said Edmund, "from one's earliest years. His celebrated passages are quoted by everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk Shakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; but this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know him in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly is, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday talent." "Sir, you do me honour,"<|quote|>was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock gravity. Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not be. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content them. Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too.</|quote|>"It was really like being at a play," said she. "I wish Sir Thomas had been here." Crawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram, with all her incompetency and languor, could feel this, the inference of what her niece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating. "You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford," said her ladyship soon afterwards; "and I will tell you what, I think you will have a theatre, some time or other, at your house in Norfolk. I mean when you are settled there. I do indeed. I think
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from this hour," replied Crawford; "but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare in my hand before since I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I have heard of it from somebody who did, I am not certain which. But Shakespeare one gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part of an Englishman's constitution. His thoughts and beauties are so spread abroad that one touches them everywhere; one is intimate with him by instinct. No man of any brain can open at a good part of one of his plays without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately." "No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree," said Edmund, "from one's earliest years. His celebrated passages are quoted by everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk Shakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; but this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know him in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly is, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday talent." "Sir, you do me honour,"<|quote|>was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock gravity. Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not be. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content them. Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too.</|quote|>"It was really like being at a play," said she. "I wish Sir Thomas had been here." Crawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram, with all her incompetency and languor, could feel this, the inference of what her niece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating. "You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford," said her ladyship soon afterwards; "and I will tell you what, I think you will have a theatre, some time or other, at your house in Norfolk. I mean when you are settled there. I do indeed. I think you will fit up a theatre at your house in Norfolk." "Do you, ma'am?" cried he, with quickness. "No, no, that will never be. Your ladyship is quite mistaken. No theatre at Everingham! Oh no!" And he looked at Fanny with an expressive smile, which evidently meant, "That lady will never allow a theatre at Everingham." Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined _not_ to see it, as to make it clear that the voice was enough to convey the full meaning of the protestation; and such a quick consciousness of compliment, such a ready comprehension of a
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give, and his reading brought all his acting before her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it came unexpectedly, and with no such drawback as she had been used to suffer in seeing him on the stage with Miss Bertram. Edmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and gratified by seeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework, which at the beginning seemed to occupy her totally: how it fell from her hand while she sat motionless over it, and at last, how the eyes which had appeared so studiously to avoid him throughout the day were turned and fixed on Crawford fixed on him for minutes, fixed on him, in short, till the attraction drew Crawford's upon her, and the book was closed, and the charm was broken. Then she was shrinking again into herself, and blushing and working as hard as ever; but it had been enough to give Edmund encouragement for his friend, and as he cordially thanked him, he hoped to be expressing Fanny's secret feelings too. "That play must be a favourite with you," said he; "you read as if you knew it well." "It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour," replied Crawford; "but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare in my hand before since I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I have heard of it from somebody who did, I am not certain which. But Shakespeare one gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part of an Englishman's constitution. His thoughts and beauties are so spread abroad that one touches them everywhere; one is intimate with him by instinct. No man of any brain can open at a good part of one of his plays without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately." "No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree," said Edmund, "from one's earliest years. His celebrated passages are quoted by everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk Shakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; but this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know him in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly is, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday talent." "Sir, you do me honour,"<|quote|>was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock gravity. Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not be. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content them. Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too.</|quote|>"It was really like being at a play," said she. "I wish Sir Thomas had been here." Crawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram, with all her incompetency and languor, could feel this, the inference of what her niece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating. "You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford," said her ladyship soon afterwards; "and I will tell you what, I think you will have a theatre, some time or other, at your house in Norfolk. I mean when you are settled there. I do indeed. I think you will fit up a theatre at your house in Norfolk." "Do you, ma'am?" cried he, with quickness. "No, no, that will never be. Your ladyship is quite mistaken. No theatre at Everingham! Oh no!" And he looked at Fanny with an expressive smile, which evidently meant, "That lady will never allow a theatre at Everingham." Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined _not_ to see it, as to make it clear that the voice was enough to convey the full meaning of the protestation; and such a quick consciousness of compliment, such a ready comprehension of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable than not. The subject of reading aloud was farther discussed. The two young men were the only talkers, but they, standing by the fire, talked over the too common neglect of the qualification, the total inattention to it, in the ordinary school-system for boys, the consequently natural, yet in some instances almost unnatural, degree of ignorance and uncouthness of men, of sensible and well-informed men, when suddenly called to the necessity of reading aloud, which had fallen within their notice, giving instances of blunders, and failures with their secondary causes, the want of management of the voice, of proper modulation and emphasis, of foresight and judgment, all proceeding from the first cause: want of early attention and habit; and Fanny was listening again with great entertainment. "Even in my profession," said Edmund, with a smile, "how little the art of reading has been studied! how little a clear manner, and good delivery, have been attended to! I speak rather of the past, however, than the present. There is now a spirit of improvement abroad; but among those who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago, the larger number, to judge by their performance, must
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could come to from all that he observed to pass before, and at, and after dinner. In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his mother and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if there were nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing their apparently deep tranquillity. "We have not been so silent all the time," replied his mother. "Fanny has been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing you coming." And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the air of being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. "She often reads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle of a very fine speech of that man's what's his name, Fanny? when we heard your footsteps." Crawford took the volume. "Let me have the pleasure of finishing that speech to your ladyship," said he. "I shall find it immediately." And by carefully giving way to the inclination of the leaves, he did find it, or within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram, who assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal Wolsey, that he had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of help had Fanny given; not a syllable for or against. All her attention was for her work. She seemed determined to be interested by nothing else. But taste was too strong in her. She could not abstract her mind five minutes: she was forced to listen; his reading was capital, and her pleasure in good reading extreme. To _good_ reading, however, she had been long used: her uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well, but in Mr. Crawford's reading there was a variety of excellence beyond what she had ever met with. The King, the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given in turn; for with the happiest knack, the happiest power of jumping and guessing, he could always alight at will on the best scene, or the best speeches of each; and whether it were dignity, or pride, or tenderness, or remorse, or whatever were to be expressed, he could do it with equal beauty. It was truly dramatic. His acting had first taught Fanny what pleasure a play might give, and his reading brought all his acting before her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it came unexpectedly, and with no such drawback as she had been used to suffer in seeing him on the stage with Miss Bertram. Edmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and gratified by seeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework, which at the beginning seemed to occupy her totally: how it fell from her hand while she sat motionless over it, and at last, how the eyes which had appeared so studiously to avoid him throughout the day were turned and fixed on Crawford fixed on him for minutes, fixed on him, in short, till the attraction drew Crawford's upon her, and the book was closed, and the charm was broken. Then she was shrinking again into herself, and blushing and working as hard as ever; but it had been enough to give Edmund encouragement for his friend, and as he cordially thanked him, he hoped to be expressing Fanny's secret feelings too. "That play must be a favourite with you," said he; "you read as if you knew it well." "It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour," replied Crawford; "but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare in my hand before since I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I have heard of it from somebody who did, I am not certain which. But Shakespeare one gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part of an Englishman's constitution. His thoughts and beauties are so spread abroad that one touches them everywhere; one is intimate with him by instinct. No man of any brain can open at a good part of one of his plays without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately." "No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree," said Edmund, "from one's earliest years. His celebrated passages are quoted by everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk Shakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; but this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know him in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly is, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday talent." "Sir, you do me honour,"<|quote|>was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock gravity. Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not be. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content them. Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too.</|quote|>"It was really like being at a play," said she. "I wish Sir Thomas had been here." Crawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram, with all her incompetency and languor, could feel this, the inference of what her niece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating. "You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford," said her ladyship soon afterwards; "and I will tell you what, I think you will have a theatre, some time or other, at your house in Norfolk. I mean when you are settled there. I do indeed. I think you will fit up a theatre at your house in Norfolk." "Do you, ma'am?" cried he, with quickness. "No, no, that will never be. Your ladyship is quite mistaken. No theatre at Everingham! Oh no!" And he looked at Fanny with an expressive smile, which evidently meant, "That lady will never allow a theatre at Everingham." Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined _not_ to see it, as to make it clear that the voice was enough to convey the full meaning of the protestation; and such a quick consciousness of compliment, such a ready comprehension of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable than not. The subject of reading aloud was farther discussed. The two young men were the only talkers, but they, standing by the fire, talked over the too common neglect of the qualification, the total inattention to it, in the ordinary school-system for boys, the consequently natural, yet in some instances almost unnatural, degree of ignorance and uncouthness of men, of sensible and well-informed men, when suddenly called to the necessity of reading aloud, which had fallen within their notice, giving instances of blunders, and failures with their secondary causes, the want of management of the voice, of proper modulation and emphasis, of foresight and judgment, all proceeding from the first cause: want of early attention and habit; and Fanny was listening again with great entertainment. "Even in my profession," said Edmund, with a smile, "how little the art of reading has been studied! how little a clear manner, and good delivery, have been attended to! I speak rather of the past, however, than the present. There is now a spirit of improvement abroad; but among those who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago, the larger number, to judge by their performance, must have thought reading was reading, and preaching was preaching. It is different now. The subject is more justly considered. It is felt that distinctness and energy may have weight in recommending the most solid truths; and besides, there is more general observation and taste, a more critical knowledge diffused than formerly; in every congregation there is a larger proportion who know a little of the matter, and who can judge and criticise." Edmund had already gone through the service once since his ordination; and upon this being understood, he had a variety of questions from Crawford as to his feelings and success; questions, which being made, though with the vivacity of friendly interest and quick taste, without any touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity which Edmund knew to be most offensive to Fanny, he had true pleasure in satisfying; and when Crawford proceeded to ask his opinion and give his own as to the properest manner in which particular passages in the service should be delivered, shewing it to be a subject on which he had thought before, and thought with judgment, Edmund was still more and more pleased. This would be the way to Fanny's heart. She was not to be won by all that gallantry and wit and good-nature together could do; or, at least, she would not be won by them nearly so soon, without the assistance of sentiment and feeling, and seriousness on serious subjects. "Our liturgy," observed Crawford, "has beauties, which not even a careless, slovenly style of reading can destroy; but it has also redundancies and repetitions which require good reading not to be felt. For myself, at least, I must confess being not always so attentive as I ought to be" (here was a glance at Fanny); "that nineteen times out of twenty I am thinking how such a prayer ought to be read, and longing to have it to read myself. Did you speak?" stepping eagerly to Fanny, and addressing her in a softened voice; and upon her saying "No," he added, "Are you sure you did not speak? I saw your lips move. I fancied you might be going to tell me I ought to be more attentive, and not _allow_ my thoughts to wander. Are not you going to tell me so?" "No, indeed, you know your duty too well for me to even supposing" She
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capital, and her pleasure in good reading extreme. To _good_ reading, however, she had been long used: her uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well, but in Mr. Crawford's reading there was a variety of excellence beyond what she had ever met with. The King, the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given in turn; for with the happiest knack, the happiest power of jumping and guessing, he could always alight at will on the best scene, or the best speeches of each; and whether it were dignity, or pride, or tenderness, or remorse, or whatever were to be expressed, he could do it with equal beauty. It was truly dramatic. His acting had first taught Fanny what pleasure a play might give, and his reading brought all his acting before her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it came unexpectedly, and with no such drawback as she had been used to suffer in seeing him on the stage with Miss Bertram. Edmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and gratified by seeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework, which at the beginning seemed to occupy her totally: how it fell from her hand while she sat motionless over it, and at last, how the eyes which had appeared so studiously to avoid him throughout the day were turned and fixed on Crawford fixed on him for minutes, fixed on him, in short, till the attraction drew Crawford's upon her, and the book was closed, and the charm was broken. Then she was shrinking again into herself, and blushing and working as hard as ever; but it had been enough to give Edmund encouragement for his friend, and as he cordially thanked him, he hoped to be expressing Fanny's secret feelings too. "That play must be a favourite with you," said he; "you read as if you knew it well." "It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour," replied Crawford; "but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare in my hand before since I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I have heard of it from somebody who did, I am not certain which. But Shakespeare one gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part of an Englishman's constitution. His thoughts and beauties are so spread abroad that one touches them everywhere; one is intimate with him by instinct. No man of any brain can open at a good part of one of his plays without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately." "No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree," said Edmund, "from one's earliest years. His celebrated passages are quoted by everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk Shakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; but this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know him in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly is, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday talent." "Sir, you do me honour,"<|quote|>was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock gravity. Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not be. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content them. Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too.</|quote|>"It was really like being at a play," said she. "I wish Sir Thomas had been here." Crawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram, with all her incompetency and languor, could feel this, the inference of what her niece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating. "You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford," said her ladyship soon afterwards; "and I will tell you what, I think you will have a theatre, some time or other, at your house in Norfolk. I mean when you are settled there. I do indeed. I think you will fit up a theatre at your house in Norfolk." "Do you, ma'am?" cried he, with quickness. "No, no, that will never be. Your ladyship is quite mistaken. No theatre at Everingham! Oh no!" And he looked at Fanny with an expressive smile, which evidently meant, "That lady will never allow a theatre at Everingham." Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined _not_ to see it, as to make it clear that the voice was enough to convey the full meaning of the protestation; and such a quick consciousness of compliment, such a ready comprehension of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable than not. The subject of reading aloud was farther discussed. The two young men were the only talkers, but they, standing by the fire, talked over the too common neglect of the qualification, the total inattention to it, in the ordinary school-system for boys, the consequently natural, yet in some instances almost unnatural, degree of ignorance and uncouthness of men, of sensible and well-informed men, when suddenly called to the necessity of reading aloud, which had fallen within their notice, giving instances of blunders, and failures with their secondary causes, the want of management of the voice, of proper modulation and emphasis, of foresight and judgment, all proceeding from the first cause: want of early attention
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Mansfield Park
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"No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all."
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Margaret
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the parish I dare say."<|quote|>"No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all."</|quote|>"Margaret," said Marianne with great
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He is the curate of the parish I dare say."<|quote|>"No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all."</|quote|>"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all
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s name?" "I must not tell, ma am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too." "Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say."<|quote|>"No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all."</|quote|>"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence." "Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F."
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never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you who told me of it yourself." This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more. "Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings. "What is the gentleman s name?" "I must not tell, ma am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too." "Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say."<|quote|>"No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all."</|quote|>"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence." "Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F." Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship s great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and
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looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not tell, may I, Elinor?" This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings. Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret, "Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them." "I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you who told me of it yourself." This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more. "Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings. "What is the gentleman s name?" "I must not tell, ma am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too." "Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say."<|quote|>"No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all."</|quote|>"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence." "Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F." Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship s great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her. A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine
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hair." "Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of _his_." "But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne s. I am almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-book." For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself. Margaret s sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor s particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not tell, may I, Elinor?" This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings. Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret, "Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them." "I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you who told me of it yourself." This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more. "Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings. "What is the gentleman s name?" "I must not tell, ma am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too." "Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say."<|quote|>"No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all."</|quote|>"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence." "Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F." Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship s great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her. A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to form a great part of the morning s amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure. To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking, considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last fortnight; and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by Elinor to stay at home. CHAPTER XIII. Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event
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such imprudent kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw him next, that it must be declined. She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his present. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time related, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side impossible. His concern however was very apparent; and after expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice, "But, Marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now. I shall keep it only till you can claim it. When you leave Barton to form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall receive you." This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her sister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between them. From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover it by accident. Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this matter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding evening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations, which, with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest sister, when they were next by themselves. "Oh, Elinor!" she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon." "You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great uncle." "But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair." "Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of _his_." "But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne s. I am almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-book." For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself. Margaret s sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor s particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not tell, may I, Elinor?" This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings. Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret, "Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them." "I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you who told me of it yourself." This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more. "Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings. "What is the gentleman s name?" "I must not tell, ma am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too." "Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say."<|quote|>"No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all."</|quote|>"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence." "Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F." Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship s great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her. A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to form a great part of the morning s amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure. To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking, considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last fortnight; and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by Elinor to stay at home. CHAPTER XIII. Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all. By ten o clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise. While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the rest there was one for Colonel Brandon; he took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room. "What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John. Nobody could tell. "I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. "It must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my breakfast table so suddenly." In about five minutes he returned. "No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he entered the room. "None at all, ma am, I thank you." "Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse." "No, ma am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business." "But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this won t do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it." "My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying." "Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter s reproof. "No, indeed, it is not." "Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well." "Whom do you mean, ma am?" said he, colouring a little. "Oh! you know who I mean." "I am particularly sorry, ma am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton, "that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town." "In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at this time of year?" "My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell." What a
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only the hair of some great uncle of _his_." "But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne s. I am almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-book." For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself. Margaret s sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor s particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not tell, may I, Elinor?" This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings. Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret, "Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them." "I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you who told me of it yourself." This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more. "Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings. "What is the gentleman s name?" "I must not tell, ma am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too." "Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say."<|quote|>"No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all."</|quote|>"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence." "Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F." Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship s great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her. A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he
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Sense And Sensibility
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He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister.
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No speaker
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you and get it over."<|quote|>He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister.</|quote|>"She will feel differently in
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better have a talk with you and get it over."<|quote|>He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister.</|quote|>"She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox,
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ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep," he said. "I had better have a talk with you and get it over."<|quote|>He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister.</|quote|>"She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will
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Isn t she stopping with her sister at the hotel?" "Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--" "perhaps." "Can I do anything for you, sir?" "Not to-night, my boy." Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep," he said. "I had better have a talk with you and get it over."<|quote|>He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister.</|quote|>"She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will be yours--and when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there. I won t have it." He looked angrily at the moon. "To my mind this question is connected with something far greater, the rights of property itself." "Undoubtedly," said
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the first train home, but had no inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then his father, who had dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones inquired for Margaret. "I don t know where she is, pater" said Charles. "Dolly kept back dinner nearly an hour for her." "Tell me when she comes in." Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned. "I ll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming. Isn t she stopping with her sister at the hotel?" "Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--" "perhaps." "Can I do anything for you, sir?" "Not to-night, my boy." Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep," he said. "I had better have a talk with you and get it over."<|quote|>He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister.</|quote|>"She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will be yours--and when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there. I won t have it." He looked angrily at the moon. "To my mind this question is connected with something far greater, the rights of property itself." "Undoubtedly," said Charles. Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son s, but somehow liked him less as he told him more. "I don t want you to conclude that my wife and I had anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but on the understanding that they clear out of the house at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua non." "Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?" "Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my
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against a motor-car that he found in it, found a door open and entered a house. Yes, it would be very easy. From a room to the left he heard voices, Margaret s amongst them. His own name was called aloud, and a man whom he had never seen said, "Oh, is he there? I am not surprised. I now thrash him within an inch of his life." "Mrs. Wilcox," said Leonard, "I have done wrong." The man took him by the collar and cried, "Bring me a stick." Women were screaming. A stick, very bright, descended. It hurt him, not where it descended, but in the heart. Books fell over him in a shower. Nothing had sense. "Get some water," commanded Charles, who had all through kept very calm. "He s shamming. Of course I only used the blade. Here, carry him out into the air." Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret obeyed him. They laid Leonard, who was dead, on the gravel; Helen poured water over him. "That s enough," said Charles. "Yes, murder s enough," said Miss Avery, coming out of the house with the sword. CHAPTER XLII When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train home, but had no inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then his father, who had dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones inquired for Margaret. "I don t know where she is, pater" said Charles. "Dolly kept back dinner nearly an hour for her." "Tell me when she comes in." Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned. "I ll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming. Isn t she stopping with her sister at the hotel?" "Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--" "perhaps." "Can I do anything for you, sir?" "Not to-night, my boy." Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep," he said. "I had better have a talk with you and get it over."<|quote|>He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister.</|quote|>"She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will be yours--and when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there. I won t have it." He looked angrily at the moon. "To my mind this question is connected with something far greater, the rights of property itself." "Undoubtedly," said Charles. Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son s, but somehow liked him less as he told him more. "I don t want you to conclude that my wife and I had anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but on the understanding that they clear out of the house at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua non." "Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?" "Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my representative, and, of course, use no violence, Charles." On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard dead upon the gravel, it did not seem to him that he had used violence. Death was due to heart disease. His stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss Avery had acknowledged that he only used the flat of the sword. On his way through the village he informed the police, who thanked him, and said there must be an inquest. He found his father in the garden shading his eyes from the sun. "It has been pretty horrible," said Charles gravely. "They were there, and they had the man up there with them too." "What--what man?" "I told you last night. His name was Bast." "My God! is it possible?" said Mr. Wilcox. "In your mother s house! Charles, in your mother s house!" "I know, pater. That was what I felt. As a matter of fact, there is no need to trouble about the man. He was in the last stages of heart disease, and just before I could show him what I thought of him he went off. The police are seeing about it at this moment." Mr. Wilcox listened
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his heart as the train drew up at Hilton. But remorse had become beautiful. Hilton was asleep, or at the earliest, breakfasting. Leonard noticed the contrast when he stepped out of it into the country. Here men had been up since dawn. Their hours were ruled, not by a London office, but by the movements of the crops and the sun. That they were men of the finest type only the sentimentalists can declare. But they kept to the life of daylight. They are England s hope. Clumsily they carry forward the torch of the sun, until such time as the nation sees fit to take it up. Half clodhopper, half board-school prig, they can still throw back to a nobler stock, and breed yeomen. At the chalk pit a motor passed him. In it was another type, whom Nature favours--the Imperial. Healthy, ever in motion, it hopes to inherit the earth. It breeds as quickly as the yeoman, and as soundly; strong is the temptation to acclaim it as a super-yeoman, who carries his country s virtue overseas. But the Imperialist is not what he thinks or seems. He is a destroyer. He prepares the way for cosmopolitanism, and though his ambitions may be fulfilled, the earth that he inherits will be grey. To Leonard, intent on his private sin, there came the conviction of innate goodness elsewhere. It was not the optimism which he had been taught at school. Again and again must the drums tap, and the goblins stalk over the universe before joy can be purged of the superficial. It was rather paradoxical, and arose from his sorrow. Death destroys a man, but the idea of death saves him--that is the best account of it that has yet been given. Squalor and tragedy can beckon to all that is great in us, and strengthen the wings of love. They can beckon; it is not certain that they will, for they are not love s servants. But they can beckon, and the knowledge of this incredible truth comforted him. As he approached the house all thought stopped. Contradictory notions stood side by side in his mind. He was terrified but happy, ashamed, but had done no sin. He knew the confession: "Mrs. Wilcox, I have done wrong," but sunrise had robbed its meaning, and he felt rather on a supreme adventure. He entered a garden, steadied himself against a motor-car that he found in it, found a door open and entered a house. Yes, it would be very easy. From a room to the left he heard voices, Margaret s amongst them. His own name was called aloud, and a man whom he had never seen said, "Oh, is he there? I am not surprised. I now thrash him within an inch of his life." "Mrs. Wilcox," said Leonard, "I have done wrong." The man took him by the collar and cried, "Bring me a stick." Women were screaming. A stick, very bright, descended. It hurt him, not where it descended, but in the heart. Books fell over him in a shower. Nothing had sense. "Get some water," commanded Charles, who had all through kept very calm. "He s shamming. Of course I only used the blade. Here, carry him out into the air." Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret obeyed him. They laid Leonard, who was dead, on the gravel; Helen poured water over him. "That s enough," said Charles. "Yes, murder s enough," said Miss Avery, coming out of the house with the sword. CHAPTER XLII When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train home, but had no inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then his father, who had dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones inquired for Margaret. "I don t know where she is, pater" said Charles. "Dolly kept back dinner nearly an hour for her." "Tell me when she comes in." Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned. "I ll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming. Isn t she stopping with her sister at the hotel?" "Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--" "perhaps." "Can I do anything for you, sir?" "Not to-night, my boy." Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep," he said. "I had better have a talk with you and get it over."<|quote|>He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister.</|quote|>"She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will be yours--and when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there. I won t have it." He looked angrily at the moon. "To my mind this question is connected with something far greater, the rights of property itself." "Undoubtedly," said Charles. Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son s, but somehow liked him less as he told him more. "I don t want you to conclude that my wife and I had anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but on the understanding that they clear out of the house at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua non." "Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?" "Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my representative, and, of course, use no violence, Charles." On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard dead upon the gravel, it did not seem to him that he had used violence. Death was due to heart disease. His stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss Avery had acknowledged that he only used the flat of the sword. On his way through the village he informed the police, who thanked him, and said there must be an inquest. He found his father in the garden shading his eyes from the sun. "It has been pretty horrible," said Charles gravely. "They were there, and they had the man up there with them too." "What--what man?" "I told you last night. His name was Bast." "My God! is it possible?" said Mr. Wilcox. "In your mother s house! Charles, in your mother s house!" "I know, pater. That was what I felt. As a matter of fact, there is no need to trouble about the man. He was in the last stages of heart disease, and just before I could show him what I thought of him he went off. The police are seeing about it at this moment." Mr. Wilcox listened attentively. "I got up there--oh, it couldn t have been more than half-past seven. The Avery woman was lighting a fire for them. They were still upstairs. I waited in the drawing-room. We were all moderately civil and collected, though I had my suspicions. I gave them your message, and Mrs. Wilcox said," Oh yes, I see; yes, "in that way of hers." "Nothing else?" "I promised to tell you, with her love, that she was going to Germany with her sister this evening. That was all we had time for." Mr. Wilcox seemed relieved. "Because by then I suppose the man got tired of hiding, for suddenly Mrs. Wilcox screamed out his name. I recognised it, and I went for him in the hall. Was I right, pater? I thought things were going a little too far." "Right, my dear boy? I don t know. But you would have been no son of mine if you hadn t. Then did he just--just--crumple up as you said?" He shrunk from the simple word. "He caught hold of the bookcase, which came down over him. So I merely put the sword down and carried him into the garden. We all thought he was shamming. However, he s dead right enough. Awful business!" "Sword?" cried his father, with anxiety in his voice. "What sword? Whose sword?" "A sword of theirs." "What were you doing with it?" "Well, didn t you see, pater, I had to snatch up the first thing handy. I hadn t a riding-whip or stick. I caught him once or twice over the shoulders with the flat of their old German sword." "Then what?" "He pulled over the bookcase, as I said, and fell," said Charles, with a sigh. It was no fun doing errands for his father, who was never quite satisfied. "But the real cause was heart disease? Of that you re sure?" "That or a fit. However, we shall hear more than enough at the inquest on such unsavoury topics." They went in to breakfast. Charles had a racking headache, consequent on motoring before food. He was also anxious about the future, reflecting that the police must detain Helen and Margaret for the inquest and ferret the whole thing out. He saw himself obliged to leave Hilton. One could not afford to live near the scene of a scandal--it was not fair on one s wife.
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rather on a supreme adventure. He entered a garden, steadied himself against a motor-car that he found in it, found a door open and entered a house. Yes, it would be very easy. From a room to the left he heard voices, Margaret s amongst them. His own name was called aloud, and a man whom he had never seen said, "Oh, is he there? I am not surprised. I now thrash him within an inch of his life." "Mrs. Wilcox," said Leonard, "I have done wrong." The man took him by the collar and cried, "Bring me a stick." Women were screaming. A stick, very bright, descended. It hurt him, not where it descended, but in the heart. Books fell over him in a shower. Nothing had sense. "Get some water," commanded Charles, who had all through kept very calm. "He s shamming. Of course I only used the blade. Here, carry him out into the air." Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret obeyed him. They laid Leonard, who was dead, on the gravel; Helen poured water over him. "That s enough," said Charles. "Yes, murder s enough," said Miss Avery, coming out of the house with the sword. CHAPTER XLII When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train home, but had no inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then his father, who had dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones inquired for Margaret. "I don t know where she is, pater" said Charles. "Dolly kept back dinner nearly an hour for her." "Tell me when she comes in." Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned. "I ll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming. Isn t she stopping with her sister at the hotel?" "Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--" "perhaps." "Can I do anything for you, sir?" "Not to-night, my boy." Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep," he said. "I had better have a talk with you and get it over."<|quote|>He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister.</|quote|>"She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will be yours--and when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there. I won t have it." He looked angrily at the moon. "To my mind this question is connected with something far greater, the rights of property itself." "Undoubtedly," said Charles. Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son s, but somehow liked him less as he told him more. "I don t want you to conclude that my wife and I had anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but on the understanding that they clear out of the house at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua non." "Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?" "Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my representative, and, of course, use no violence, Charles." On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard dead upon the gravel, it did not seem to him that he had used violence. Death was due to heart disease. His stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss Avery had acknowledged that he only used the flat of the sword. On his way through the village he informed the police, who thanked him, and said there must be an inquest. He found his father in the garden shading his eyes from the sun. "It has been pretty horrible," said Charles gravely. "They were there, and they had the man up there with them too." "What--what man?" "I told you last night. His name was Bast." "My God! is it possible?" said Mr. Wilcox. "In your mother s house! Charles, in your mother s house!" "I know, pater. That was what I felt. As a matter of fact, there is no need to trouble about the man. He was in the last stages of heart disease, and just before I could show him what I thought of him he went off. The police are seeing about it at this moment." Mr. Wilcox listened attentively. "I got up there--oh, it couldn t have been more than half-past seven. The Avery woman was lighting a fire for them. They were still upstairs. I waited in the drawing-room. We were all moderately civil and collected, though I had my suspicions. I gave them your message, and Mrs. Wilcox said," Oh yes, I see; yes, "in that way of hers." "Nothing else?" "I promised to tell you, with her love, that she was going to Germany with her sister this evening. That was all we had time for." Mr. Wilcox seemed relieved. "Because by then I suppose the man got tired of hiding, for suddenly Mrs. Wilcox screamed out his name. I recognised it, and I went for him in the hall. Was I right, pater? I thought things were going a little too far." "Right, my dear boy? I don t know. But you
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Howards End
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“There wasn’t any connection.”
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Daisy
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she might have sounded irreverent,<|quote|>“There wasn’t any connection.”</|quote|>“I used to know a
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moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent,<|quote|>“There wasn’t any connection.”</|quote|>“I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I
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“They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent,<|quote|>“There wasn’t any connection.”</|quote|>“I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in
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“Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent,<|quote|>“There wasn’t any connection.”</|quote|>“I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I
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parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair. “That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent,<|quote|>“There wasn’t any connection.”</|quote|>“I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and
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us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea” —we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny … The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair. “That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent,<|quote|>“There wasn’t any connection.”</|quote|>“I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.” A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and
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terror, were fixed not on Tom, but on Jordan Baker, whom she took to be his wife. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind, and as we drove away Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping precipitately from his control. Instinct made him step on the accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and leaving Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour, until, among the spidery girders of the elevated, we came in sight of the easygoing blue coupé. “Those big movies around Fiftieth Street are cool,” suggested Jordan. “I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. There’s something very sensuous about it—overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.” The word “sensuous” had the effect of further disquieting Tom, but before he could invent a protest the coupé came to a stop, and Daisy signalled us to draw up alongside. “Where are we going?” she cried. “How about the movies?” “It’s so hot,” she complained. “You go. We’ll ride around and meet you after.” With an effort her wit rose faintly. “We’ll meet you on some corner. I’ll be the man smoking two cigarettes.” “We can’t argue about it here,” Tom said impatiently, as a truck gave out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza.” Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I think he was afraid they would dart down a side-street and out of his life forever. But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging the parlour of a suite in the Plaza Hotel. The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea” —we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny … The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair. “That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent,<|quote|>“There wasn’t any connection.”</|quote|>“I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.” A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization. “We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete. “I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention. “Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?” “That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.” “I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.” “Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you. She loves me.” “You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically. Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement. “She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!” At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither of them had anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of
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the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair. “That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent,<|quote|>“There wasn’t any connection.”</|quote|>“I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.” A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like
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The Great Gatsby
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"You cannot mix up sentiment and reason."
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Hercule Poirot
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old friend," observed Poirot philosophically.<|quote|>"You cannot mix up sentiment and reason."</|quote|>"I must say I think
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"Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically.<|quote|>"You cannot mix up sentiment and reason."</|quote|>"I must say I think you might have given me
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been taken out of his hands. "Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!" Poirot grinned. "I know you did." "But John! My old friend John!" "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically.<|quote|>"You cannot mix up sentiment and reason."</|quote|>"I must say I think you might have given me a hint." "Perhaps, _mon ami_, I did not do so, just because he _was_ your old friend." I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot's views concerning
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but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him." He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands. "Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!" Poirot grinned. "I know you did." "But John! My old friend John!" "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically.<|quote|>"You cannot mix up sentiment and reason."</|quote|>"I must say I think you might have given me a hint." "Perhaps, _mon ami_, I did not do so, just because he _was_ your old friend." I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot's views concerning Bauerstein. He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future. I asked Poirot whether
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sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail. I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have" "Jealousy?" I queried. "Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him." He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands. "Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!" Poirot grinned. "I know you did." "But John! My old friend John!" "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically.<|quote|>"You cannot mix up sentiment and reason."</|quote|>"I must say I think you might have given me a hint." "Perhaps, _mon ami_, I did not do so, just because he _was_ your old friend." I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot's views concerning Bauerstein. He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future. I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be condemned. To my intense surprise, he replied that, on the contrary, he was extremely likely to be acquitted. "But, Poirot" I protested. "Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs. It is one thing to know that a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove him so. And, in this case, there is terribly little evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule Poirot, know, but I lack the last link in my chain. And unless I can find that missing link" He shook
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and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing. We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong. Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears. "Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you" "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once." "It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!" "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped. I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes. "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence Mr. John." Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes. CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later. Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail. I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have" "Jealousy?" I queried. "Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him." He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands. "Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!" Poirot grinned. "I know you did." "But John! My old friend John!" "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically.<|quote|>"You cannot mix up sentiment and reason."</|quote|>"I must say I think you might have given me a hint." "Perhaps, _mon ami_, I did not do so, just because he _was_ your old friend." I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot's views concerning Bauerstein. He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future. I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be condemned. To my intense surprise, he replied that, on the contrary, he was extremely likely to be acquitted. "But, Poirot" I protested. "Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs. It is one thing to know that a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove him so. And, in this case, there is terribly little evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule Poirot, know, but I lack the last link in my chain. And unless I can find that missing link" He shook his head gravely. "When did you first suspect John Cavendish?" I asked, after a minute or two. "Did you not suspect him at all?" "No, indeed." "Not after that fragment of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law, and her subsequent lack of frankness at the inquest?" "No." "Did you not put two and two together, and reflect that if it was not Alfred Inglethorp who was quarrelling with his wife and you remember, he strenuously denied it at the inquest it must be either Lawrence or John. Now, if it was Lawrence, Mary Cavendish's conduct was just as inexplicable. But if, on the other hand, it was John, the whole thing was explained quite naturally." "So," I cried, a light breaking in upon me, "it was John who quarrelled with his mother that afternoon?" "Exactly." "And you have known this all along?" "Certainly. Mrs. Cavendish's behaviour could only be explained that way." "And yet you say he may be acquitted?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Certainly I do. At the police court proceedings, we shall hear the case for the prosecution, but in all probability his solicitors will advise him to reserve his defence. That will be sprung
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It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in. "There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly "remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service." She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away. "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?" "Enchanted, madame." All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes. The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing. We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong. Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears. "Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you" "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once." "It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!" "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped. I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes. "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence Mr. John." Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes. CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later. Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail. I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have" "Jealousy?" I queried. "Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him." He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands. "Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!" Poirot grinned. "I know you did." "But John! My old friend John!" "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically.<|quote|>"You cannot mix up sentiment and reason."</|quote|>"I must say I think you might have given me a hint." "Perhaps, _mon ami_, I did not do so, just because he _was_ your old friend." I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot's views concerning Bauerstein. He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future. I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be condemned. To my intense surprise, he replied that, on the contrary, he was extremely likely to be acquitted. "But, Poirot" I protested. "Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs. It is one thing to know that a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove him so. And, in this case, there is terribly little evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule Poirot, know, but I lack the last link in my chain. And unless I can find that missing link" He shook his head gravely. "When did you first suspect John Cavendish?" I asked, after a minute or two. "Did you not suspect him at all?" "No, indeed." "Not after that fragment of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law, and her subsequent lack of frankness at the inquest?" "No." "Did you not put two and two together, and reflect that if it was not Alfred Inglethorp who was quarrelling with his wife and you remember, he strenuously denied it at the inquest it must be either Lawrence or John. Now, if it was Lawrence, Mary Cavendish's conduct was just as inexplicable. But if, on the other hand, it was John, the whole thing was explained quite naturally." "So," I cried, a light breaking in upon me, "it was John who quarrelled with his mother that afternoon?" "Exactly." "And you have known this all along?" "Certainly. Mrs. Cavendish's behaviour could only be explained that way." "And yet you say he may be acquitted?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Certainly I do. At the police court proceedings, we shall hear the case for the prosecution, but in all probability his solicitors will advise him to reserve his defence. That will be sprung upon us at the trial. And ah, by the way, I have a word of caution to give you, my friend. I must not appear in the case." "What?" "No. Officially, I have nothing to do with it. Until I have found that last link in my chain, I must remain behind the scenes. Mrs. Cavendish must think I am working for her husband, not against him." "I say, that's playing it a bit low down," I protested. "Not at all. We have to deal with a most clever and unscrupulous man, and we must use any means in our power otherwise he will slip through our fingers. That is why I have been careful to remain in the background. All the discoveries have been made by Japp, and Japp will take all the credit. If I am called upon to give evidence at all" he smiled broadly "it will probably be as a witness for the defence." I could hardly believe my ears. "It is quite _en r gle_," continued Poirot. "Strangely enough, I can give evidence that will demolish one contention of the prosecution." "Which one?" "The one that relates to the destruction of the will. John Cavendish did not destroy that will." Poirot was a true prophet. I will not go into the details of the police court proceedings, as it involves many tiresome repetitions. I will merely state baldly that John Cavendish reserved his defence, and was duly committed for trial. September found us all in London. Mary took a house in Kensington, Poirot being included in the family party. I myself had been given a job at the War Office, so was able to see them continually. As the weeks went by, the state of Poirot's nerves grew worse and worse. That "last link" he talked about was still lacking. Privately, I hoped it might remain so, for what happiness could there be for Mary, if John were not acquitted? On September 15th John Cavendish appeared in the dock at the Old Bailey, charged with "The Wilful Murder of Emily Agnes Inglethorp," and pleaded "Not Guilty." Sir Ernest Heavywether, the famous K.C., had been engaged to defend him. Mr. Philips, K.C., opened the case for the Crown. The murder, he said, was a most premeditated and cold-blooded one. It was neither more nor less than the deliberate poisoning of a fond and trusting woman by
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way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes. The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing. We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong. Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears. "Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you" "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once." "It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!" "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped. I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes. "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence Mr. John." Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes. CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later. Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail. I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have" "Jealousy?" I queried. "Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him." He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands. "Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!" Poirot grinned. "I know you did." "But John! My old friend John!" "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically.<|quote|>"You cannot mix up sentiment and reason."</|quote|>"I must say I think you might have given me a hint." "Perhaps, _mon ami_, I did not do so, just because he _was_ your old friend." I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot's views concerning Bauerstein. He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future. I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be condemned. To my intense surprise, he replied that, on the contrary, he was extremely likely to be acquitted. "But, Poirot" I protested. "Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs. It is one thing to know that a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove him so. And, in this case, there is terribly little evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule Poirot, know, but I lack the last link in my chain. And unless I can find that missing link" He shook his head gravely. "When did you first suspect John Cavendish?" I asked, after a minute or two. "Did you not suspect him at all?" "No, indeed."
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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thought Alice, as she went slowly after it:
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No speaker
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"Everybody says 'come on!' here,"<|quote|>thought Alice, as she went slowly after it:</|quote|>"I never was so ordered
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nobody, you know. Come on!" "Everybody says 'come on!' here,"<|quote|>thought Alice, as she went slowly after it:</|quote|>"I never was so ordered about in all my life,
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Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. "What fun!" said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice. "What _is_ the fun?" said Alice. "Why, _she_," said the Gryphon. "It's all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know. Come on!" "Everybody says 'come on!' here,"<|quote|>thought Alice, as she went slowly after it:</|quote|>"I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!" They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would
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the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. "What fun!" said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice. "What _is_ the fun?" said Alice. "Why, _she_," said the Gryphon. "It's all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know. Come on!" "Everybody says 'come on!' here,"<|quote|>thought Alice, as she went slowly after it:</|quote|>"I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!" They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She pitied him deeply. "What is his sorrow?" she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, "It's all his fancy, that: he hasn't got no sorrow, you know. Come on!" So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at
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low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!" she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen, "and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered;" and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. "What fun!" said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice. "What _is_ the fun?" said Alice. "Why, _she_," said the Gryphon. "It's all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know. Come on!" "Everybody says 'come on!' here,"<|quote|>thought Alice, as she went slowly after it:</|quote|>"I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!" They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She pitied him deeply. "What is his sorrow?" she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, "It's all his fancy, that: he hasn't got no sorrow, you know. Come on!" So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes full of tears, but said nothing. "This here young lady," said the Gryphon, "she wants for to know your history, she do." "I'll tell it her," said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone: "sit down, both of you, and don't speak a word till I've finished." So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice thought to herself, "I don't see how he can _ever_ finish, if he doesn't begin." But she waited patiently. "Once," said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, "I was a real Turtle." These words
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advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from," said the Queen. "I never saw one, or heard of one," said Alice. "Come on, then," said the Queen, "and he shall tell you his history," As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!" she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen, "and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered;" and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. "What fun!" said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice. "What _is_ the fun?" said Alice. "Why, _she_," said the Gryphon. "It's all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know. Come on!" "Everybody says 'come on!' here,"<|quote|>thought Alice, as she went slowly after it:</|quote|>"I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!" They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She pitied him deeply. "What is his sorrow?" she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, "It's all his fancy, that: he hasn't got no sorrow, you know. Come on!" So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes full of tears, but said nothing. "This here young lady," said the Gryphon, "she wants for to know your history, she do." "I'll tell it her," said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone: "sit down, both of you, and don't speak a word till I've finished." So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice thought to herself, "I don't see how he can _ever_ finish, if he doesn't begin." But she waited patiently. "Once," said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, "I was a real Turtle." These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an occasional exclamation of "Hjckrrh!" from the Gryphon, and the constant heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and saying, "Thank you, sir, for your interesting story," but she could not help thinking there _must_ be more to come, so she sat still and said nothing. "When we were little," the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, "we went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle--we used to call him Tortoise--" "Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?" Alice asked. "We called him Tortoise because he taught us," said the Mock Turtle angrily: "really you are very dull!" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question," added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, "Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!" and he went on in these words: "Yes, we went to school in the sea, though
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large mustard-mine near here. And the moral of that is--'The more there is of mine, the less there is of yours.'" "Oh, I know!" exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark, "it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it is." "I quite agree with you," said the Duchess; "and the moral of that is--'Be what you would seem to be'--or if you'd like it put more simply--'Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.'" "I think I should understand that better," Alice said very politely, "if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it." "That's nothing to what I could say if I chose," the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. "Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that," said Alice. "Oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the Duchess. "I make you a present of everything I've said as yet." "A cheap sort of present!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they don't give birthday presents like that!" But she did not venture to say it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm. "A fine day, your Majesty!" the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from," said the Queen. "I never saw one, or heard of one," said Alice. "Come on, then," said the Queen, "and he shall tell you his history," As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!" she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen, "and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered;" and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. "What fun!" said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice. "What _is_ the fun?" said Alice. "Why, _she_," said the Gryphon. "It's all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know. Come on!" "Everybody says 'come on!' here,"<|quote|>thought Alice, as she went slowly after it:</|quote|>"I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!" They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She pitied him deeply. "What is his sorrow?" she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, "It's all his fancy, that: he hasn't got no sorrow, you know. Come on!" So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes full of tears, but said nothing. "This here young lady," said the Gryphon, "she wants for to know your history, she do." "I'll tell it her," said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone: "sit down, both of you, and don't speak a word till I've finished." So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice thought to herself, "I don't see how he can _ever_ finish, if he doesn't begin." But she waited patiently. "Once," said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, "I was a real Turtle." These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an occasional exclamation of "Hjckrrh!" from the Gryphon, and the constant heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and saying, "Thank you, sir, for your interesting story," but she could not help thinking there _must_ be more to come, so she sat still and said nothing. "When we were little," the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, "we went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle--we used to call him Tortoise--" "Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?" Alice asked. "We called him Tortoise because he taught us," said the Mock Turtle angrily: "really you are very dull!" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question," added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, "Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!" and he went on in these words: "Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--" "I never said I didn't!" interrupted Alice. "You did," said the Mock Turtle. "Hold your tongue!" added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again. The Mock Turtle went on. "We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--" "_I've_ been to a day-school, too," said Alice; "you needn't be so proud as all that." "With extras?" asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously. "Yes," said Alice, "we learned French and music." "And washing?" said the Mock Turtle. "Certainly not!" said Alice indignantly. "Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school," said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. "Now at _ours_ they had at the end of the bill, 'French, music, _and washing_--extra.'" "You couldn't have wanted it much," said Alice; "living at the bottom of the sea." "I couldn't afford to learn it." said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. "I only took the regular course." "What was that?" inquired Alice. "Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with," the Mock Turtle replied; "and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision." "I never heard of 'Uglification,'" Alice ventured to say. "What is it?" The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. "What! Never heard of uglifying!" it exclaimed. "You know what to beautify is, I suppose?" "Yes," said Alice doubtfully: "it means--to--make--anything--prettier." "Well, then," the Gryphon went on, "if you don't know what to uglify is, you _are_ a simpleton." Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said "What else had you to learn?" "Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, "--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was." "I never went to him," the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their
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in a low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!" she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen, "and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered;" and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. "What fun!" said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice. "What _is_ the fun?" said Alice. "Why, _she_," said the Gryphon. "It's all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know. Come on!" "Everybody says 'come on!' here,"<|quote|>thought Alice, as she went slowly after it:</|quote|>"I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!" They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She pitied him deeply. "What is his sorrow?" she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, "It's all his fancy, that: he hasn't got no sorrow, you know. Come on!" So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes full of tears, but said nothing. "This here young lady," said the Gryphon, "she wants for to know your history, she do." "I'll tell it her," said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone: "sit down, both of you, and don't speak a word till I've finished." So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice thought to herself, "I don't see how he can _ever_ finish, if he doesn't begin." But she waited patiently. "Once," said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, "I was a real Turtle." These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an occasional exclamation of "Hjckrrh!" from the Gryphon, and the constant heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and saying, "Thank you, sir, for your interesting story," but she could not help thinking there _must_ be more to come, so she sat still and said nothing. "When we were little," the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, "we went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle--we used to call him Tortoise--" "Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?" Alice asked. "We called him Tortoise because he taught us," said the Mock Turtle angrily: "really you are very dull!" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question," added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, "Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!" and he went on in these words: "Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--" "I never said I didn't!" interrupted Alice. "You did," said the Mock Turtle. "Hold your tongue!" added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again. The Mock Turtle went on. "We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--" "_I've_ been to a day-school, too," said Alice; "you needn't be so proud as all that." "With extras?" asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously. "Yes," said Alice, "we learned French and music." "And washing?" said the Mock Turtle. "Certainly not!" said Alice indignantly. "Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school," said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. "Now at _ours_ they had at the end of the bill, 'French, music, _and washing_--extra.'" "You couldn't have wanted it much," said Alice; "living at the bottom of the sea." "I couldn't afford to learn it." said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. "I only took the regular course." "What was that?" inquired
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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she replied,
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No speaker
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Bourgh. "Lady Catherine de Bourgh,"<|quote|>she replied,</|quote|>"has very lately given him
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with the family of de Bourgh. "Lady Catherine de Bourgh,"<|quote|>she replied,</|quote|>"has very lately given him a living. I hardly know
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Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters." Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation were very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh. "Lady Catherine de Bourgh,"<|quote|>she replied,</|quote|>"has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long." "You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present
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madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a card table, they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters." Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation were very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh. "Lady Catherine de Bourgh,"<|quote|>she replied,</|quote|>"has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long." "You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy." "No, indeed, I did not.--I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before yesterday." "Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two
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something for fortune and figure." The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not make herself uneasy. "I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a card table, they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters." Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation were very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh. "Lady Catherine de Bourgh,"<|quote|>she replied,</|quote|>"has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long." "You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy." "No, indeed, I did not.--I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before yesterday." "Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates." This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already self-destined to another. "Mr. Collins," said she, "speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman." "I believe her to be both in a great degree," replied Wickham; "I have not
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I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and I understand highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education." After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying, "I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other?--Do you know Mr. Bingley?" "Not at all." "He is a sweet tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is." "Probably not;--but Mr. Darcy can please where he chuses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable,--allowing something for fortune and figure." The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not make herself uneasy. "I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a card table, they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters." Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation were very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh. "Lady Catherine de Bourgh,"<|quote|>she replied,</|quote|>"has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long." "You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy." "No, indeed, I did not.--I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before yesterday." "Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates." This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already self-destined to another. "Mr. Collins," said she, "speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman." "I believe her to be both in a great degree," replied Wickham; "I have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who chuses that every one connected with him should have an understanding of the first class." Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and they continued talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put an end to cards; and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs. Philips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to every body. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr.
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part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_ father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips, appears to do so much credit to--but he gave up every thing to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendance, and when immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of affection to myself." "How strange!" cried Elizabeth. "How abominable!--I wonder that the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you!--If from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest,--for dishonesty I must call it." "It _is_ wonderful," "--replied Wickham,--" "for almost all his actions may be traced to pride;--and pride has often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me, there were stronger impulses even than pride." "Can such abominable pride as his, have ever done him good?" "Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous,--to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride, for he is very proud of what his father was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride, which with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers." "What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?" He shook his head.--" "I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother,--very, very proud.--As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and I understand highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education." After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying, "I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other?--Do you know Mr. Bingley?" "Not at all." "He is a sweet tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is." "Probably not;--but Mr. Darcy can please where he chuses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable,--allowing something for fortune and figure." The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not make herself uneasy. "I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a card table, they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters." Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation were very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh. "Lady Catherine de Bourgh,"<|quote|>she replied,</|quote|>"has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long." "You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy." "No, indeed, I did not.--I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before yesterday." "Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates." This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already self-destined to another. "Mr. Collins," said she, "speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman." "I believe her to be both in a great degree," replied Wickham; "I have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who chuses that every one connected with him should have an understanding of the first class." Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and they continued talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put an end to cards; and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs. Philips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to every body. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the fish she had won, and Mr. Collins, in describing the civility of Mr. and Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing that he crouded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House. CHAPTER XVII. Elizabeth related to Jane the next day, what had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern;--she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr. Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham.--The possibility of his having really endured such unkindness, was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and nothing therefore remained to be done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account of accident or mistake, whatever could not be otherwise explained. "They have both," said she, "been deceived, I dare say, in some way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side." "Very true, indeed;--and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say in behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the business?--Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody." "Laugh as much as you chuse, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such a manner,--one, whom his father had promised to provide for.--It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? oh! no." "I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last night; names, facts, every thing mentioned
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He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is." "Probably not;--but Mr. Darcy can please where he chuses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable,--allowing something for fortune and figure." The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not make herself uneasy. "I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a card table, they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters." Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation were very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh. "Lady Catherine de Bourgh,"<|quote|>she replied,</|quote|>"has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long." "You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy." "No, indeed, I did not.--I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before yesterday." "Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates." This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already self-destined to another. "Mr. Collins," said she, "speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman." "I believe her to be both in a great degree," replied Wickham; "I have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities from her
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Pride And Prejudice
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she said,
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No speaker
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to run to bust. "Yes,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"I think I could arrange
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good-natured face and a tendency to run to bust. "Yes,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"I think I could arrange to take you. I could
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the proprietress, both gracious and willing to come to terms with them. As Mrs. Hamilton--she began to be Mrs. Hamilton now, to the exclusion of Fannie--would have described Mrs. Jones, she was a "big yellow woman." She had a broad good-natured face and a tendency to run to bust. "Yes,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"I think I could arrange to take you. I could let you have two rooms, and you could use my kitchen until you decided whether you wanted to take a flat or not. I has the whole house myself, and I keeps roomers. But latah on I could fix things
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afraid that the price of staying in such a place would be too much for their pockets. Inside, the sight of the hard, gaudily upholstered instalment-plan furniture did not disillusion them, and they continued to fear that they could never stop at this fine place. But they found Mrs. Jones, the proprietress, both gracious and willing to come to terms with them. As Mrs. Hamilton--she began to be Mrs. Hamilton now, to the exclusion of Fannie--would have described Mrs. Jones, she was a "big yellow woman." She had a broad good-natured face and a tendency to run to bust. "Yes,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"I think I could arrange to take you. I could let you have two rooms, and you could use my kitchen until you decided whether you wanted to take a flat or not. I has the whole house myself, and I keeps roomers. But latah on I could fix things so 's you could have the whole third floor ef you wanted to. Most o' my gent'men 's railroad gent'men, they is. I guess it must 'a' been Mr. Thomas that sent you up here." "He was a little bright man down at de deepo." "Yes, that 's him. That
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had no idea which way to go to find a stopping-place. They looked about them for some coloured face, and finally saw one among the porters who were handling the baggage. To Joe's inquiry he gave them an address, and also proffered his advice as to the best way to reach the place. He was exceedingly polite, and he looked hard at Kitty. They found the house to which they had been directed, and were a good deal surprised at its apparent grandeur. It was a four-storied brick dwelling on Twenty-seventh Street. As they looked from the outside, they were afraid that the price of staying in such a place would be too much for their pockets. Inside, the sight of the hard, gaudily upholstered instalment-plan furniture did not disillusion them, and they continued to fear that they could never stop at this fine place. But they found Mrs. Jones, the proprietress, both gracious and willing to come to terms with them. As Mrs. Hamilton--she began to be Mrs. Hamilton now, to the exclusion of Fannie--would have described Mrs. Jones, she was a "big yellow woman." She had a broad good-natured face and a tendency to run to bust. "Yes,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"I think I could arrange to take you. I could let you have two rooms, and you could use my kitchen until you decided whether you wanted to take a flat or not. I has the whole house myself, and I keeps roomers. But latah on I could fix things so 's you could have the whole third floor ef you wanted to. Most o' my gent'men 's railroad gent'men, they is. I guess it must 'a' been Mr. Thomas that sent you up here." "He was a little bright man down at de deepo." "Yes, that 's him. That 's Mr. Thomas. He 's always lookin' out to send some one here, because he 's been here three years hisself an' he kin recommend my house." It was a relief to the Hamiltons to find Mrs. Jones so gracious and home-like. So the matter was settled, and they took up their abode with her and sent for their baggage. With the first pause in the rush that they had experienced since starting away from home, Mrs. Hamilton began to have time for reflection, and their condition seemed to her much better as it was. Of course, it was hard
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will begin to intoxicate him. Then, if he be wise, he will go away, any place,--yes, he will even go over to Jersey. But if he be a fool, he will stay and stay on until the town becomes all in all to him; until the very streets are his chums and certain buildings and corners his best friends. Then he is hopeless, and to live elsewhere would be death. The Bowery will be his romance, Broadway his lyric, and the Park his pastoral, the river and the glory of it all his epic, and he will look down pityingly on all the rest of humanity. It was the afternoon of a clear October day that the Hamiltons reached New York. Fannie had some misgivings about crossing the ferry, but once on the boat these gave way to speculations as to what they should find on the other side. With the eagerness of youth to take in new impressions, Joe and Kitty were more concerned with what they saw about them than with what their future would hold, though they might well have stopped to ask some such questions. In all the great city they knew absolutely no one, and had no idea which way to go to find a stopping-place. They looked about them for some coloured face, and finally saw one among the porters who were handling the baggage. To Joe's inquiry he gave them an address, and also proffered his advice as to the best way to reach the place. He was exceedingly polite, and he looked hard at Kitty. They found the house to which they had been directed, and were a good deal surprised at its apparent grandeur. It was a four-storied brick dwelling on Twenty-seventh Street. As they looked from the outside, they were afraid that the price of staying in such a place would be too much for their pockets. Inside, the sight of the hard, gaudily upholstered instalment-plan furniture did not disillusion them, and they continued to fear that they could never stop at this fine place. But they found Mrs. Jones, the proprietress, both gracious and willing to come to terms with them. As Mrs. Hamilton--she began to be Mrs. Hamilton now, to the exclusion of Fannie--would have described Mrs. Jones, she was a "big yellow woman." She had a broad good-natured face and a tendency to run to bust. "Yes,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"I think I could arrange to take you. I could let you have two rooms, and you could use my kitchen until you decided whether you wanted to take a flat or not. I has the whole house myself, and I keeps roomers. But latah on I could fix things so 's you could have the whole third floor ef you wanted to. Most o' my gent'men 's railroad gent'men, they is. I guess it must 'a' been Mr. Thomas that sent you up here." "He was a little bright man down at de deepo." "Yes, that 's him. That 's Mr. Thomas. He 's always lookin' out to send some one here, because he 's been here three years hisself an' he kin recommend my house." It was a relief to the Hamiltons to find Mrs. Jones so gracious and home-like. So the matter was settled, and they took up their abode with her and sent for their baggage. With the first pause in the rush that they had experienced since starting away from home, Mrs. Hamilton began to have time for reflection, and their condition seemed to her much better as it was. Of course, it was hard to be away from home and among strangers, but the arrangement had this advantage,--that no one knew them or could taunt them with their past trouble. She was not sure that she was going to like New York. It had a great name and was really a great place, but the very bigness of it frightened her and made her feel alone, for she knew that there could not be so many people together without a deal of wickedness. She did not argue the complement of this, that the amount of good would also be increased, but this was because to her evil was the very present factor in her life. Joe and Kit were differently affected by what they saw about them. The boy was wild with enthusiasm and with a desire to be a part of all that the metropolis meant. In the evening he saw the young fellows passing by dressed in their spruce clothes, and he wondered with a sort of envy where they could be going. Back home there had been no place much worth going to, except church and one or two people's houses. But these young fellows seemed to show by their manners
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with a promptness that made it seem untrue that he had never been more than thirty miles from his native town. He was eager and excited. As the train drew out of the station, he did not look back upon the place which he hated, but Fannie and her daughter let their eyes linger upon it until the last house, the last chimney, and the last spire faded from their sight, and their tears fell and mingled as they were whirled away toward the unknown. VII IN NEW YORK To the provincial coming to New York for the first time, ignorant and unknown, the city presents a notable mingling of the qualities of cheeriness and gloom. If he have any eye at all for the beautiful, he cannot help experiencing a thrill as he crosses the ferry over the river filled with plying craft and catches the first sight of the spires and buildings of New York. If he have the right stuff in him, a something will take possession of him that will grip him again every time he returns to the scene and will make him long and hunger for the place when he is away from it. Later, the lights in the busy streets will bewilder and entice him. He will feel shy and helpless amid the hurrying crowds. A new emotion will take his heart as the people hasten by him,--a feeling of loneliness, almost of grief, that with all of these souls about him he knows not one and not one of them cares for him. After a while he will find a place and give a sigh of relief as he settles away from the city's sights behind his cosey blinds. It is better here, and the city is cruel and cold and unfeeling. This he will feel, perhaps, for the first half-hour, and then he will be out in it all again. He will be glad to strike elbows with the bustling mob and be happy at their indifference to him, so that he may look at them and study them. After it is all over, after he has passed through the first pangs of strangeness and homesickness, yes, even after he has got beyond the stranger's enthusiasm for the metropolis, the real fever of love for the place will begin to take hold upon him. The subtle, insidious wine of New York will begin to intoxicate him. Then, if he be wise, he will go away, any place,--yes, he will even go over to Jersey. But if he be a fool, he will stay and stay on until the town becomes all in all to him; until the very streets are his chums and certain buildings and corners his best friends. Then he is hopeless, and to live elsewhere would be death. The Bowery will be his romance, Broadway his lyric, and the Park his pastoral, the river and the glory of it all his epic, and he will look down pityingly on all the rest of humanity. It was the afternoon of a clear October day that the Hamiltons reached New York. Fannie had some misgivings about crossing the ferry, but once on the boat these gave way to speculations as to what they should find on the other side. With the eagerness of youth to take in new impressions, Joe and Kitty were more concerned with what they saw about them than with what their future would hold, though they might well have stopped to ask some such questions. In all the great city they knew absolutely no one, and had no idea which way to go to find a stopping-place. They looked about them for some coloured face, and finally saw one among the porters who were handling the baggage. To Joe's inquiry he gave them an address, and also proffered his advice as to the best way to reach the place. He was exceedingly polite, and he looked hard at Kitty. They found the house to which they had been directed, and were a good deal surprised at its apparent grandeur. It was a four-storied brick dwelling on Twenty-seventh Street. As they looked from the outside, they were afraid that the price of staying in such a place would be too much for their pockets. Inside, the sight of the hard, gaudily upholstered instalment-plan furniture did not disillusion them, and they continued to fear that they could never stop at this fine place. But they found Mrs. Jones, the proprietress, both gracious and willing to come to terms with them. As Mrs. Hamilton--she began to be Mrs. Hamilton now, to the exclusion of Fannie--would have described Mrs. Jones, she was a "big yellow woman." She had a broad good-natured face and a tendency to run to bust. "Yes,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"I think I could arrange to take you. I could let you have two rooms, and you could use my kitchen until you decided whether you wanted to take a flat or not. I has the whole house myself, and I keeps roomers. But latah on I could fix things so 's you could have the whole third floor ef you wanted to. Most o' my gent'men 's railroad gent'men, they is. I guess it must 'a' been Mr. Thomas that sent you up here." "He was a little bright man down at de deepo." "Yes, that 's him. That 's Mr. Thomas. He 's always lookin' out to send some one here, because he 's been here three years hisself an' he kin recommend my house." It was a relief to the Hamiltons to find Mrs. Jones so gracious and home-like. So the matter was settled, and they took up their abode with her and sent for their baggage. With the first pause in the rush that they had experienced since starting away from home, Mrs. Hamilton began to have time for reflection, and their condition seemed to her much better as it was. Of course, it was hard to be away from home and among strangers, but the arrangement had this advantage,--that no one knew them or could taunt them with their past trouble. She was not sure that she was going to like New York. It had a great name and was really a great place, but the very bigness of it frightened her and made her feel alone, for she knew that there could not be so many people together without a deal of wickedness. She did not argue the complement of this, that the amount of good would also be increased, but this was because to her evil was the very present factor in her life. Joe and Kit were differently affected by what they saw about them. The boy was wild with enthusiasm and with a desire to be a part of all that the metropolis meant. In the evening he saw the young fellows passing by dressed in their spruce clothes, and he wondered with a sort of envy where they could be going. Back home there had been no place much worth going to, except church and one or two people's houses. But these young fellows seemed to show by their manners that they were neither going to church nor a family visiting. In the moment that he recognised this, a revelation came to him,--the knowledge that his horizon had been very narrow, and he felt angry that it was so. Why should those fellows be different from him? Why should they walk the streets so knowingly, so independently, when he knew not whither to turn his steps? Well, he was in New York, and now he would learn. Some day some greenhorn from the South should stand at a window and look out envying him, as he passed, red-cravated, patent-leathered, intent on some goal. Was it not better, after all, that circumstances had forced them thither? Had it not been so, they might all have stayed home and stagnated. Well, thought he, it 's an ill wind that blows nobody good, and somehow, with a guilty under-thought, he forgot to feel the natural pity for his father, toiling guiltless in the prison of his native State. Whom the Gods wish to destroy they first make mad. The first sign of the demoralisation of the provincial who comes to New York is his pride at his insensibility to certain impressions which used to influence him at home. First, he begins to scoff, and there is no truth in his views nor depth in his laugh. But by and by, from mere pretending, it becomes real. He grows callous. After that he goes to the devil very cheerfully. No such radical emotions, however, troubled Kit's mind. She too stood at the windows and looked down into the street. There was a sort of complacent calm in the manner in which she viewed the girls' hats and dresses. Many of them were really pretty, she told herself, but for the most part they were not better than what she had had down home. There was a sound quality in the girl's make-up that helped her to see through the glamour of mere place and recognise worth for itself. Or it may have been the critical faculty, which is prominent in most women, that kept her from thinking a five-cent cheese-cloth any better in New York than it was at home. She had a certain self-respect which made her value herself and her own traditions higher than her brother did his. When later in the evening the porter who had been kind to them came
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take his heart as the people hasten by him,--a feeling of loneliness, almost of grief, that with all of these souls about him he knows not one and not one of them cares for him. After a while he will find a place and give a sigh of relief as he settles away from the city's sights behind his cosey blinds. It is better here, and the city is cruel and cold and unfeeling. This he will feel, perhaps, for the first half-hour, and then he will be out in it all again. He will be glad to strike elbows with the bustling mob and be happy at their indifference to him, so that he may look at them and study them. After it is all over, after he has passed through the first pangs of strangeness and homesickness, yes, even after he has got beyond the stranger's enthusiasm for the metropolis, the real fever of love for the place will begin to take hold upon him. The subtle, insidious wine of New York will begin to intoxicate him. Then, if he be wise, he will go away, any place,--yes, he will even go over to Jersey. But if he be a fool, he will stay and stay on until the town becomes all in all to him; until the very streets are his chums and certain buildings and corners his best friends. Then he is hopeless, and to live elsewhere would be death. The Bowery will be his romance, Broadway his lyric, and the Park his pastoral, the river and the glory of it all his epic, and he will look down pityingly on all the rest of humanity. It was the afternoon of a clear October day that the Hamiltons reached New York. Fannie had some misgivings about crossing the ferry, but once on the boat these gave way to speculations as to what they should find on the other side. With the eagerness of youth to take in new impressions, Joe and Kitty were more concerned with what they saw about them than with what their future would hold, though they might well have stopped to ask some such questions. In all the great city they knew absolutely no one, and had no idea which way to go to find a stopping-place. They looked about them for some coloured face, and finally saw one among the porters who were handling the baggage. To Joe's inquiry he gave them an address, and also proffered his advice as to the best way to reach the place. He was exceedingly polite, and he looked hard at Kitty. They found the house to which they had been directed, and were a good deal surprised at its apparent grandeur. It was a four-storied brick dwelling on Twenty-seventh Street. As they looked from the outside, they were afraid that the price of staying in such a place would be too much for their pockets. Inside, the sight of the hard, gaudily upholstered instalment-plan furniture did not disillusion them, and they continued to fear that they could never stop at this fine place. But they found Mrs. Jones, the proprietress, both gracious and willing to come to terms with them. As Mrs. Hamilton--she began to be Mrs. Hamilton now, to the exclusion of Fannie--would have described Mrs. Jones, she was a "big yellow woman." She had a broad good-natured face and a tendency to run to bust. "Yes,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"I think I could arrange to take you. I could let you have two rooms, and you could use my kitchen until you decided whether you wanted to take a flat or not. I has the whole house myself, and I keeps roomers. But latah on I could fix things so 's you could have the whole third floor ef you wanted to. Most o' my gent'men 's railroad gent'men, they is. I guess it must 'a' been Mr. Thomas that sent you up here." "He was a little bright man down at de deepo." "Yes, that 's him. That 's Mr. Thomas. He 's always lookin' out to send some one here, because he 's been here three years hisself an' he kin recommend my house." It was a relief to the Hamiltons to find Mrs. Jones so gracious and home-like. So the matter was settled, and they took up their abode with her and sent for their baggage. With the first pause in the rush that they had experienced since starting away from home, Mrs. Hamilton began to have time for reflection, and their condition seemed to her much better as it was. Of course, it was hard to be away from home and among strangers, but the arrangement had this advantage,--that no one knew them or could taunt them with their past trouble. She was not sure that she was going to like New York. It had a great name and was really a great place, but the very bigness of it frightened her and made her feel alone, for she knew that there could not be so many people together without a deal of wickedness. She did not argue the complement of this, that the amount of good would also be increased, but this was because to her evil was the very present factor in her life. Joe and Kit were differently affected by what they saw about them. The boy was wild with enthusiasm and with a desire to be a part of all that the metropolis meant. In the evening he saw the young fellows passing by dressed in their spruce clothes, and he wondered with a sort of envy where they could be going. Back home there had been no place much worth going to, except church and one or two people's houses. But these
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The Sport Of The Gods
|
"I'm very glad,"
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Winnie-the-pooh
|
in and out like anything."<|quote|>"I'm very glad,"</|quote|>said Pooh happily, "that I
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it?" said Eeyore. "It goes in and out like anything."<|quote|>"I'm very glad,"</|quote|>said Pooh happily, "that I thought of giving you a
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the pot; picked it out and put it on the ground; and then picked it up again and put it carefully back. "So it does!" said Pooh. "It goes in!" "So it does!" said Piglet. "And it comes out!" "Doesn't it?" said Eeyore. "It goes in and out like anything."<|quote|>"I'm very glad,"</|quote|>said Pooh happily, "that I thought of giving you a Useful Pot to put things in." "I'm very glad," said Piglet happily, "that I thought of giving you Something to put in a Useful Pot." But Eeyore wasn't listening. He was taking the balloon out, and putting it back again,
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no, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Balloons are much too big to go into Pots. What you do with a balloon is, you hold the ballon----" "Not mine," said Eeyore proudly. "Look, Piglet!" And as Piglet looked sorrowfully round, Eeyore picked the balloon up with his teeth, and placed it carefully in the pot; picked it out and put it on the ground; and then picked it up again and put it carefully back. "So it does!" said Pooh. "It goes in!" "So it does!" said Piglet. "And it comes out!" "Doesn't it?" said Eeyore. "It goes in and out like anything."<|quote|>"I'm very glad,"</|quote|>said Pooh happily, "that I thought of giving you a Useful Pot to put things in." "I'm very glad," said Piglet happily, "that I thought of giving you Something to put in a Useful Pot." But Eeyore wasn't listening. He was taking the balloon out, and putting it back again, as happy as could be.... * * * * * "And didn't _I_ give him anything?" asked Christopher Robin sadly. "Of course you did," I said. "You gave him--don't you remember--a little--a little----" "I gave him a box of paints to paint things with." "That was it." "Why didn't I
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Eeyore gloomily. "I've brought you a little present," said Pooh excitedly. "I've had it," said Eeyore. Pooh had now splashed across the stream to Eeyore, and Piglet was sitting a little way off, his head in his paws, snuffling to himself. "It's a Useful Pot," said Pooh. "Here it is. And it's got 'A Very Happy Birthday with love from Pooh' written on it. That's what all that writing is. And it's for putting things in. There!" When Eeyore saw the pot, he became quite excited. "Why!" he said. "I believe my Balloon will just go into that Pot!" "Oh, no, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Balloons are much too big to go into Pots. What you do with a balloon is, you hold the ballon----" "Not mine," said Eeyore proudly. "Look, Piglet!" And as Piglet looked sorrowfully round, Eeyore picked the balloon up with his teeth, and placed it carefully in the pot; picked it out and put it on the ground; and then picked it up again and put it carefully back. "So it does!" said Pooh. "It goes in!" "So it does!" said Piglet. "And it comes out!" "Doesn't it?" said Eeyore. "It goes in and out like anything."<|quote|>"I'm very glad,"</|quote|>said Pooh happily, "that I thought of giving you a Useful Pot to put things in." "I'm very glad," said Piglet happily, "that I thought of giving you Something to put in a Useful Pot." But Eeyore wasn't listening. He was taking the balloon out, and putting it back again, as happy as could be.... * * * * * "And didn't _I_ give him anything?" asked Christopher Robin sadly. "Of course you did," I said. "You gave him--don't you remember--a little--a little----" "I gave him a box of paints to paint things with." "That was it." "Why didn't I give it to him in the morning?" "You were so busy getting his party ready for him. He had a cake with icing on the top, and three candles, and his name in pink sugar, and----" "Yes, _I_ remember," said Christopher Robin. CHAPTER VII IN WHICH KANGA AND BABY ROO COME TO THE FOREST, AND PIGLET HAS A BATH Nobody seemed to know where they came from, but there they were in the Forest: Kanga and Baby Roo. When Pooh asked Christopher Robin, "How did they come here?" Christopher Robin said, "In the Usual Way, if you know what I
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I--I--oh, Eeyore, I burst the balloon!" There was a very long silence. "My balloon?" said Eeyore at last. Piglet nodded. "My birthday balloon?" "Yes, Eeyore," said Piglet sniffing a little. "Here it is. With--with many happy returns of the day." And he gave Eeyore the small piece of damp rag. "Is this it?" said Eeyore, a little surprised. Piglet nodded. "My present?" Piglet nodded again. "The balloon?" "Yes." "Thank you, Piglet," said Eeyore. "You don't mind my asking," he went on, "but what colour was this balloon when it--when it _was_ a balloon?" "Red." "I just wondered.... Red," he murmured to himself. "My favourite colour.... How big was it?" "About as big as me." "I just wondered.... About as big as Piglet," he said to himself sadly. "My favourite size. Well, well." Piglet felt very miserable, and didn't know what to say. He was still opening his mouth to begin something, and then deciding that it wasn't any good saying _that_, when he heard a shout from the other side of the river, and there was Pooh. "Many happy returns of the day," called out Pooh, forgetting that he had said it already. "Thank you, Pooh, I'm having them," said Eeyore gloomily. "I've brought you a little present," said Pooh excitedly. "I've had it," said Eeyore. Pooh had now splashed across the stream to Eeyore, and Piglet was sitting a little way off, his head in his paws, snuffling to himself. "It's a Useful Pot," said Pooh. "Here it is. And it's got 'A Very Happy Birthday with love from Pooh' written on it. That's what all that writing is. And it's for putting things in. There!" When Eeyore saw the pot, he became quite excited. "Why!" he said. "I believe my Balloon will just go into that Pot!" "Oh, no, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Balloons are much too big to go into Pots. What you do with a balloon is, you hold the ballon----" "Not mine," said Eeyore proudly. "Look, Piglet!" And as Piglet looked sorrowfully round, Eeyore picked the balloon up with his teeth, and placed it carefully in the pot; picked it out and put it on the ground; and then picked it up again and put it carefully back. "So it does!" said Pooh. "It goes in!" "So it does!" said Piglet. "And it comes out!" "Doesn't it?" said Eeyore. "It goes in and out like anything."<|quote|>"I'm very glad,"</|quote|>said Pooh happily, "that I thought of giving you a Useful Pot to put things in." "I'm very glad," said Piglet happily, "that I thought of giving you Something to put in a Useful Pot." But Eeyore wasn't listening. He was taking the balloon out, and putting it back again, as happy as could be.... * * * * * "And didn't _I_ give him anything?" asked Christopher Robin sadly. "Of course you did," I said. "You gave him--don't you remember--a little--a little----" "I gave him a box of paints to paint things with." "That was it." "Why didn't I give it to him in the morning?" "You were so busy getting his party ready for him. He had a cake with icing on the top, and three candles, and his name in pink sugar, and----" "Yes, _I_ remember," said Christopher Robin. CHAPTER VII IN WHICH KANGA AND BABY ROO COME TO THE FOREST, AND PIGLET HAS A BATH Nobody seemed to know where they came from, but there they were in the Forest: Kanga and Baby Roo. When Pooh asked Christopher Robin, "How did they come here?" Christopher Robin said, "In the Usual Way, if you know what I mean, Pooh," and Pooh, who didn't, said "Oh!" Then he nodded his head twice and said, "In the Usual Way. Ah!" Then he went to call upon his friend Piglet to see what _he_ thought about it. And at Piglet's house he found Rabbit. So they all talked about it together. "What I don't like about it is this," said Rabbit. "Here are we--you, Pooh, and you, Piglet, and Me--and suddenly----" "And Eeyore," said Pooh. "And Eeyore--and then suddenly----" "And Owl," said Pooh. "And Owl--and then all of a sudden----" "Oh, and Eeyore," said Pooh. "I was forgetting _him_." "Here--we--are," said Rabbit very slowly and carefully, "all--of--us, and then, suddenly, we wake up one morning and, what do we find? We find a Strange Animal among us. An animal of whom we have never even heard before! An animal who carries her family about with her in her pocket! Suppose _I_ carried _my_ family about with me in _my_ pocket, how many pockets should I want?" "Sixteen," said Piglet. "Seventeen, isn't it?" said Rabbit. "And one more for a handkerchief--that's eighteen. Eighteen pockets in one suit! I haven't time." There was a long and thoughtful silence ... and then Pooh,
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needn't be face downwards all the time," so he got cautiously up and looked about him. He was still in the Forest! "Well, that's funny," he thought. "I wonder what that bang was. I couldn't have made such a noise just falling down. And where's my balloon? And what's that small piece of damp rag doing?" It was the balloon! "Oh, dear!" said Piglet "Oh, dear, oh, dearie, dearie, dear! Well, it's too late now. I can't go back, and I haven't another balloon, and perhaps Eeyore doesn't _like_ balloons so _very_ much." So he trotted on, rather sadly now, and down he came to the side of the stream where Eeyore was, and called out to him. "Good morning, Eeyore," shouted Piglet. "Good morning, Little Piglet," said Eeyore. "If it _is_ a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he. "Not that it matters," he said. "Many happy returns of the day," said Piglet, having now got closer. Eeyore stopped looking at himself in the stream, and turned to stare at Piglet. "Just say that again," he said. "Many hap----" "Wait a moment." Balancing on three legs, he began to bring his fourth leg very cautiously up to his ear. "I did this yesterday," he explained, as he fell down for the third time. "It's quite easy. It's so as I can hear better.... There, that's done it! Now then, what were you saying?" He pushed his ear forward with his hoof. "Many happy returns of the day," said Piglet again. "Meaning me?" "Of course, Eeyore." "My birthday?" "Yes." "Me having a real birthday?" "Yes, Eeyore, and I've brought you a present." Eeyore took down his right hoof from his right ear, turned round, and with great difficulty put up his left hoof. "I must have that in the other ear," he said. "Now then." "A present," said Piglet very loudly. "Meaning me again?" "Yes." "My birthday still?" "Of course, Eeyore." "Me going on having a real birthday?" "Yes, Eeyore, and I brought you a balloon." "_Balloon?_" said Eeyore. "You did say balloon? One of those big coloured things you blow up? Gaiety, song-and-dance, here we are and there we are?" "Yes, but I'm afraid--I'm very sorry, Eeyore--but when I was running along to bring it you, I fell down." "Dear, dear, how unlucky! You ran too fast, I expect. You didn't hurt yourself, Little Piglet?" "No, but I--I--oh, Eeyore, I burst the balloon!" There was a very long silence. "My balloon?" said Eeyore at last. Piglet nodded. "My birthday balloon?" "Yes, Eeyore," said Piglet sniffing a little. "Here it is. With--with many happy returns of the day." And he gave Eeyore the small piece of damp rag. "Is this it?" said Eeyore, a little surprised. Piglet nodded. "My present?" Piglet nodded again. "The balloon?" "Yes." "Thank you, Piglet," said Eeyore. "You don't mind my asking," he went on, "but what colour was this balloon when it--when it _was_ a balloon?" "Red." "I just wondered.... Red," he murmured to himself. "My favourite colour.... How big was it?" "About as big as me." "I just wondered.... About as big as Piglet," he said to himself sadly. "My favourite size. Well, well." Piglet felt very miserable, and didn't know what to say. He was still opening his mouth to begin something, and then deciding that it wasn't any good saying _that_, when he heard a shout from the other side of the river, and there was Pooh. "Many happy returns of the day," called out Pooh, forgetting that he had said it already. "Thank you, Pooh, I'm having them," said Eeyore gloomily. "I've brought you a little present," said Pooh excitedly. "I've had it," said Eeyore. Pooh had now splashed across the stream to Eeyore, and Piglet was sitting a little way off, his head in his paws, snuffling to himself. "It's a Useful Pot," said Pooh. "Here it is. And it's got 'A Very Happy Birthday with love from Pooh' written on it. That's what all that writing is. And it's for putting things in. There!" When Eeyore saw the pot, he became quite excited. "Why!" he said. "I believe my Balloon will just go into that Pot!" "Oh, no, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Balloons are much too big to go into Pots. What you do with a balloon is, you hold the ballon----" "Not mine," said Eeyore proudly. "Look, Piglet!" And as Piglet looked sorrowfully round, Eeyore picked the balloon up with his teeth, and placed it carefully in the pot; picked it out and put it on the ground; and then picked it up again and put it carefully back. "So it does!" said Pooh. "It goes in!" "So it does!" said Piglet. "And it comes out!" "Doesn't it?" said Eeyore. "It goes in and out like anything."<|quote|>"I'm very glad,"</|quote|>said Pooh happily, "that I thought of giving you a Useful Pot to put things in." "I'm very glad," said Piglet happily, "that I thought of giving you Something to put in a Useful Pot." But Eeyore wasn't listening. He was taking the balloon out, and putting it back again, as happy as could be.... * * * * * "And didn't _I_ give him anything?" asked Christopher Robin sadly. "Of course you did," I said. "You gave him--don't you remember--a little--a little----" "I gave him a box of paints to paint things with." "That was it." "Why didn't I give it to him in the morning?" "You were so busy getting his party ready for him. He had a cake with icing on the top, and three candles, and his name in pink sugar, and----" "Yes, _I_ remember," said Christopher Robin. CHAPTER VII IN WHICH KANGA AND BABY ROO COME TO THE FOREST, AND PIGLET HAS A BATH Nobody seemed to know where they came from, but there they were in the Forest: Kanga and Baby Roo. When Pooh asked Christopher Robin, "How did they come here?" Christopher Robin said, "In the Usual Way, if you know what I mean, Pooh," and Pooh, who didn't, said "Oh!" Then he nodded his head twice and said, "In the Usual Way. Ah!" Then he went to call upon his friend Piglet to see what _he_ thought about it. And at Piglet's house he found Rabbit. So they all talked about it together. "What I don't like about it is this," said Rabbit. "Here are we--you, Pooh, and you, Piglet, and Me--and suddenly----" "And Eeyore," said Pooh. "And Eeyore--and then suddenly----" "And Owl," said Pooh. "And Owl--and then all of a sudden----" "Oh, and Eeyore," said Pooh. "I was forgetting _him_." "Here--we--are," said Rabbit very slowly and carefully, "all--of--us, and then, suddenly, we wake up one morning and, what do we find? We find a Strange Animal among us. An animal of whom we have never even heard before! An animal who carries her family about with her in her pocket! Suppose _I_ carried _my_ family about with me in _my_ pocket, how many pockets should I want?" "Sixteen," said Piglet. "Seventeen, isn't it?" said Rabbit. "And one more for a handkerchief--that's eighteen. Eighteen pockets in one suit! I haven't time." There was a long and thoughtful silence ... and then Pooh, who had been frowning very hard for some minutes, said: "_I_ make it fifteen." "What?" said Rabbit. "Fifteen." "Fifteen what?" "Your family." "What about them?" Pooh rubbed his nose and said that he thought Rabbit had been talking about his family. "Did I?" said Rabbit carelessly. "Yes, you said----" "Never mind, Pooh," said Piglet impatiently. "The question is, What are we to do about Kanga?" "Oh, I see," said Pooh. "The best way," said Rabbit, "would be this. The best way would be to steal Baby Roo and hide him, and then when Kanga says, 'Where's Baby Roo?' we say, '_Aha!_'" "_Aha!_" said Pooh, practising. "_Aha! Aha!_ ... Of course," he went on, "we could say 'Aha!' even if we hadn't stolen Baby Roo." "Pooh," said Rabbit kindly, "you haven't any brain." "I know," said Pooh humbly. "We say '_Aha!_' so that Kanga knows that _we_ know where Baby Roo is. '_Aha!_' means 'We'll tell you where Baby Roo is, if you promise to go away from the Forest and never come back.' Now don't talk while I think." Pooh went into a corner and tried saying 'Aha!' in that sort of voice. Sometimes it seemed to him that it did mean what Rabbit said, and sometimes it seemed to him that it didn't. "I suppose it's just practice," he thought. "I wonder if Kanga will have to practise too so as to understand it." "There's just one thing," said Piglet, fidgeting a bit. "I was talking to Christopher Robin, and he said that a Kanga was Generally Regarded as One of the Fiercer Animals. I am not frightened of Fierce Animals in the ordinary way, but it is well known that, if One of the Fiercer Animals is Deprived of Its Young, it becomes as fierce as Two of the Fiercer Animals. In which case '_Aha!_' is perhaps a _foolish_ thing to say." "Piglet," said Rabbit, taking out a pencil, and licking the end of it, "you haven't any pluck." "It is hard to be brave," said Piglet, sniffing slightly, "when you're only a Very Small Animal." Rabbit, who had begun to write very busily, looked up and said: "It is because you are a very small animal that you will be Useful in the adventure before us." Piglet was so excited at the idea of being Useful, that he forgot to be frightened any more, and when Rabbit
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"Yes." "Thank you, Piglet," said Eeyore. "You don't mind my asking," he went on, "but what colour was this balloon when it--when it _was_ a balloon?" "Red." "I just wondered.... Red," he murmured to himself. "My favourite colour.... How big was it?" "About as big as me." "I just wondered.... About as big as Piglet," he said to himself sadly. "My favourite size. Well, well." Piglet felt very miserable, and didn't know what to say. He was still opening his mouth to begin something, and then deciding that it wasn't any good saying _that_, when he heard a shout from the other side of the river, and there was Pooh. "Many happy returns of the day," called out Pooh, forgetting that he had said it already. "Thank you, Pooh, I'm having them," said Eeyore gloomily. "I've brought you a little present," said Pooh excitedly. "I've had it," said Eeyore. Pooh had now splashed across the stream to Eeyore, and Piglet was sitting a little way off, his head in his paws, snuffling to himself. "It's a Useful Pot," said Pooh. "Here it is. And it's got 'A Very Happy Birthday with love from Pooh' written on it. That's what all that writing is. And it's for putting things in. There!" When Eeyore saw the pot, he became quite excited. "Why!" he said. "I believe my Balloon will just go into that Pot!" "Oh, no, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Balloons are much too big to go into Pots. What you do with a balloon is, you hold the ballon----" "Not mine," said Eeyore proudly. "Look, Piglet!" And as Piglet looked sorrowfully round, Eeyore picked the balloon up with his teeth, and placed it carefully in the pot; picked it out and put it on the ground; and then picked it up again and put it carefully back. "So it does!" said Pooh. "It goes in!" "So it does!" said Piglet. "And it comes out!" "Doesn't it?" said Eeyore. "It goes in and out like anything."<|quote|>"I'm very glad,"</|quote|>said Pooh happily, "that I thought of giving you a Useful Pot to put things in." "I'm very glad," said Piglet happily, "that I thought of giving you Something to put in a Useful Pot." But Eeyore wasn't listening. He was taking the balloon out, and putting it back again, as happy as could be.... * * * * * "And didn't _I_ give him anything?" asked Christopher Robin sadly. "Of course you did," I said. "You gave him--don't you remember--a little--a little----" "I gave him a box of paints to paint things with." "That was it." "Why didn't I give it to him in the morning?" "You were so busy getting his party ready for him. He had a cake with icing on the top, and three candles, and his name in pink sugar, and----" "Yes, _I_ remember," said Christopher Robin. CHAPTER VII IN WHICH KANGA AND BABY ROO COME TO THE FOREST, AND PIGLET HAS A BATH Nobody seemed to know where they came from, but there they were in the Forest: Kanga and Baby Roo. When Pooh asked Christopher Robin, "How did they come here?" Christopher Robin said, "In the Usual Way, if you know what I mean, Pooh," and Pooh, who didn't, said "Oh!" Then he nodded his head twice and said, "In the Usual Way. Ah!" Then he went to call upon his friend Piglet to see what _he_ thought about it. And at Piglet's house he found Rabbit. So they all talked about it together. "What I don't like about it is this," said Rabbit. "Here are we--you, Pooh, and you, Piglet, and Me--and suddenly----" "And Eeyore," said Pooh. "And Eeyore--and then suddenly----" "And Owl," said Pooh. "And Owl--and then all of a sudden----" "Oh, and Eeyore," said Pooh. "I was forgetting _him_." "Here--we--are," said Rabbit very slowly and carefully, "all--of--us, and then, suddenly, we wake up one morning and, what do we find? We find a Strange Animal among us. An animal of whom we have never even heard before! An animal who carries her family about with her in her pocket! Suppose _I_ carried _my_ family about with me in _my_ pocket, how many pockets should I want?" "Sixteen," said Piglet. "Seventeen, isn't it?" said Rabbit. "And one more for a handkerchief--that's eighteen. Eighteen pockets in one suit! I haven't time." There was a long and thoughtful silence ... and then Pooh, who had been frowning very hard for some minutes, said: "_I_ make it fifteen." "What?" said Rabbit. "Fifteen." "Fifteen what?" "Your family." "What about them?" Pooh rubbed his nose and said that he thought Rabbit had been talking about his family. "Did I?" said Rabbit carelessly. "Yes, you said----" "Never mind, Pooh," said Piglet impatiently. "The question is, What are we to do about Kanga?" "Oh, I see," said Pooh. "The best way," said Rabbit, "would be this. The best way would be to steal Baby Roo and hide him, and then when Kanga says, 'Where's Baby Roo?' we say, '_Aha!_'" "_Aha!_" said Pooh, practising. "_Aha! Aha!_ ... Of course," he went on, "we could say 'Aha!' even if we hadn't stolen Baby Roo." "Pooh," said Rabbit kindly, "you haven't any brain." "I know," said Pooh humbly. "We say '_Aha!_' so that Kanga knows that _we_ know where Baby Roo is. '_Aha!_' means 'We'll tell you where Baby Roo is, if you promise
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Winnie The Pooh
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"Really, now you ask me,"
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Alice
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a drawing of a muchness?"<|quote|>"Really, now you ask me,"</|quote|>said Alice, very much confused,
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see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?"<|quote|>"Really, now you ask me,"</|quote|>said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think--" "Then you
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the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: "--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say things are" "much of a muchness" "--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?"<|quote|>"Really, now you ask me,"</|quote|>said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think--" "Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her
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very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said Alice. "Why not?" said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: "--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say things are" "much of a muchness" "--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?"<|quote|>"Really, now you ask me,"</|quote|>said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think--" "Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. "At any rate I'll never go _there_ again!" said Alice as she picked her way through the wood.
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cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?" "You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?" "But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. "Of course they were," said the Dormouse; "--well in." This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. "They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said Alice. "Why not?" said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: "--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say things are" "much of a muchness" "--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?"<|quote|>"Really, now you ask me,"</|quote|>said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think--" "Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. "At any rate I'll never go _there_ again!" said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. "It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!" Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. "That's very curious!" she thought. "But everything's curious today. I think I may as well go in at once." And in she went. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table. "Now, I'll manage better this time," she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went
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about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself." "No, please go on!" Alice said very humbly; "I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be _one_." "One, indeed!" said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--" "What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. "Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. "I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter: "let's all move one place on." He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?" "You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?" "But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. "Of course they were," said the Dormouse; "--well in." This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. "They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said Alice. "Why not?" said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: "--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say things are" "much of a muchness" "--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?"<|quote|>"Really, now you ask me,"</|quote|>said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think--" "Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. "At any rate I'll never go _there_ again!" said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. "It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!" Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. "That's very curious!" she thought. "But everything's curious today. I think I may as well go in at once." And in she went. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table. "Now, I'll manage better this time," she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down the little passage: and _then_--she found herself at last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool fountains. CHAPTER VIII. The Queen's Croquet-Ground A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of them say, "Look out now, Five! Don't go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?" said the one who had spoken first. "That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing
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here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more." "You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself." "No, please go on!" Alice said very humbly; "I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be _one_." "One, indeed!" said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--" "What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. "Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. "I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter: "let's all move one place on." He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?" "You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?" "But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. "Of course they were," said the Dormouse; "--well in." This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. "They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said Alice. "Why not?" said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: "--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say things are" "much of a muchness" "--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?"<|quote|>"Really, now you ask me,"</|quote|>said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think--" "Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. "At any rate I'll never go _there_ again!" said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. "It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!" Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. "That's very curious!" she thought. "But everything's curious today. I think I may as well go in at once." And in she went. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table. "Now, I'll manage better this time," she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down the little passage: and _then_--she found herself at last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool fountains. CHAPTER VIII. The Queen's Croquet-Ground A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of them say, "Look out now, Five! Don't go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?" said the one who had spoken first. "That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, "Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--" At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out "The Queen! The Queen!" and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen. First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS. Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; "and besides, what would be the use of a procession," thought she, "if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they couldn't see it?" So she stood still where she was, and waited. When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped
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cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?" "You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?" "But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. "Of course they were," said the Dormouse; "--well in." This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. "They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said Alice. "Why not?" said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: "--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say things are" "much of a muchness" "--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?"<|quote|>"Really, now you ask me,"</|quote|>said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think--" "Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. "At any rate I'll never go _there_ again!" said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. "It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!" Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. "That's very curious!" she thought. "But everything's curious today. I think I may as well go in at once." And in she went. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table. "Now, I'll manage better this time," she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down the little passage: and _then_--she found herself at last in the beautiful garden, among the bright
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.
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No speaker
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in the last three weeks."<|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.</|quote|>"I'll tell you something very
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seen so much of you in the last three weeks."<|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.</|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do
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like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."<|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.</|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver
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dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."<|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.</|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with
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I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."<|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.</|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already
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discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."<|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.</|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III
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he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."<|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.</|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on
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and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."<|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.</|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already
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A Handful Of Dust
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said Tom, desperately.
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No speaker
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Mule. And so I am,"<|quote|>said Tom, desperately.</|quote|>"It's a great pity," said
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reason, I must be a Mule. And so I am,"<|quote|>said Tom, desperately.</|quote|>"It's a great pity," said Louisa, after another pause, and
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am as bad as you in that respect; and I am a Mule too, which you're not. If father was determined to make me either a Prig or a Mule, and I am not a Prig, why, it stands to reason, I must be a Mule. And so I am,"<|quote|>said Tom, desperately.</|quote|>"It's a great pity," said Louisa, after another pause, and speaking thoughtfully out of her dark corner: "it's a great pity, Tom. It's very unfortunate for both of us." "Oh! You," said Tom; "you are a girl, Loo, and a girl comes out of it better than a boy does.
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sing to you. I can't talk to you so as to lighten your mind, for I never see any amusing sights or read any amusing books that it would be a pleasure or a relief to you to talk about, when you are tired." "Well, no more do I. I am as bad as you in that respect; and I am a Mule too, which you're not. If father was determined to make me either a Prig or a Mule, and I am not a Prig, why, it stands to reason, I must be a Mule. And so I am,"<|quote|>said Tom, desperately.</|quote|>"It's a great pity," said Louisa, after another pause, and speaking thoughtfully out of her dark corner: "it's a great pity, Tom. It's very unfortunate for both of us." "Oh! You," said Tom; "you are a girl, Loo, and a girl comes out of it better than a boy does. I don't miss anything in you. You are the only pleasure I have you can brighten even this place and you can always lead me as you like." "You are a dear brother, Tom; and while you think I can do such things, I don't so much mind knowing better.
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Do you really and truly say so?" "Why, of course I do. What's the use of talking about it!" returned Tom, chafing his face on his coat-sleeve, as if to mortify his flesh, and have it in unison with his spirit. "Because, Tom," said his sister, after silently watching the sparks awhile, "as I get older, and nearer growing up, I often sit wondering here, and think how unfortunate it is for me that I can't reconcile you to home better than I am able to do. I don't know what other girls know. I can't play to you, or sing to you. I can't talk to you so as to lighten your mind, for I never see any amusing sights or read any amusing books that it would be a pleasure or a relief to you to talk about, when you are tired." "Well, no more do I. I am as bad as you in that respect; and I am a Mule too, which you're not. If father was determined to make me either a Prig or a Mule, and I am not a Prig, why, it stands to reason, I must be a Mule. And so I am,"<|quote|>said Tom, desperately.</|quote|>"It's a great pity," said Louisa, after another pause, and speaking thoughtfully out of her dark corner: "it's a great pity, Tom. It's very unfortunate for both of us." "Oh! You," said Tom; "you are a girl, Loo, and a girl comes out of it better than a boy does. I don't miss anything in you. You are the only pleasure I have you can brighten even this place and you can always lead me as you like." "You are a dear brother, Tom; and while you think I can do such things, I don't so much mind knowing better. Though I do know better, Tom, and am very sorry for it." She came and kissed him, and went back into her corner again. "I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear so much about," said Tom, spitefully setting his teeth, "and all the Figures, and all the people who found them out: and I wish I could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder under them, and blow them all up together! However, when I go to live with old Bounderby, I'll have my revenge." "Your revenge, Tom?" "I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about
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detest the whole set-out of us. They'll bother her head off, I think, before they have done with her. Already she's getting as pale as wax, and as heavy as I am." Young Thomas expressed these sentiments sitting astride of a chair before the fire, with his arms on the back, and his sulky face on his arms. His sister sat in the darker corner by the fireside, now looking at him, now looking at the bright sparks as they dropped upon the hearth. "As to me," said Tom, tumbling his hair all manner of ways with his sulky hands, "I am a Donkey, that's what _I_ am. I am as obstinate as one, I am more stupid than one, I get as much pleasure as one, and I should like to kick like one." "Not me, I hope, Tom?" "No, Loo; I wouldn't hurt _you_. I made an exception of you at first. I don't know what this jolly old Jaundiced Jail," Tom had paused to find a sufficiently complimentary and expressive name for the parental roof, and seemed to relieve his mind for a moment by the strong alliteration of this one, "would be without you." "Indeed, Tom? Do you really and truly say so?" "Why, of course I do. What's the use of talking about it!" returned Tom, chafing his face on his coat-sleeve, as if to mortify his flesh, and have it in unison with his spirit. "Because, Tom," said his sister, after silently watching the sparks awhile, "as I get older, and nearer growing up, I often sit wondering here, and think how unfortunate it is for me that I can't reconcile you to home better than I am able to do. I don't know what other girls know. I can't play to you, or sing to you. I can't talk to you so as to lighten your mind, for I never see any amusing sights or read any amusing books that it would be a pleasure or a relief to you to talk about, when you are tired." "Well, no more do I. I am as bad as you in that respect; and I am a Mule too, which you're not. If father was determined to make me either a Prig or a Mule, and I am not a Prig, why, it stands to reason, I must be a Mule. And so I am,"<|quote|>said Tom, desperately.</|quote|>"It's a great pity," said Louisa, after another pause, and speaking thoughtfully out of her dark corner: "it's a great pity, Tom. It's very unfortunate for both of us." "Oh! You," said Tom; "you are a girl, Loo, and a girl comes out of it better than a boy does. I don't miss anything in you. You are the only pleasure I have you can brighten even this place and you can always lead me as you like." "You are a dear brother, Tom; and while you think I can do such things, I don't so much mind knowing better. Though I do know better, Tom, and am very sorry for it." She came and kissed him, and went back into her corner again. "I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear so much about," said Tom, spitefully setting his teeth, "and all the Figures, and all the people who found them out: and I wish I could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder under them, and blow them all up together! However, when I go to live with old Bounderby, I'll have my revenge." "Your revenge, Tom?" "I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see something, and hear something. I'll recompense myself for the way in which I have been brought up." "But don't disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks, and is a great deal rougher, and not half so kind." "Oh!" said Tom, laughing; "I don't mind that. I shall very well know how to manage and smooth old Bounderby!" Their shadows were defined upon the wall, but those of the high presses in the room were all blended together on the wall and on the ceiling, as if the brother and sister were overhung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagination if such treason could have been there might have made it out to be the shadow of their subject, and of its lowering association with their future. "What is your great mode of smoothing and managing, Tom? Is it a secret?" "Oh!" said Tom, "if it is a secret, it's not far off. It's you. You are his little pet, you are his favourite; he'll do anything for you. When he says to me what I don't like, I shall say to him," "My sister Loo will be hurt and disappointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always
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their improvement which they never did; a surprising circumstance, when the happy adaptation of the means to the end is considered. Still, although they differed in every other particular, conceivable and inconceivable (especially inconceivable), they were pretty well united on the point that these unlucky infants were never to wonder. Body number one, said they must take everything on trust. Body number two, said they must take everything on political economy. Body number three, wrote leaden little books for them, showing how the good grown-up baby invariably got to the Savings-bank, and the bad grown-up baby invariably got transported. Body number four, under dreary pretences of being droll (when it was very melancholy indeed), made the shallowest pretences of concealing pitfalls of knowledge, into which it was the duty of these babies to be smuggled and inveigled. But, all the bodies agreed that they were never to wonder. There was a library in Coketown, to which general access was easy. Mr. Gradgrind greatly tormented his mind about what the people read in this library: a point whereon little rivers of tabular statements periodically flowed into the howling ocean of tabular statements, which no diver ever got to any depth in and came up sane. It was a disheartening circumstance, but a melancholy fact, that even these readers persisted in wondering. They wondered about human nature, human passions, human hopes and fears, the struggles, triumphs and defeats, the cares and joys and sorrows, the lives and deaths of common men and women! They sometimes, after fifteen hours' work, sat down to read mere fables about men and women, more or less like themselves, and about children, more or less like their own. They took De Foe to their bosoms, instead of Euclid, and seemed to be on the whole more comforted by Goldsmith than by Cocker. Mr. Gradgrind was for ever working, in print and out of print, at this eccentric sum, and he never could make out how it yielded this unaccountable product. "I am sick of my life, Loo. I, hate it altogether, and I hate everybody except you," said the unnatural young Thomas Gradgrind in the hair-cutting chamber at twilight. "You don't hate Sissy, Tom?" "I hate to be obliged to call her Jupe. And she hates me," said Tom, moodily. "No, she does not, Tom, I am sure!" "She must," said Tom. "She must just hate and detest the whole set-out of us. They'll bother her head off, I think, before they have done with her. Already she's getting as pale as wax, and as heavy as I am." Young Thomas expressed these sentiments sitting astride of a chair before the fire, with his arms on the back, and his sulky face on his arms. His sister sat in the darker corner by the fireside, now looking at him, now looking at the bright sparks as they dropped upon the hearth. "As to me," said Tom, tumbling his hair all manner of ways with his sulky hands, "I am a Donkey, that's what _I_ am. I am as obstinate as one, I am more stupid than one, I get as much pleasure as one, and I should like to kick like one." "Not me, I hope, Tom?" "No, Loo; I wouldn't hurt _you_. I made an exception of you at first. I don't know what this jolly old Jaundiced Jail," Tom had paused to find a sufficiently complimentary and expressive name for the parental roof, and seemed to relieve his mind for a moment by the strong alliteration of this one, "would be without you." "Indeed, Tom? Do you really and truly say so?" "Why, of course I do. What's the use of talking about it!" returned Tom, chafing his face on his coat-sleeve, as if to mortify his flesh, and have it in unison with his spirit. "Because, Tom," said his sister, after silently watching the sparks awhile, "as I get older, and nearer growing up, I often sit wondering here, and think how unfortunate it is for me that I can't reconcile you to home better than I am able to do. I don't know what other girls know. I can't play to you, or sing to you. I can't talk to you so as to lighten your mind, for I never see any amusing sights or read any amusing books that it would be a pleasure or a relief to you to talk about, when you are tired." "Well, no more do I. I am as bad as you in that respect; and I am a Mule too, which you're not. If father was determined to make me either a Prig or a Mule, and I am not a Prig, why, it stands to reason, I must be a Mule. And so I am,"<|quote|>said Tom, desperately.</|quote|>"It's a great pity," said Louisa, after another pause, and speaking thoughtfully out of her dark corner: "it's a great pity, Tom. It's very unfortunate for both of us." "Oh! You," said Tom; "you are a girl, Loo, and a girl comes out of it better than a boy does. I don't miss anything in you. You are the only pleasure I have you can brighten even this place and you can always lead me as you like." "You are a dear brother, Tom; and while you think I can do such things, I don't so much mind knowing better. Though I do know better, Tom, and am very sorry for it." She came and kissed him, and went back into her corner again. "I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear so much about," said Tom, spitefully setting his teeth, "and all the Figures, and all the people who found them out: and I wish I could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder under them, and blow them all up together! However, when I go to live with old Bounderby, I'll have my revenge." "Your revenge, Tom?" "I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see something, and hear something. I'll recompense myself for the way in which I have been brought up." "But don't disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks, and is a great deal rougher, and not half so kind." "Oh!" said Tom, laughing; "I don't mind that. I shall very well know how to manage and smooth old Bounderby!" Their shadows were defined upon the wall, but those of the high presses in the room were all blended together on the wall and on the ceiling, as if the brother and sister were overhung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagination if such treason could have been there might have made it out to be the shadow of their subject, and of its lowering association with their future. "What is your great mode of smoothing and managing, Tom? Is it a secret?" "Oh!" said Tom, "if it is a secret, it's not far off. It's you. You are his little pet, you are his favourite; he'll do anything for you. When he says to me what I don't like, I shall say to him," "My sister Loo will be hurt and disappointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always used to tell me she was sure you would be easier with me than this." "That'll bring him about, or nothing will." After waiting for some answering remark, and getting none, Tom wearily relapsed into the present time, and twined himself yawning round and about the rails of his chair, and rumpled his head more and more, until he suddenly looked up, and asked: "Have you gone to sleep, Loo?" "No, Tom. I am looking at the fire." "You seem to find more to look at in it than ever I could find," said Tom. "Another of the advantages, I suppose, of being a girl." "Tom," enquired his sister, slowly, and in a curious tone, as if she were reading what she asked in the fire, and it was not quite plainly written there, "do you look forward with any satisfaction to this change to Mr. Bounderby's?" "Why, there's one thing to be said of it," returned Tom, pushing his chair from him, and standing up; "it will be getting away from home." "There is one thing to be said of it," Louisa repeated in her former curious tone; "it will be getting away from home. Yes." "Not but what I shall be very unwilling, both to leave you, Loo, and to leave you here. But I must go, you know, whether I like it or not; and I had better go where I can take with me some advantage of your influence, than where I should lose it altogether. Don't you see?" "Yes, Tom." The answer was so long in coming, though there was no indecision in it, that Tom went and leaned on the back of her chair, to contemplate the fire which so engrossed her, from her point of view, and see what he could make of it. "Except that it is a fire," said Tom, "it looks to me as stupid and blank as everything else looks. What do you see in it? Not a circus?" "I don't see anything in it, Tom, particularly. But since I have been looking at it, I have been wondering about you and me, grown up." "Wondering again!" said Tom. "I have such unmanageable thoughts," returned his sister, "that they _will_ wonder." "Then I beg of you, Louisa," said Mrs. Gradgrind, who had opened the door without being heard, "to do nothing of that description, for goodness' sake, you inconsiderate
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as I am." Young Thomas expressed these sentiments sitting astride of a chair before the fire, with his arms on the back, and his sulky face on his arms. His sister sat in the darker corner by the fireside, now looking at him, now looking at the bright sparks as they dropped upon the hearth. "As to me," said Tom, tumbling his hair all manner of ways with his sulky hands, "I am a Donkey, that's what _I_ am. I am as obstinate as one, I am more stupid than one, I get as much pleasure as one, and I should like to kick like one." "Not me, I hope, Tom?" "No, Loo; I wouldn't hurt _you_. I made an exception of you at first. I don't know what this jolly old Jaundiced Jail," Tom had paused to find a sufficiently complimentary and expressive name for the parental roof, and seemed to relieve his mind for a moment by the strong alliteration of this one, "would be without you." "Indeed, Tom? Do you really and truly say so?" "Why, of course I do. What's the use of talking about it!" returned Tom, chafing his face on his coat-sleeve, as if to mortify his flesh, and have it in unison with his spirit. "Because, Tom," said his sister, after silently watching the sparks awhile, "as I get older, and nearer growing up, I often sit wondering here, and think how unfortunate it is for me that I can't reconcile you to home better than I am able to do. I don't know what other girls know. I can't play to you, or sing to you. I can't talk to you so as to lighten your mind, for I never see any amusing sights or read any amusing books that it would be a pleasure or a relief to you to talk about, when you are tired." "Well, no more do I. I am as bad as you in that respect; and I am a Mule too, which you're not. If father was determined to make me either a Prig or a Mule, and I am not a Prig, why, it stands to reason, I must be a Mule. And so I am,"<|quote|>said Tom, desperately.</|quote|>"It's a great pity," said Louisa, after another pause, and speaking thoughtfully out of her dark corner: "it's a great pity, Tom. It's very unfortunate for both of us." "Oh! You," said Tom; "you are a girl, Loo, and a girl comes out of it better than a boy does. I don't miss anything in you. You are the only pleasure I have you can brighten even this place and you can always lead me as you like." "You are a dear brother, Tom; and while you think I can do such things, I don't so much mind knowing better. Though I do know better, Tom, and am very sorry for it." She came and kissed him, and went back into her corner again. "I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear so much about," said Tom, spitefully setting his teeth, "and all the Figures, and all the people who found them out: and I wish I could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder under them, and blow them all up together! However, when I go to live with old Bounderby, I'll have my revenge." "Your revenge, Tom?" "I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see something, and hear something. I'll recompense myself for the way in which I have been brought up." "But don't disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks, and is a great deal rougher, and not half so kind." "Oh!" said Tom, laughing; "I don't mind that. I shall very well know how to manage and smooth old Bounderby!" Their shadows were defined upon the wall, but those of the high presses in the room were all blended together on the wall and on the ceiling, as if the brother and sister were overhung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagination if such treason could have been there might have
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Hard Times
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"He s got brains, hasn t he?"
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Ralph Denham
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boy to profit by it."<|quote|>"He s got brains, hasn t he?"</|quote|>said Ralph. His tone had
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Charles was the sort of boy to profit by it."<|quote|>"He s got brains, hasn t he?"</|quote|>said Ralph. His tone had taken on that shade of
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and for a time they sat silent. The lines curved themselves in semicircles above their eyes. "She doesn t understand that one s got to take risks," he observed, finally. "I believe mother would take risks if she knew that Charles was the sort of boy to profit by it."<|quote|>"He s got brains, hasn t he?"</|quote|>said Ralph. His tone had taken on that shade of pugnacity which suggested to his sister that some personal grievance drove him to take the line he did. She wondered what it might be, but at once recalled her mind, and assented. "In some ways he s fearfully backward, though,
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true," said Ralph. "No. I thought not. But she won t believe me when I say it." Ralph, as if he could foresee the length of this familiar argument, drew up a chair for his sister and sat down himself. "I m not interrupting?" she inquired. Ralph shook his head, and for a time they sat silent. The lines curved themselves in semicircles above their eyes. "She doesn t understand that one s got to take risks," he observed, finally. "I believe mother would take risks if she knew that Charles was the sort of boy to profit by it."<|quote|>"He s got brains, hasn t he?"</|quote|>said Ralph. His tone had taken on that shade of pugnacity which suggested to his sister that some personal grievance drove him to take the line he did. She wondered what it might be, but at once recalled her mind, and assented. "In some ways he s fearfully backward, though, compared with what you were at his age. And he s difficult at home, too. He makes Molly slave for him." Ralph made a sound which belittled this particular argument. It was plain to Joan that she had struck one of her brother s perverse moods, and he was going
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look straightly and keenly at one object, she appeared to be in the habit of considering everything from many different points of view. This made her appear his elder by more years than existed in fact between them. Her gaze rested for a moment or two upon the rook. She then said, without any preface: "It s about Charles and Uncle John s offer.... Mother s been talking to me. She says she can t afford to pay for him after this term. She says she ll have to ask for an overdraft as it is." "That s simply not true," said Ralph. "No. I thought not. But she won t believe me when I say it." Ralph, as if he could foresee the length of this familiar argument, drew up a chair for his sister and sat down himself. "I m not interrupting?" she inquired. Ralph shook his head, and for a time they sat silent. The lines curved themselves in semicircles above their eyes. "She doesn t understand that one s got to take risks," he observed, finally. "I believe mother would take risks if she knew that Charles was the sort of boy to profit by it."<|quote|>"He s got brains, hasn t he?"</|quote|>said Ralph. His tone had taken on that shade of pugnacity which suggested to his sister that some personal grievance drove him to take the line he did. She wondered what it might be, but at once recalled her mind, and assented. "In some ways he s fearfully backward, though, compared with what you were at his age. And he s difficult at home, too. He makes Molly slave for him." Ralph made a sound which belittled this particular argument. It was plain to Joan that she had struck one of her brother s perverse moods, and he was going to oppose whatever his mother said. He called her "she," which was a proof of it. She sighed involuntarily, and the sigh annoyed Ralph, and he exclaimed with irritation: "It s pretty hard lines to stick a boy into an office at seventeen!" "Nobody _wants_ to stick him into an office," she said. She, too, was becoming annoyed. She had spent the whole of the afternoon discussing wearisome details of education and expense with her mother, and she had come to her brother for help, encouraged, rather irrationally, to expect help by the fact that he had been out somewhere,
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in autocratic silence, for no custom can take root in a family unless every breach of it is punished severely for the first six months or so. But Ralph was conscious of a distinct wish to be interrupted, and his disappointment was perceptible when he heard the creaking sound rather farther down the stairs, as if his visitor had decided to withdraw. He rose, opened the door with unnecessary abruptness, and waited on the landing. The person stopped simultaneously half a flight downstairs. "Ralph?" said a voice, inquiringly. "Joan?" "I was coming up, but I saw your notice." "Well, come along in, then." He concealed his desire beneath a tone as grudging as he could make it. Joan came in, but she was careful to show, by standing upright with one hand upon the mantelpiece, that she was only there for a definite purpose, which discharged, she would go. She was older than Ralph by some three or four years. Her face was round but worn, and expressed that tolerant but anxious good humor which is the special attribute of elder sisters in large families. Her pleasant brown eyes resembled Ralph s, save in expression, for whereas he seemed to look straightly and keenly at one object, she appeared to be in the habit of considering everything from many different points of view. This made her appear his elder by more years than existed in fact between them. Her gaze rested for a moment or two upon the rook. She then said, without any preface: "It s about Charles and Uncle John s offer.... Mother s been talking to me. She says she can t afford to pay for him after this term. She says she ll have to ask for an overdraft as it is." "That s simply not true," said Ralph. "No. I thought not. But she won t believe me when I say it." Ralph, as if he could foresee the length of this familiar argument, drew up a chair for his sister and sat down himself. "I m not interrupting?" she inquired. Ralph shook his head, and for a time they sat silent. The lines curved themselves in semicircles above their eyes. "She doesn t understand that one s got to take risks," he observed, finally. "I believe mother would take risks if she knew that Charles was the sort of boy to profit by it."<|quote|>"He s got brains, hasn t he?"</|quote|>said Ralph. His tone had taken on that shade of pugnacity which suggested to his sister that some personal grievance drove him to take the line he did. She wondered what it might be, but at once recalled her mind, and assented. "In some ways he s fearfully backward, though, compared with what you were at his age. And he s difficult at home, too. He makes Molly slave for him." Ralph made a sound which belittled this particular argument. It was plain to Joan that she had struck one of her brother s perverse moods, and he was going to oppose whatever his mother said. He called her "she," which was a proof of it. She sighed involuntarily, and the sigh annoyed Ralph, and he exclaimed with irritation: "It s pretty hard lines to stick a boy into an office at seventeen!" "Nobody _wants_ to stick him into an office," she said. She, too, was becoming annoyed. She had spent the whole of the afternoon discussing wearisome details of education and expense with her mother, and she had come to her brother for help, encouraged, rather irrationally, to expect help by the fact that he had been out somewhere, she didn t know and didn t mean to ask where, all the afternoon. Ralph was fond of his sister, and her irritation made him think how unfair it was that all these burdens should be laid on her shoulders. "The truth is," he observed gloomily, "that I ought to have accepted Uncle John s offer. I should have been making six hundred a year by this time." "I don t think that for a moment," Joan replied quickly, repenting of her annoyance. "The question, to my mind, is, whether we couldn t cut down our expenses in some way." "A smaller house?" "Fewer servants, perhaps." Neither brother nor sister spoke with much conviction, and after reflecting for a moment what these proposed reforms in a strictly economical household meant, Ralph announced very decidedly: "It s out of the question." It was out of the question that she should put any more household work upon herself. No, the hardship must fall on him, for he was determined that his family should have as many chances of distinguishing themselves as other families had as the Hilberys had, for example. He believed secretly and rather defiantly, for it was a fact not
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and hung it upon the handle of his door. This done, he sharpened a pencil, lit a reading-lamp and opened his book. But still he hesitated to take his seat. He scratched the rook, he walked to the window; he parted the curtains, and looked down upon the city which lay, hazily luminous, beneath him. He looked across the vapors in the direction of Chelsea; looked fixedly for a moment, and then returned to his chair. But the whole thickness of some learned counsel s treatise upon Torts did not screen him satisfactorily. Through the pages he saw a drawing-room, very empty and spacious; he heard low voices, he saw women s figures, he could even smell the scent of the cedar log which flamed in the grate. His mind relaxed its tension, and seemed to be giving out now what it had taken in unconsciously at the time. He could remember Mr. Fortescue s exact words, and the rolling emphasis with which he delivered them, and he began to repeat what Mr. Fortescue had said, in Mr. Fortescue s own manner, about Manchester. His mind then began to wander about the house, and he wondered whether there were other rooms like the drawing-room, and he thought, inconsequently, how beautiful the bathroom must be, and how leisurely it was the life of these well-kept people, who were, no doubt, still sitting in the same room, only they had changed their clothes, and little Mr. Anning was there, and the aunt who would mind if the glass of her father s picture was broken. Miss Hilbery had changed her dress ("although she s wearing such a pretty one," he heard her mother say), and she was talking to Mr. Anning, who was well over forty, and bald into the bargain, about books. How peaceful and spacious it was; and the peace possessed him so completely that his muscles slackened, his book drooped from his hand, and he forgot that the hour of work was wasting minute by minute. He was roused by a creak upon the stair. With a guilty start he composed himself, frowned and looked intently at the fifty-sixth page of his volume. A step paused outside his door, and he knew that the person, whoever it might be, was considering the placard, and debating whether to honor its decree or not. Certainly, policy advised him to sit still in autocratic silence, for no custom can take root in a family unless every breach of it is punished severely for the first six months or so. But Ralph was conscious of a distinct wish to be interrupted, and his disappointment was perceptible when he heard the creaking sound rather farther down the stairs, as if his visitor had decided to withdraw. He rose, opened the door with unnecessary abruptness, and waited on the landing. The person stopped simultaneously half a flight downstairs. "Ralph?" said a voice, inquiringly. "Joan?" "I was coming up, but I saw your notice." "Well, come along in, then." He concealed his desire beneath a tone as grudging as he could make it. Joan came in, but she was careful to show, by standing upright with one hand upon the mantelpiece, that she was only there for a definite purpose, which discharged, she would go. She was older than Ralph by some three or four years. Her face was round but worn, and expressed that tolerant but anxious good humor which is the special attribute of elder sisters in large families. Her pleasant brown eyes resembled Ralph s, save in expression, for whereas he seemed to look straightly and keenly at one object, she appeared to be in the habit of considering everything from many different points of view. This made her appear his elder by more years than existed in fact between them. Her gaze rested for a moment or two upon the rook. She then said, without any preface: "It s about Charles and Uncle John s offer.... Mother s been talking to me. She says she can t afford to pay for him after this term. She says she ll have to ask for an overdraft as it is." "That s simply not true," said Ralph. "No. I thought not. But she won t believe me when I say it." Ralph, as if he could foresee the length of this familiar argument, drew up a chair for his sister and sat down himself. "I m not interrupting?" she inquired. Ralph shook his head, and for a time they sat silent. The lines curved themselves in semicircles above their eyes. "She doesn t understand that one s got to take risks," he observed, finally. "I believe mother would take risks if she knew that Charles was the sort of boy to profit by it."<|quote|>"He s got brains, hasn t he?"</|quote|>said Ralph. His tone had taken on that shade of pugnacity which suggested to his sister that some personal grievance drove him to take the line he did. She wondered what it might be, but at once recalled her mind, and assented. "In some ways he s fearfully backward, though, compared with what you were at his age. And he s difficult at home, too. He makes Molly slave for him." Ralph made a sound which belittled this particular argument. It was plain to Joan that she had struck one of her brother s perverse moods, and he was going to oppose whatever his mother said. He called her "she," which was a proof of it. She sighed involuntarily, and the sigh annoyed Ralph, and he exclaimed with irritation: "It s pretty hard lines to stick a boy into an office at seventeen!" "Nobody _wants_ to stick him into an office," she said. She, too, was becoming annoyed. She had spent the whole of the afternoon discussing wearisome details of education and expense with her mother, and she had come to her brother for help, encouraged, rather irrationally, to expect help by the fact that he had been out somewhere, she didn t know and didn t mean to ask where, all the afternoon. Ralph was fond of his sister, and her irritation made him think how unfair it was that all these burdens should be laid on her shoulders. "The truth is," he observed gloomily, "that I ought to have accepted Uncle John s offer. I should have been making six hundred a year by this time." "I don t think that for a moment," Joan replied quickly, repenting of her annoyance. "The question, to my mind, is, whether we couldn t cut down our expenses in some way." "A smaller house?" "Fewer servants, perhaps." Neither brother nor sister spoke with much conviction, and after reflecting for a moment what these proposed reforms in a strictly economical household meant, Ralph announced very decidedly: "It s out of the question." It was out of the question that she should put any more household work upon herself. No, the hardship must fall on him, for he was determined that his family should have as many chances of distinguishing themselves as other families had as the Hilberys had, for example. He believed secretly and rather defiantly, for it was a fact not capable of proof, that there was something very remarkable about his family. "If mother won t run risks" "You really can t expect her to sell out again." "She ought to look upon it as an investment; but if she won t, we must find some other way, that s all." A threat was contained in this sentence, and Joan knew, without asking, what the threat was. In the course of his professional life, which now extended over six or seven years, Ralph had saved, perhaps, three or four hundred pounds. Considering the sacrifices he had made in order to put by this sum it always amazed Joan to find that he used it to gamble with, buying shares and selling them again, increasing it sometimes, sometimes diminishing it, and always running the risk of losing every penny of it in a day s disaster. But although she wondered, she could not help loving him the better for his odd combination of Spartan self-control and what appeared to her romantic and childish folly. Ralph interested her more than any one else in the world, and she often broke off in the middle of one of these economic discussions, in spite of their gravity, to consider some fresh aspect of his character. "I think you d be foolish to risk your money on poor old Charles," she observed. "Fond as I am of him, he doesn t seem to me exactly brilliant.... Besides, why should you be sacrificed?" "My dear Joan," Ralph exclaimed, stretching himself out with a gesture of impatience, "don t you see that we ve all got to be sacrificed? What s the use of denying it? What s the use of struggling against it? So it always has been, so it always will be. We ve got no money and we never shall have any money. We shall just turn round in the mill every day of our lives until we drop and die, worn out, as most people do, when one comes to think of it." Joan looked at him, opened her lips as if to speak, and closed them again. Then she said, very tentatively: "Aren t you happy, Ralph?" "No. Are you? Perhaps I m as happy as most people, though. God knows whether I m happy or not. What is happiness?" He glanced with half a smile, in spite of his gloomy irritation,
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frowned and looked intently at the fifty-sixth page of his volume. A step paused outside his door, and he knew that the person, whoever it might be, was considering the placard, and debating whether to honor its decree or not. Certainly, policy advised him to sit still in autocratic silence, for no custom can take root in a family unless every breach of it is punished severely for the first six months or so. But Ralph was conscious of a distinct wish to be interrupted, and his disappointment was perceptible when he heard the creaking sound rather farther down the stairs, as if his visitor had decided to withdraw. He rose, opened the door with unnecessary abruptness, and waited on the landing. The person stopped simultaneously half a flight downstairs. "Ralph?" said a voice, inquiringly. "Joan?" "I was coming up, but I saw your notice." "Well, come along in, then." He concealed his desire beneath a tone as grudging as he could make it. Joan came in, but she was careful to show, by standing upright with one hand upon the mantelpiece, that she was only there for a definite purpose, which discharged, she would go. She was older than Ralph by some three or four years. Her face was round but worn, and expressed that tolerant but anxious good humor which is the special attribute of elder sisters in large families. Her pleasant brown eyes resembled Ralph s, save in expression, for whereas he seemed to look straightly and keenly at one object, she appeared to be in the habit of considering everything from many different points of view. This made her appear his elder by more years than existed in fact between them. Her gaze rested for a moment or two upon the rook. She then said, without any preface: "It s about Charles and Uncle John s offer.... Mother s been talking to me. She says she can t afford to pay for him after this term. She says she ll have to ask for an overdraft as it is." "That s simply not true," said Ralph. "No. I thought not. But she won t believe me when I say it." Ralph, as if he could foresee the length of this familiar argument, drew up a chair for his sister and sat down himself. "I m not interrupting?" she inquired. Ralph shook his head, and for a time they sat silent. The lines curved themselves in semicircles above their eyes. "She doesn t understand that one s got to take risks," he observed, finally. "I believe mother would take risks if she knew that Charles was the sort of boy to profit by it."<|quote|>"He s got brains, hasn t he?"</|quote|>said Ralph. His tone had taken on that shade of pugnacity which suggested to his sister that some personal grievance drove him to take the line he did. She wondered what it might be, but at once recalled her mind, and assented. "In some ways he s fearfully backward, though, compared with what you were at his age. And he s difficult at home, too. He makes Molly slave for him." Ralph made a sound which belittled this particular argument. It was plain to Joan that she had struck one of her brother s perverse moods, and he was going to oppose whatever his mother said. He called her "she," which was a proof of it. She sighed involuntarily, and the sigh annoyed Ralph, and he exclaimed with irritation: "It s pretty hard lines to stick a boy into an office at seventeen!" "Nobody _wants_ to stick him into an office," she said. She, too, was becoming annoyed. She had spent the whole of the afternoon discussing wearisome details of education and expense with her mother, and she had come to her brother for help, encouraged, rather irrationally, to expect help by the fact that he had been out somewhere, she didn t know and didn t mean to ask where, all the afternoon. Ralph was fond of his sister, and her irritation made him think how unfair it was that all these burdens should be laid on her shoulders. "The truth is," he observed gloomily, "that I ought to have accepted Uncle John s offer. I should have been making six hundred a year by this time." "I don t think that for a moment," Joan replied quickly, repenting of her annoyance. "The question, to my mind, is, whether we couldn
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Night And Day
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said Anne, yielding reluctantly, for, although she would have been delighted to play the principal character, yet her artistic sense demanded fitness for it and this, she felt, her limitations made impossible.
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No speaker
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Elaine. "Well, I'll be Elaine,"<|quote|>said Anne, yielding reluctantly, for, although she would have been delighted to play the principal character, yet her artistic sense demanded fitness for it and this, she felt, her limitations made impossible.</|quote|>"Ruby, you must be King
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be more convenient for playing Elaine. "Well, I'll be Elaine,"<|quote|>said Anne, yielding reluctantly, for, although she would have been delighted to play the principal character, yet her artistic sense demanded fitness for it and this, she felt, her limitations made impossible.</|quote|>"Ruby, you must be King Arthur and Jane will be
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landing place it would drift down with the current under the bridge and finally strand itself on another headland lower down which ran out at a curve in the pond. They had often gone down like this and nothing could be more convenient for playing Elaine. "Well, I'll be Elaine,"<|quote|>said Anne, yielding reluctantly, for, although she would have been delighted to play the principal character, yet her artistic sense demanded fitness for it and this, she felt, her limitations made impossible.</|quote|>"Ruby, you must be King Arthur and Jane will be Guinevere and Diana must be Lancelot. But first you must be the brothers and the father. We can't have the old dumb servitor because there isn't room for two in the flat when one is lying down. We must pall
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real people to them, and Anne was devoured by secret regret that she had not been born in Camelot. Those days, she said, were so much more romantic than the present. Anne's plan was hailed with enthusiasm. The girls had discovered that if the flat were pushed off from the landing place it would drift down with the current under the bridge and finally strand itself on another headland lower down which ran out at a curve in the pond. They had often gone down like this and nothing could be more convenient for playing Elaine. "Well, I'll be Elaine,"<|quote|>said Anne, yielding reluctantly, for, although she would have been delighted to play the principal character, yet her artistic sense demanded fitness for it and this, she felt, her limitations made impossible.</|quote|>"Ruby, you must be King Arthur and Jane will be Guinevere and Diana must be Lancelot. But first you must be the brothers and the father. We can't have the old dumb servitor because there isn't room for two in the flat when one is lying down. We must pall the barge all its length in blackest samite. That old black shawl of your mother's will be just the thing, Diana." The black shawl having been procured, Anne spread it over the flat and then lay down on the bottom, with closed eyes and hands folded over her breast. "Oh,
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the two girls learned to row themselves about in the little flat-bottomed dory Mr. Barry kept for duck shooting. It was Anne's idea that they dramatize Elaine. They had studied Tennyson's poem in school the preceding winter, the Superintendent of Education having prescribed it in the English course for the Prince Edward Island schools. They had analyzed and parsed it and torn it to pieces in general until it was a wonder there was any meaning at all left in it for them, but at least the fair lily maid and Lancelot and Guinevere and King Arthur had become very real people to them, and Anne was devoured by secret regret that she had not been born in Camelot. Those days, she said, were so much more romantic than the present. Anne's plan was hailed with enthusiasm. The girls had discovered that if the flat were pushed off from the landing place it would drift down with the current under the bridge and finally strand itself on another headland lower down which ran out at a curve in the pond. They had often gone down like this and nothing could be more convenient for playing Elaine. "Well, I'll be Elaine,"<|quote|>said Anne, yielding reluctantly, for, although she would have been delighted to play the principal character, yet her artistic sense demanded fitness for it and this, she felt, her limitations made impossible.</|quote|>"Ruby, you must be King Arthur and Jane will be Guinevere and Diana must be Lancelot. But first you must be the brothers and the father. We can't have the old dumb servitor because there isn't room for two in the flat when one is lying down. We must pall the barge all its length in blackest samite. That old black shawl of your mother's will be just the thing, Diana." The black shawl having been procured, Anne spread it over the flat and then lay down on the bottom, with closed eyes and hands folded over her breast. "Oh, she does look really dead," whispered Ruby Gillis nervously, watching the still, white little face under the flickering shadows of the birches. "It makes me feel frightened, girls. Do you suppose it's really right to act like this? Mrs. Lynde says that all play-acting is abominably wicked." "Ruby, you shouldn't talk about Mrs. Lynde," said Anne severely. "It spoils the effect because this is hundreds of years before Mrs. Lynde was born. Jane, you arrange this. It's silly for Elaine to be talking when she's dead." Jane rose to the occasion. Cloth of gold for coverlet there was none, but
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looking admiringly at the short, silky curls that clustered over Anne's head and were held in place by a very jaunty black velvet ribbon and bow. They were standing on the bank of the pond, below Orchard Slope, where a little headland fringed with birches ran out from the bank; at its tip was a small wooden platform built out into the water for the convenience of fishermen and duck hunters. Ruby and Jane were spending the midsummer afternoon with Diana, and Anne had come over to play with them. Anne and Diana had spent most of their playtime that summer on and about the pond. Idlewild was a thing of the past, Mr. Bell having ruthlessly cut down the little circle of trees in his back pasture in the spring. Anne had sat among the stumps and wept, not without an eye to the romance of it; but she was speedily consoled, for, after all, as she and Diana said, big girls of thirteen, going on fourteen, were too old for such childish amusements as playhouses, and there were more fascinating sports to be found about the pond. It was splendid to fish for trout over the bridge and the two girls learned to row themselves about in the little flat-bottomed dory Mr. Barry kept for duck shooting. It was Anne's idea that they dramatize Elaine. They had studied Tennyson's poem in school the preceding winter, the Superintendent of Education having prescribed it in the English course for the Prince Edward Island schools. They had analyzed and parsed it and torn it to pieces in general until it was a wonder there was any meaning at all left in it for them, but at least the fair lily maid and Lancelot and Guinevere and King Arthur had become very real people to them, and Anne was devoured by secret regret that she had not been born in Camelot. Those days, she said, were so much more romantic than the present. Anne's plan was hailed with enthusiasm. The girls had discovered that if the flat were pushed off from the landing place it would drift down with the current under the bridge and finally strand itself on another headland lower down which ran out at a curve in the pond. They had often gone down like this and nothing could be more convenient for playing Elaine. "Well, I'll be Elaine,"<|quote|>said Anne, yielding reluctantly, for, although she would have been delighted to play the principal character, yet her artistic sense demanded fitness for it and this, she felt, her limitations made impossible.</|quote|>"Ruby, you must be King Arthur and Jane will be Guinevere and Diana must be Lancelot. But first you must be the brothers and the father. We can't have the old dumb servitor because there isn't room for two in the flat when one is lying down. We must pall the barge all its length in blackest samite. That old black shawl of your mother's will be just the thing, Diana." The black shawl having been procured, Anne spread it over the flat and then lay down on the bottom, with closed eyes and hands folded over her breast. "Oh, she does look really dead," whispered Ruby Gillis nervously, watching the still, white little face under the flickering shadows of the birches. "It makes me feel frightened, girls. Do you suppose it's really right to act like this? Mrs. Lynde says that all play-acting is abominably wicked." "Ruby, you shouldn't talk about Mrs. Lynde," said Anne severely. "It spoils the effect because this is hundreds of years before Mrs. Lynde was born. Jane, you arrange this. It's silly for Elaine to be talking when she's dead." Jane rose to the occasion. Cloth of gold for coverlet there was none, but an old piano scarf of yellow Japanese crepe was an excellent substitute. A white lily was not obtainable just then, but the effect of a tall blue iris placed in one of Anne's folded hands was all that could be desired. "Now, she's all ready," said Jane. "We must kiss her quiet brows and, Diana, you say," ?Sister, farewell forever,' "and Ruby, you say," ?Farewell, sweet sister,' "both of you as sorrowfully as you possibly can. Anne, for goodness sake smile a little. You know Elaine" ?lay as though she smiled.' "That's better. Now push the flat off." The flat was accordingly pushed off, scraping roughly over an old embedded stake in the process. Diana and Jane and Ruby only waited long enough to see it caught in the current and headed for the bridge before scampering up through the woods, across the road, and down to the lower headland where, as Lancelot and Guinevere and the King, they were to be in readiness to receive the lily maid. For a few minutes Anne, drifting slowly down, enjoyed the romance of her situation to the full. Then something happened not at all romantic. The flat began to leak. In a
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want to be good, Marilla, like you and Mrs. Allan and Miss Stacy, and grow up to be a credit to you. Diana says when my hair begins to grow to tie a black velvet ribbon around my head with a bow at one side. She says she thinks it will be very becoming. I will call it a snood--that sounds so romantic. But am I talking too much, Marilla? Does it hurt your head?" "My head is better now. It was terrible bad this afternoon, though. These headaches of mine are getting worse and worse. I'll have to see a doctor about them. As for your chatter, I don't know that I mind it--I've got so used to it." Which was Marilla's way of saying that she liked to hear it. CHAPTER XXVIII. An Unfortunate Lily Maid "OF course you must be Elaine, Anne," said Diana. "I could never have the courage to float down there." "Nor I," said Ruby Gillis, with a shiver. "I don't mind floating down when there's two or three of us in the flat and we can sit up. It's fun then. But to lie down and pretend I was dead--I just couldn't. I'd die really of fright." "Of course it would be romantic," conceded Jane Andrews, "but I know I couldn't keep still. I'd be popping up every minute or so to see where I was and if I wasn't drifting too far out. And you know, Anne, that would spoil the effect." "But it's so ridiculous to have a redheaded Elaine," mourned Anne. ""I'm not afraid to float down and I'd love to be Elaine. But it's ridiculous just the same. Ruby ought to be Elaine because she is so fair and has such lovely long golden hair--Elaine had" ?all her bright hair streaming down,' "you know. And Elaine was the lily maid. Now, a red-haired person cannot be a lily maid." "Your complexion is just as fair as Ruby's," said Diana earnestly, "and your hair is ever so much darker than it used to be before you cut it." "Oh, do you really think so?" exclaimed Anne, flushing sensitively with delight. "I've sometimes thought it was myself--but I never dared to ask anyone for fear she would tell me it wasn't. Do you think it could be called auburn now, Diana?" "Yes, and I think it is real pretty," said Diana, looking admiringly at the short, silky curls that clustered over Anne's head and were held in place by a very jaunty black velvet ribbon and bow. They were standing on the bank of the pond, below Orchard Slope, where a little headland fringed with birches ran out from the bank; at its tip was a small wooden platform built out into the water for the convenience of fishermen and duck hunters. Ruby and Jane were spending the midsummer afternoon with Diana, and Anne had come over to play with them. Anne and Diana had spent most of their playtime that summer on and about the pond. Idlewild was a thing of the past, Mr. Bell having ruthlessly cut down the little circle of trees in his back pasture in the spring. Anne had sat among the stumps and wept, not without an eye to the romance of it; but she was speedily consoled, for, after all, as she and Diana said, big girls of thirteen, going on fourteen, were too old for such childish amusements as playhouses, and there were more fascinating sports to be found about the pond. It was splendid to fish for trout over the bridge and the two girls learned to row themselves about in the little flat-bottomed dory Mr. Barry kept for duck shooting. It was Anne's idea that they dramatize Elaine. They had studied Tennyson's poem in school the preceding winter, the Superintendent of Education having prescribed it in the English course for the Prince Edward Island schools. They had analyzed and parsed it and torn it to pieces in general until it was a wonder there was any meaning at all left in it for them, but at least the fair lily maid and Lancelot and Guinevere and King Arthur had become very real people to them, and Anne was devoured by secret regret that she had not been born in Camelot. Those days, she said, were so much more romantic than the present. Anne's plan was hailed with enthusiasm. The girls had discovered that if the flat were pushed off from the landing place it would drift down with the current under the bridge and finally strand itself on another headland lower down which ran out at a curve in the pond. They had often gone down like this and nothing could be more convenient for playing Elaine. "Well, I'll be Elaine,"<|quote|>said Anne, yielding reluctantly, for, although she would have been delighted to play the principal character, yet her artistic sense demanded fitness for it and this, she felt, her limitations made impossible.</|quote|>"Ruby, you must be King Arthur and Jane will be Guinevere and Diana must be Lancelot. But first you must be the brothers and the father. We can't have the old dumb servitor because there isn't room for two in the flat when one is lying down. We must pall the barge all its length in blackest samite. That old black shawl of your mother's will be just the thing, Diana." The black shawl having been procured, Anne spread it over the flat and then lay down on the bottom, with closed eyes and hands folded over her breast. "Oh, she does look really dead," whispered Ruby Gillis nervously, watching the still, white little face under the flickering shadows of the birches. "It makes me feel frightened, girls. Do you suppose it's really right to act like this? Mrs. Lynde says that all play-acting is abominably wicked." "Ruby, you shouldn't talk about Mrs. Lynde," said Anne severely. "It spoils the effect because this is hundreds of years before Mrs. Lynde was born. Jane, you arrange this. It's silly for Elaine to be talking when she's dead." Jane rose to the occasion. Cloth of gold for coverlet there was none, but an old piano scarf of yellow Japanese crepe was an excellent substitute. A white lily was not obtainable just then, but the effect of a tall blue iris placed in one of Anne's folded hands was all that could be desired. "Now, she's all ready," said Jane. "We must kiss her quiet brows and, Diana, you say," ?Sister, farewell forever,' "and Ruby, you say," ?Farewell, sweet sister,' "both of you as sorrowfully as you possibly can. Anne, for goodness sake smile a little. You know Elaine" ?lay as though she smiled.' "That's better. Now push the flat off." The flat was accordingly pushed off, scraping roughly over an old embedded stake in the process. Diana and Jane and Ruby only waited long enough to see it caught in the current and headed for the bridge before scampering up through the woods, across the road, and down to the lower headland where, as Lancelot and Guinevere and the King, they were to be in readiness to receive the lily maid. For a few minutes Anne, drifting slowly down, enjoyed the romance of her situation to the full. Then something happened not at all romantic. The flat began to leak. In a very few moments it was necessary for Elaine to scramble to her feet, pick up her cloth of gold coverlet and pall of blackest samite and gaze blankly at a big crack in the bottom of her barge through which the water was literally pouring. That sharp stake at the landing had torn off the strip of batting nailed on the flat. Anne did not know this, but it did not take her long to realize that she was in a dangerous plight. At this rate the flat would fill and sink long before it could drift to the lower headland. Where were the oars? Left behind at the landing! Anne gave one gasping little scream which nobody ever heard; she was white to the lips, but she did not lose her self-possession. There was one chance--just one. "I was horribly frightened," she told Mrs. Allan the next day, "and it seemed like years while the flat was drifting down to the bridge and the water rising in it every moment. I prayed, Mrs. Allan, most earnestly, but I didn't shut my eyes to pray, for I knew the only way God could save me was to let the flat float close enough to one of the bridge piles for me to climb up on it. You know the piles are just old tree trunks and there are lots of knots and old branch stubs on them. It was proper to pray, but I had to do my part by watching out and right well I knew it. I just said," ?Dear God, please take the flat close to a pile and I'll do the rest,' "over and over again. Under such circumstances you don't think much about making a flowery prayer. But mine was answered, for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute and I flung the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential stub. And there I was, Mrs. Allan, clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up or down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn't think about that at the time. You don't think much about romance when you have just escaped from a watery grave. I said a grateful prayer at once and then I gave all my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I should probably
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lily maid." "Your complexion is just as fair as Ruby's," said Diana earnestly, "and your hair is ever so much darker than it used to be before you cut it." "Oh, do you really think so?" exclaimed Anne, flushing sensitively with delight. "I've sometimes thought it was myself--but I never dared to ask anyone for fear she would tell me it wasn't. Do you think it could be called auburn now, Diana?" "Yes, and I think it is real pretty," said Diana, looking admiringly at the short, silky curls that clustered over Anne's head and were held in place by a very jaunty black velvet ribbon and bow. They were standing on the bank of the pond, below Orchard Slope, where a little headland fringed with birches ran out from the bank; at its tip was a small wooden platform built out into the water for the convenience of fishermen and duck hunters. Ruby and Jane were spending the midsummer afternoon with Diana, and Anne had come over to play with them. Anne and Diana had spent most of their playtime that summer on and about the pond. Idlewild was a thing of the past, Mr. Bell having ruthlessly cut down the little circle of trees in his back pasture in the spring. Anne had sat among the stumps and wept, not without an eye to the romance of it; but she was speedily consoled, for, after all, as she and Diana said, big girls of thirteen, going on fourteen, were too old for such childish amusements as playhouses, and there were more fascinating sports to be found about the pond. It was splendid to fish for trout over the bridge and the two girls learned to row themselves about in the little flat-bottomed dory Mr. Barry kept for duck shooting. It was Anne's idea that they dramatize Elaine. They had studied Tennyson's poem in school the preceding winter, the Superintendent of Education having prescribed it in the English course for the Prince Edward Island schools. They had analyzed and parsed it and torn it to pieces in general until it was a wonder there was any meaning at all left in it for them, but at least the fair lily maid and Lancelot and Guinevere and King Arthur had become very real people to them, and Anne was devoured by secret regret that she had not been born in Camelot. Those days, she said, were so much more romantic than the present. Anne's plan was hailed with enthusiasm. The girls had discovered that if the flat were pushed off from the landing place it would drift down with the current under the bridge and finally strand itself on another headland lower down which ran out at a curve in the pond. They had often gone down like this and nothing could be more convenient for playing Elaine. "Well, I'll be Elaine,"<|quote|>said Anne, yielding reluctantly, for, although she would have been delighted to play the principal character, yet her artistic sense demanded fitness for it and this, she felt, her limitations made impossible.</|quote|>"Ruby, you must be King Arthur and Jane will be Guinevere and Diana must be Lancelot. But first you must be the brothers and the father. We can't have the old dumb servitor because there isn't room for two in the flat when one is lying down. We must pall the barge all its length in blackest samite. That old black shawl of your mother's will be just the thing, Diana." The black shawl having been procured, Anne spread it over the flat and then lay down on the bottom, with closed eyes and hands folded over her breast. "Oh, she does look really dead," whispered Ruby Gillis nervously, watching the still, white little face under the flickering shadows of the birches. "It makes me feel frightened, girls. Do you suppose it's really right to act like this? Mrs. Lynde says that all play-acting is abominably wicked." "Ruby, you shouldn't talk about Mrs. Lynde," said Anne severely. "It spoils the effect because this is hundreds of years before Mrs. Lynde was born. Jane, you arrange this. It's silly for Elaine to be talking when she's dead." Jane rose to the occasion. Cloth of gold for coverlet there was none, but an old piano scarf of yellow Japanese crepe was an excellent
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Anne Of Green Gables
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The Victory Banquet was over, and the revellers lay on the roof of plain Mr. Zulfiqar's mansion, asleep, or gazing through mosquito nets at the stars. Exactly above their heads hung the constellation of the Lion, the disc of Regulus so large and bright that it resembled a tunnel, and when this fancy was accepted all the other stars seemed tunnels too.
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No speaker
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"Good night then, dear fellow."<|quote|>The Victory Banquet was over, and the revellers lay on the roof of plain Mr. Zulfiqar's mansion, asleep, or gazing through mosquito nets at the stars. Exactly above their heads hung the constellation of the Lion, the disc of Regulus so large and bright that it resembled a tunnel, and when this fancy was accepted all the other stars seemed tunnels too.</|quote|>"Are you content with our
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"I am useless at dreaming." "Good night then, dear fellow."<|quote|>The Victory Banquet was over, and the revellers lay on the roof of plain Mr. Zulfiqar's mansion, asleep, or gazing through mosquito nets at the stars. Exactly above their heads hung the constellation of the Lion, the disc of Regulus so large and bright that it resembled a tunnel, and when this fancy was accepted all the other stars seemed tunnels too.</|quote|>"Are you content with our day's work, Cyril?" the voice
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of the club he saw the fists and fingers of the Marabar swell until they included the whole night sky. CHAPTER XXVII "Aziz, are you awake?" "No, so let us have a talk; let us dream plans for the future." "I am useless at dreaming." "Good night then, dear fellow."<|quote|>The Victory Banquet was over, and the revellers lay on the roof of plain Mr. Zulfiqar's mansion, asleep, or gazing through mosquito nets at the stars. Exactly above their heads hung the constellation of the Lion, the disc of Regulus so large and bright that it resembled a tunnel, and when this fancy was accepted all the other stars seemed tunnels too.</|quote|>"Are you content with our day's work, Cyril?" the voice on his left continued. "Are you?" "Except that I ate too much." How is stomach, how head?' "I say, Panna Lal and Callendar 'll get the sack." "There'll be a general move at Chandrapore." "And you'll get promotion." "They can't
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day, he lost his usual sane view of human intercourse, and felt that we exist not in ourselves, but in terms of each others' minds a notion for which logic offers no support and which had attacked him only once before, the evening after the catastrophe, when from the verandah of the club he saw the fists and fingers of the Marabar swell until they included the whole night sky. CHAPTER XXVII "Aziz, are you awake?" "No, so let us have a talk; let us dream plans for the future." "I am useless at dreaming." "Good night then, dear fellow."<|quote|>The Victory Banquet was over, and the revellers lay on the roof of plain Mr. Zulfiqar's mansion, asleep, or gazing through mosquito nets at the stars. Exactly above their heads hung the constellation of the Lion, the disc of Regulus so large and bright that it resembled a tunnel, and when this fancy was accepted all the other stars seemed tunnels too.</|quote|>"Are you content with our day's work, Cyril?" the voice on his left continued. "Are you?" "Except that I ate too much." How is stomach, how head?' "I say, Panna Lal and Callendar 'll get the sack." "There'll be a general move at Chandrapore." "And you'll get promotion." "They can't well move me down, whatever their feelings." "In any case we spend our holidays together, and visit Kashmir, possibly Persia, for I shall have plenty of money. Paid to me on account of the injury sustained by my character," he explained with cynical calm. "While with me you shall never
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English with quiet amusement; he thought Fielding had been incredibly silly and weak, and he was amazed by the younger people's want of proper pride. When they were driving out to Dilkusha, hours late, he said to Amritrao, who accompanied them: "Mr. Amritrao, have you considered what sum Miss Quested ought to pay as compensation?" "Twenty thousand rupees." No more was then said, but the remark horrified Fielding. He couldn't bear to think of the queer honest girl losing her money and possibly her young man too. She advanced into his consciousness suddenly. And, fatigued by the merciless and enormous day, he lost his usual sane view of human intercourse, and felt that we exist not in ourselves, but in terms of each others' minds a notion for which logic offers no support and which had attacked him only once before, the evening after the catastrophe, when from the verandah of the club he saw the fists and fingers of the Marabar swell until they included the whole night sky. CHAPTER XXVII "Aziz, are you awake?" "No, so let us have a talk; let us dream plans for the future." "I am useless at dreaming." "Good night then, dear fellow."<|quote|>The Victory Banquet was over, and the revellers lay on the roof of plain Mr. Zulfiqar's mansion, asleep, or gazing through mosquito nets at the stars. Exactly above their heads hung the constellation of the Lion, the disc of Regulus so large and bright that it resembled a tunnel, and when this fancy was accepted all the other stars seemed tunnels too.</|quote|>"Are you content with our day's work, Cyril?" the voice on his left continued. "Are you?" "Except that I ate too much." How is stomach, how head?' "I say, Panna Lal and Callendar 'll get the sack." "There'll be a general move at Chandrapore." "And you'll get promotion." "They can't well move me down, whatever their feelings." "In any case we spend our holidays together, and visit Kashmir, possibly Persia, for I shall have plenty of money. Paid to me on account of the injury sustained by my character," he explained with cynical calm. "While with me you shall never spend a single pie. This is what I have always wished, and as the result of my misfortunes it has come." "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
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own servant if he can be found, but I will leave orders with mine to do all they can for you, also I'll let the Scouts know. They have guarded the College ever since it was closed, and may as well go on. I really think you'll be as safe here as anywhere. I shall be back Thursday." Meanwhile Hamidullah, determined to spare the enemy no incidental pain, had said to Ronny: "We hear, sir, that your mother has died. May we ask where the cable came from?" "Aden." "Ah, you were boasting she had reached Aden, in court." "But she died on leaving Bombay," broke in Adela. "She was dead when they called her name this morning. She must have been buried at sea." Somehow this stopped Hamidullah, and he desisted from his brutality, which had shocked Fielding more than anyone else. He remained silent while the details of Miss Quested's occupation of the College were arranged, merely remarking to Ronny, "It is clearly to be understood, sir, that neither Mr. Fielding nor any of us are responsible for this lady's safety at Government College," to which Ronny agreed. After that, he watched the semi-chivalrous behavings of the three English with quiet amusement; he thought Fielding had been incredibly silly and weak, and he was amazed by the younger people's want of proper pride. When they were driving out to Dilkusha, hours late, he said to Amritrao, who accompanied them: "Mr. Amritrao, have you considered what sum Miss Quested ought to pay as compensation?" "Twenty thousand rupees." No more was then said, but the remark horrified Fielding. He couldn't bear to think of the queer honest girl losing her money and possibly her young man too. She advanced into his consciousness suddenly. And, fatigued by the merciless and enormous day, he lost his usual sane view of human intercourse, and felt that we exist not in ourselves, but in terms of each others' minds a notion for which logic offers no support and which had attacked him only once before, the evening after the catastrophe, when from the verandah of the club he saw the fists and fingers of the Marabar swell until they included the whole night sky. CHAPTER XXVII "Aziz, are you awake?" "No, so let us have a talk; let us dream plans for the future." "I am useless at dreaming." "Good night then, dear fellow."<|quote|>The Victory Banquet was over, and the revellers lay on the roof of plain Mr. Zulfiqar's mansion, asleep, or gazing through mosquito nets at the stars. Exactly above their heads hung the constellation of the Lion, the disc of Regulus so large and bright that it resembled a tunnel, and when this fancy was accepted all the other stars seemed tunnels too.</|quote|>"Are you content with our day's work, Cyril?" the voice on his left continued. "Are you?" "Except that I ate too much." How is stomach, how head?' "I say, Panna Lal and Callendar 'll get the sack." "There'll be a general move at Chandrapore." "And you'll get promotion." "They can't well move me down, whatever their feelings." "In any case we spend our holidays together, and visit Kashmir, possibly Persia, for I shall have plenty of money. Paid to me on account of the injury sustained by my character," he explained with cynical calm. "While with me you shall never spend a single pie. This is what I have always wished, and as the result of my misfortunes it has come." "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
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sense of communion in sorrow came to them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!" muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again. "Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular. "I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?" "I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quarters now" Fielding stopped him courteously. "Say no more, Miss Quested stops here. I only wanted to be assured of your approval. Miss Quested, you had better send for your own servant if he can be found, but I will leave orders with mine to do all they can for you, also I'll let the Scouts know. They have guarded the College ever since it was closed, and may as well go on. I really think you'll be as safe here as anywhere. I shall be back Thursday." Meanwhile Hamidullah, determined to spare the enemy no incidental pain, had said to Ronny: "We hear, sir, that your mother has died. May we ask where the cable came from?" "Aden." "Ah, you were boasting she had reached Aden, in court." "But she died on leaving Bombay," broke in Adela. "She was dead when they called her name this morning. She must have been buried at sea." Somehow this stopped Hamidullah, and he desisted from his brutality, which had shocked Fielding more than anyone else. He remained silent while the details of Miss Quested's occupation of the College were arranged, merely remarking to Ronny, "It is clearly to be understood, sir, that neither Mr. Fielding nor any of us are responsible for this lady's safety at Government College," to which Ronny agreed. After that, he watched the semi-chivalrous behavings of the three English with quiet amusement; he thought Fielding had been incredibly silly and weak, and he was amazed by the younger people's want of proper pride. When they were driving out to Dilkusha, hours late, he said to Amritrao, who accompanied them: "Mr. Amritrao, have you considered what sum Miss Quested ought to pay as compensation?" "Twenty thousand rupees." No more was then said, but the remark horrified Fielding. He couldn't bear to think of the queer honest girl losing her money and possibly her young man too. She advanced into his consciousness suddenly. And, fatigued by the merciless and enormous day, he lost his usual sane view of human intercourse, and felt that we exist not in ourselves, but in terms of each others' minds a notion for which logic offers no support and which had attacked him only once before, the evening after the catastrophe, when from the verandah of the club he saw the fists and fingers of the Marabar swell until they included the whole night sky. CHAPTER XXVII "Aziz, are you awake?" "No, so let us have a talk; let us dream plans for the future." "I am useless at dreaming." "Good night then, dear fellow."<|quote|>The Victory Banquet was over, and the revellers lay on the roof of plain Mr. Zulfiqar's mansion, asleep, or gazing through mosquito nets at the stars. Exactly above their heads hung the constellation of the Lion, the disc of Regulus so large and bright that it resembled a tunnel, and when this fancy was accepted all the other stars seemed tunnels too.</|quote|>"Are you content with our day's work, Cyril?" the voice on his left continued. "Are you?" "Except that I ate too much." How is stomach, how head?' "I say, Panna Lal and Callendar 'll get the sack." "There'll be a general move at Chandrapore." "And you'll get promotion." "They can't well move me down, whatever their feelings." "In any case we spend our holidays together, and visit Kashmir, possibly Persia, for I shall have plenty of money. Paid to me on account of the injury sustained by my character," he explained with cynical calm. "While with me you shall never spend a single pie. This is what I have always wished, and as the result of my misfortunes it has come." "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
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to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quarters now" Fielding stopped him courteously. "Say no more, Miss Quested stops here. I only wanted to be assured of your approval. Miss Quested, you had better send for your own servant if he can be found, but I will leave orders with mine to do all they can for you, also I'll let the Scouts know. They have guarded the College ever since it was closed, and may as well go on. I really think you'll be as safe here as anywhere. I shall be back Thursday." Meanwhile Hamidullah, determined to spare the enemy no incidental pain, had said to Ronny: "We hear, sir, that your mother has died. May we ask where the cable came from?" "Aden." "Ah, you were boasting she had reached Aden, in court." "But she died on leaving Bombay," broke in Adela. "She was dead when they called her name this morning. She must have been buried at sea." Somehow this stopped Hamidullah, and he desisted from his brutality, which had shocked Fielding more than anyone else. He remained silent while the details of Miss Quested's occupation of the College were arranged, merely remarking to Ronny, "It is clearly to be understood, sir, that neither Mr. Fielding nor any of us are responsible for this lady's safety at Government College," to which Ronny agreed. After that, he watched the semi-chivalrous behavings of the three English with quiet amusement; he thought Fielding had been incredibly silly and weak, and he was amazed by the younger people's want of proper pride. When they were driving out to Dilkusha, hours late, he said to Amritrao, who accompanied them: "Mr. Amritrao, have you considered what sum Miss Quested ought to pay as compensation?" "Twenty thousand rupees." No more was then said, but the remark horrified Fielding. He couldn't bear to think of the queer honest girl losing her money and possibly her young man too. She advanced into his consciousness suddenly. And, fatigued by the merciless and enormous day, he lost his usual sane view of human intercourse, and felt that we exist not in ourselves, but in terms of each others' minds a notion for which logic offers no support and which had attacked him only once before, the evening after the catastrophe, when from the verandah of the club he saw the fists and fingers of the Marabar swell until they included the whole night sky. CHAPTER XXVII "Aziz, are you awake?" "No, so let us have a talk; let us dream plans for the future." "I am useless at dreaming." "Good night then, dear fellow."<|quote|>The Victory Banquet was over, and the revellers lay on the roof of plain Mr. Zulfiqar's mansion, asleep, or gazing through mosquito nets at the stars. Exactly above their heads hung the constellation of the Lion, the disc of Regulus so large and bright that it resembled a tunnel, and when this fancy was accepted all the other stars seemed tunnels too.</|quote|>"Are you content with our day's work, Cyril?" the voice on his left continued. "Are you?" "Except that I ate too much." How is stomach, how head?' "I say, Panna Lal and Callendar 'll get the sack." "There'll be a general move at Chandrapore." "And you'll get promotion." "They can't well move me down, whatever their feelings." "In any case we spend our holidays together, and visit Kashmir, possibly Persia, for I shall have plenty of money. Paid to me on account of the injury sustained by my character," he explained with cynical calm. "While with me you shall never spend a single pie. This is what I have always wished, and as the result of my misfortunes it has come." "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
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A Passage To India
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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:
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No speaker
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We are the Second Company."<|quote|>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:</|quote|>"Yes, we did have heavy
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Good. Let's have it then. We are the Second Company."<|quote|>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:</|quote|>"Yes, we did have heavy losses yesterday." He looked in
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"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."<|quote|>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:</|quote|>"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.
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a bit--yes, practically two issues." Then Ginger stirred himself and said: "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."<|quote|>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:</|quote|>"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
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"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." Then Ginger stirred himself and said: "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."<|quote|>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:</|quote|>"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
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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." Then Ginger stirred himself and said: "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."<|quote|>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:</|quote|>"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
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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." Then Ginger stirred himself and said: "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."<|quote|>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:</|quote|>"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 flush. Not for nothing was the word "latrine-rumour" invented; these places are the regimental gossip-shops and common-rooms. We feel ourselves for the time being better off than in any palatial white-tiled "convenience." _There_ it can only be hygienic; _here_ it is beautiful. These are wonderfully care-free hours. Over us is the blue sky. On the horizon float the bright yellow, sunlit observation-balloons, and the many little white clouds of the anti-aircraft shells. Often they rise in a sheaf as they follow after an airman. We hear the muffled rumble of the front only as very distant thunder, bumble-bees droning by quite drown it. Around us stretches the flowery meadow. The grasses sway their tall spears; the white butterflies flutter around and float on the soft warm wind of the late summer. We read letters and newspapers and smoke. We take off our caps and lay them down beside us. The wind plays with our hair; it plays with our words and thoughts. The three boxes stand in the midst of the glowing, red field-poppies. We set the lid of the margarine tub on our knees and so have a good table for a game of skat. Kropp has the cards with him. After every throw-in the loser pays into the pool. One could sit
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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." Then Ginger stirred himself and said: "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."<|quote|>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:</|quote|>"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
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All Quiet on the Western Front
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“Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!”
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Grace
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nothing can keep us apart?”<|quote|>“Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!”</|quote|>she sighed into his fond
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only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?”<|quote|>“Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!”</|quote|>she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave
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“I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him, closer, close to her with this, possess himself of her hands: “We both only care, don’t we, that we’re given to each other thus? We both only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?”<|quote|>“Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!”</|quote|>she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave the thing up _for_ me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given _me_ up----!” “For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?” “Well, if you will----!” “Oh for ever and ever
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‘together’ when you remember where, in spite of everything, I’ve put myself?” “By telling him to do what he likes?” he recalled without embarrassment. “Oh, that wasn’t in spite of ‘everything’--it was only in spite of the Manto-vano.” “‘Only’?” she flushed-- “when I’ve given the picture up?” “Ah,” Hugh cried, “I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him, closer, close to her with this, possess himself of her hands: “We both only care, don’t we, that we’re given to each other thus? We both only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?”<|quote|>“Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!”</|quote|>she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave the thing up _for_ me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given _me_ up----!” “For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?” “Well, if you will----!” “Oh for ever and ever and ever!” --and with this ardent cry of his devotion his arms closed in their strength and she was clasped to his breast and to his lips. The next moment, however, she had checked him with the warning “Amy Sandgate!” --as if she had heard their hostess enter the other
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by suddenly discovering that he’s scandalised at my caring for your friendship.” Hugh looked at her, on this, as with the gladness verily of possession promised and only waiting--or as if from that moment forth he had her assurance of everything that most concerned him and that might most inspire. “Well, isn’t the moral of it all simply that what his perversity of pride, as we can only hold it, will have most done for us is to bring us--and to keep us--blessedly together?” She seemed for a moment to question his “simply.” “Do you regard us as so much ‘together’ when you remember where, in spite of everything, I’ve put myself?” “By telling him to do what he likes?” he recalled without embarrassment. “Oh, that wasn’t in spite of ‘everything’--it was only in spite of the Manto-vano.” “‘Only’?” she flushed-- “when I’ve given the picture up?” “Ah,” Hugh cried, “I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him, closer, close to her with this, possess himself of her hands: “We both only care, don’t we, that we’re given to each other thus? We both only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?”<|quote|>“Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!”</|quote|>she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave the thing up _for_ me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given _me_ up----!” “For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?” “Well, if you will----!” “Oh for ever and ever and ever!” --and with this ardent cry of his devotion his arms closed in their strength and she was clasped to his breast and to his lips. The next moment, however, she had checked him with the warning “Amy Sandgate!” --as if she had heard their hostess enter the other room. Lady Sand-gate was in fact almost already upon them--their disjunction had scarce been effected and she had reached the nearer threshold. They had at once put the widest space possible between them--a little of the flurry of which transaction agitated doubtless their clutch at composure. They gave back a shade awkwardly and consciously, on one side and the other, the speculative though gracious attention she for a few moments made them and their recent intimate relation the subject of; from all of which indeed Lady Grace sought and found cover in a prompt and responsible address to Hugh. “Mustn’t
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spoken to meet her admirable frankness half-way, that beauty in her almost brushed him aside to make at a single step the rest of the journey. “You won’t see them in it for long--if they don’t now, under such tests and with such opportunities, begin to take care.” This had given him, at a stroke, he clearly felt, all freedom for the closer criticism. “Lord Theign perhaps recognises some such canny truth, but ‘takes care,’ with the least trouble to himself and the finest short cut--does it, if you’ll let me say so, rather on the cheap--by finding ‘the likes’ of me, as his daughter’s trusted friend, out of the question.” “Well, you won’t mind that, will you?” Lady Grace asked, “if he finds his daughter herself, in any such relation to you, quite as much so.” “Different enough, from position to position and person to person,” he brightly brooded, “is the view that gets itself _most_ comfortably taken of the implications of Honour!” “Yes,” the girl returned; “my father, in the act of despoiling us all, all who are interested, without apparently the least unpleasant consciousness, keeps the balance showily even, to his mostly so fine, so delicate sense, by suddenly discovering that he’s scandalised at my caring for your friendship.” Hugh looked at her, on this, as with the gladness verily of possession promised and only waiting--or as if from that moment forth he had her assurance of everything that most concerned him and that might most inspire. “Well, isn’t the moral of it all simply that what his perversity of pride, as we can only hold it, will have most done for us is to bring us--and to keep us--blessedly together?” She seemed for a moment to question his “simply.” “Do you regard us as so much ‘together’ when you remember where, in spite of everything, I’ve put myself?” “By telling him to do what he likes?” he recalled without embarrassment. “Oh, that wasn’t in spite of ‘everything’--it was only in spite of the Manto-vano.” “‘Only’?” she flushed-- “when I’ve given the picture up?” “Ah,” Hugh cried, “I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him, closer, close to her with this, possess himself of her hands: “We both only care, don’t we, that we’re given to each other thus? We both only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?”<|quote|>“Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!”</|quote|>she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave the thing up _for_ me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given _me_ up----!” “For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?” “Well, if you will----!” “Oh for ever and ever and ever!” --and with this ardent cry of his devotion his arms closed in their strength and she was clasped to his breast and to his lips. The next moment, however, she had checked him with the warning “Amy Sandgate!” --as if she had heard their hostess enter the other room. Lady Sand-gate was in fact almost already upon them--their disjunction had scarce been effected and she had reached the nearer threshold. They had at once put the widest space possible between them--a little of the flurry of which transaction agitated doubtless their clutch at composure. They gave back a shade awkwardly and consciously, on one side and the other, the speculative though gracious attention she for a few moments made them and their recent intimate relation the subject of; from all of which indeed Lady Grace sought and found cover in a prompt and responsible address to Hugh. “Mustn’t you go without more delay to Clifford Street?” He came back to it all alert “At once!” He had recovered his hat and reached the other door, whence he gesticulated farewell to the elder lady. “Please pardon me” --and he disappeared. Lady Sandgate hereupon stood for a little silently confronted with the girl. “Have you freedom of mind for the fact that your father’s suddenly at hand?” “He has come back?” --Lady Grace was sharply struck. “He arrives this afternoon and appears to go straight to Kitty--according to a wire that I find downstairs on coming back late from my luncheon. He has returned with a rush--as,” said his correspondent in the elation of triumph, “I was _sure_ he would!” Her young friend was more at sea. “Brought back, you mean, by the outcry--even though he so hates it?” But she was more and more all lucidity--save in so far as she was now almost all authority. “Ah, hating still more to seem afraid, he has come back to face the music!” Lady Grace, turning away as in vague despair for the manner in which the music might affect him, yet wheeled about again, after thought, to a positive recognition
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see you again!” Ah, it was all present. “You found you were too sorry for me?” “I found I was too sorry for you--as he himself found I was.” Hugh had got hold of it now. “And _that_, you mean, he couldn’t stomach?” “So little that when you had gone (and _how_ you had to go you remember) he at once proposed, rather than that I should deceive you in a way so different from his own----” “To do all we want of him?” “To do all I did at least.” “And it was _then_,” he took in, “that you wouldn’t deal?” “Well” --try though she might to keep the colour out, it all came straighter and straighter now-- “those moments had brought you home to me as they had also brought _him_; making such a difference, I felt, for what he veered round to agree to.” “The difference” --Hugh wanted it so adorably definite-- “that you didn’t see your way to accepting----?” “No, not to accepting the condition he named.” “Which was that he’d keep the picture for you if you’d treat me as too ‘low’----?” “If I’d treat you,” said Lady Grace with her eyes on his fine young face, “as impossible.” He kept her eyes--he clearly liked so to make her repeat it. “And not even for the sake of the picture--?” After he had given her time, however, her silence, with her beautiful look in it, seemed to admonish him not to force her for his pleasure; as if what she had already told him didn’t make him throb enough for the wonder of it. He _had_ it, and let her see by his high flush how he made it his own--while, the next thing, as it was but part of her avowal, the rest of that illumination called for a different intelligence. “Your father’s reprobation of me personally is on the ground that you’re all such great people?” She spared him the invidious answer to this as, a moment before, his eagerness had spared her reserve; she flung over the “ground” that his question laid bare the light veil of an evasion, “‘Great people,’ I’ve learned to see, mustn’t--to remain great--do what my father’s doing.” “It’s indeed on the theory of their not so behaving,” Hugh returned, “that we see them--all the inferior rest of us--in the grand glamour of their greatness!” If he had spoken to meet her admirable frankness half-way, that beauty in her almost brushed him aside to make at a single step the rest of the journey. “You won’t see them in it for long--if they don’t now, under such tests and with such opportunities, begin to take care.” This had given him, at a stroke, he clearly felt, all freedom for the closer criticism. “Lord Theign perhaps recognises some such canny truth, but ‘takes care,’ with the least trouble to himself and the finest short cut--does it, if you’ll let me say so, rather on the cheap--by finding ‘the likes’ of me, as his daughter’s trusted friend, out of the question.” “Well, you won’t mind that, will you?” Lady Grace asked, “if he finds his daughter herself, in any such relation to you, quite as much so.” “Different enough, from position to position and person to person,” he brightly brooded, “is the view that gets itself _most_ comfortably taken of the implications of Honour!” “Yes,” the girl returned; “my father, in the act of despoiling us all, all who are interested, without apparently the least unpleasant consciousness, keeps the balance showily even, to his mostly so fine, so delicate sense, by suddenly discovering that he’s scandalised at my caring for your friendship.” Hugh looked at her, on this, as with the gladness verily of possession promised and only waiting--or as if from that moment forth he had her assurance of everything that most concerned him and that might most inspire. “Well, isn’t the moral of it all simply that what his perversity of pride, as we can only hold it, will have most done for us is to bring us--and to keep us--blessedly together?” She seemed for a moment to question his “simply.” “Do you regard us as so much ‘together’ when you remember where, in spite of everything, I’ve put myself?” “By telling him to do what he likes?” he recalled without embarrassment. “Oh, that wasn’t in spite of ‘everything’--it was only in spite of the Manto-vano.” “‘Only’?” she flushed-- “when I’ve given the picture up?” “Ah,” Hugh cried, “I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him, closer, close to her with this, possess himself of her hands: “We both only care, don’t we, that we’re given to each other thus? We both only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?”<|quote|>“Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!”</|quote|>she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave the thing up _for_ me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given _me_ up----!” “For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?” “Well, if you will----!” “Oh for ever and ever and ever!” --and with this ardent cry of his devotion his arms closed in their strength and she was clasped to his breast and to his lips. The next moment, however, she had checked him with the warning “Amy Sandgate!” --as if she had heard their hostess enter the other room. Lady Sand-gate was in fact almost already upon them--their disjunction had scarce been effected and she had reached the nearer threshold. They had at once put the widest space possible between them--a little of the flurry of which transaction agitated doubtless their clutch at composure. They gave back a shade awkwardly and consciously, on one side and the other, the speculative though gracious attention she for a few moments made them and their recent intimate relation the subject of; from all of which indeed Lady Grace sought and found cover in a prompt and responsible address to Hugh. “Mustn’t you go without more delay to Clifford Street?” He came back to it all alert “At once!” He had recovered his hat and reached the other door, whence he gesticulated farewell to the elder lady. “Please pardon me” --and he disappeared. Lady Sandgate hereupon stood for a little silently confronted with the girl. “Have you freedom of mind for the fact that your father’s suddenly at hand?” “He has come back?” --Lady Grace was sharply struck. “He arrives this afternoon and appears to go straight to Kitty--according to a wire that I find downstairs on coming back late from my luncheon. He has returned with a rush--as,” said his correspondent in the elation of triumph, “I was _sure_ he would!” Her young friend was more at sea. “Brought back, you mean, by the outcry--even though he so hates it?” But she was more and more all lucidity--save in so far as she was now almost all authority. “Ah, hating still more to seem afraid, he has come back to face the music!” Lady Grace, turning away as in vague despair for the manner in which the music might affect him, yet wheeled about again, after thought, to a positive recognition and even to quite an inconsequent pride. “Yes--that’s dear old father!” And what was Lady Sandgate moreover but mistress now of the subject? “At the point the row has reached he couldn’t stand it another day; so he has thrown up his cure and--lest we should oppose him!--not even announced his start.” “Well,” her companion returned, “now that I’ve _done_ it all I shall never oppose him again!” Lady Sandgate appeared to show herself as still under the impression she might have received on entering. “He’ll only oppose _you!_” “If he does,” said Lady Grace, “we’re at present two to bear it.” “Heaven save us then” --the elder woman was quick, was even cordial, for the sense of this-- “your good friend _is_ clever!” Lady Grace honoured the remark. “Mr. Crim-ble’s remarkably clever.” “And you’ve arranged----?” “We haven’t arranged--but we’ve understood. So that, dear Amy, if _you_ understand--!” Lady Grace paused, for Gotch had come in from the hall. “His lordship has arrived?” his mistress immediately put to him. “No, my lady, but Lord John has--to know if he’s expected _here_, and in that case, by your ladyship’s leave, to come up.” Her ladyship turned to the girl. “May Lord John--as we do await your father--come up?” “As suits _you_, please!” “He may come up,” said Lady Sandgate to Gotch. “His lordship’s expected.” She had a pause till they were alone again, when she went on to her companion: “You asked me just now if I understood. Well--I do understand!” Lady Grace, with Gotch’s withdrawal, which left the door open, had reached the passage to the other room. “Then you’ll excuse me!” --she made her escape. II Lord John, reannounced the next instant from the nearest quarter and quite waiving salutations, left no doubt of the high pitch of his eagerness and tension as soon as the door had closed behind him. “What on earth then do you suppose he has come back to _do_--?” To which he added while his hostess’s gesture impatiently disclaimed conjecture: “Because when a fellow really finds himself the centre of a cyclone----!” “Isn’t it just at the centre,” she interrupted, “that you keep remarkably still, and only in the suburbs that you feel the rage? I count on dear Theign’s doing nothing in the least foolish--!” “Ah, but he can’t have chucked everything for nothing,” Lord John sharply returned; “and wherever you place him
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“my father, in the act of despoiling us all, all who are interested, without apparently the least unpleasant consciousness, keeps the balance showily even, to his mostly so fine, so delicate sense, by suddenly discovering that he’s scandalised at my caring for your friendship.” Hugh looked at her, on this, as with the gladness verily of possession promised and only waiting--or as if from that moment forth he had her assurance of everything that most concerned him and that might most inspire. “Well, isn’t the moral of it all simply that what his perversity of pride, as we can only hold it, will have most done for us is to bring us--and to keep us--blessedly together?” She seemed for a moment to question his “simply.” “Do you regard us as so much ‘together’ when you remember where, in spite of everything, I’ve put myself?” “By telling him to do what he likes?” he recalled without embarrassment. “Oh, that wasn’t in spite of ‘everything’--it was only in spite of the Manto-vano.” “‘Only’?” she flushed-- “when I’ve given the picture up?” “Ah,” Hugh cried, “I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him, closer, close to her with this, possess himself of her hands: “We both only care, don’t we, that we’re given to each other thus? We both only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?”<|quote|>“Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!”</|quote|>she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave the thing up _for_ me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given _me_ up----!” “For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?” “Well, if you will----!” “Oh for ever and ever and ever!” --and with this ardent cry of his devotion his arms closed in their strength and she was clasped to his breast and to his lips. The next moment, however, she had checked him with the warning “Amy Sandgate!” --as if she had heard their hostess enter the other room. Lady Sand-gate was in fact almost already upon them--their disjunction had scarce been effected and she had reached the nearer threshold. They had at once put the widest space possible between them--a little of the flurry of which transaction agitated doubtless their clutch at composure. They gave back a shade awkwardly and consciously, on one side and the other, the speculative though gracious attention she for a few moments made them and their recent intimate relation the subject of; from all of which indeed Lady Grace sought and found cover in a prompt and responsible address to Hugh. “Mustn’t you go without more delay to Clifford Street?” He came back to it all alert “At once!” He had recovered his hat and reached the other door, whence he gesticulated farewell to the elder lady. “Please pardon me” --and he disappeared. Lady Sandgate hereupon stood for a little silently confronted with the girl. “Have you freedom of mind for the fact that your father’s suddenly at hand?” “He has come back?” --Lady Grace was sharply struck. “He arrives this afternoon and appears to go straight to Kitty--according to a wire that I find downstairs on coming back late from my luncheon. He has returned with a rush--as,” said his correspondent in the elation of triumph, “I was _sure_ he would!” Her young friend was more at sea. “Brought back, you mean, by the outcry--even though he so hates it?” But she was more and more all lucidity--save in so far as she was now almost all authority. “Ah, hating still more to seem afraid, he has come back to face the music!” Lady Grace, turning away as in vague despair for the manner in which the
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The Outcry
|
"I never knew you in your home,"
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Robert Lebrun
|
looked at it with interest.<|quote|>"I never knew you in your home,"</|quote|>he remarked. "I am glad
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never known the house, and looked at it with interest.<|quote|>"I never knew you in your home,"</|quote|>he remarked. "I am glad you did not." "Why?" She
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their way across muddy streets and sidewalks encumbered with the cheap display of small tradesmen. Part of the distance they rode in the car, and after disembarking, passed the Pontellier mansion, which looked broken and half torn asunder. Robert had never known the house, and looked at it with interest.<|quote|>"I never knew you in your home,"</|quote|>he remarked. "I am glad you did not." "Why?" She did not answer. They went on around the corner, and it seemed as if her dreams were coming true after all, when he followed her into the little house. "You must stay and dine with me, Robert. You see I
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Edna. "Not if you think she will not be back till late," adding, as if suddenly aware of some discourtesy in his speech, "and I should miss the pleasure of walking home with you." Edna locked the door and put the key back in its hiding-place. They went together, picking their way across muddy streets and sidewalks encumbered with the cheap display of small tradesmen. Part of the distance they rode in the car, and after disembarking, passed the Pontellier mansion, which looked broken and half torn asunder. Robert had never known the house, and looked at it with interest.<|quote|>"I never knew you in your home,"</|quote|>he remarked. "I am glad you did not." "Why?" She did not answer. They went on around the corner, and it seemed as if her dreams were coming true after all, when he followed her into the little house. "You must stay and dine with me, Robert. You see I am all alone, and it is so long since I have seen you. There is so much I want to ask you." She took off her hat and gloves. He stood irresolute, making some excuse about his mother who expected him; he even muttered something about an engagement. She struck
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went away?" A flush overspread his whole face. "I couldn't believe that my letters would be of any interest to you." "That is an excuse; it isn't the truth." Edna reached for her hat on the piano. She adjusted it, sticking the hat pin through the heavy coil of hair with some deliberation. "Are you not going to wait for Mademoiselle Reisz?" asked Robert. "No; I have found when she is absent this long, she is liable not to come back till late." She drew on her gloves, and Robert picked up his hat. "Won't you wait for her?" asked Edna. "Not if you think she will not be back till late," adding, as if suddenly aware of some discourtesy in his speech, "and I should miss the pleasure of walking home with you." Edna locked the door and put the key back in its hiding-place. They went together, picking their way across muddy streets and sidewalks encumbered with the cheap display of small tradesmen. Part of the distance they rode in the car, and after disembarking, passed the Pontellier mansion, which looked broken and half torn asunder. Robert had never known the house, and looked at it with interest.<|quote|>"I never knew you in your home,"</|quote|>he remarked. "I am glad you did not." "Why?" She did not answer. They went on around the corner, and it seemed as if her dreams were coming true after all, when he followed her into the little house. "You must stay and dine with me, Robert. You see I am all alone, and it is so long since I have seen you. There is so much I want to ask you." She took off her hat and gloves. He stood irresolute, making some excuse about his mother who expected him; he even muttered something about an engagement. She struck a match and lit the lamp on the table; it was growing dusk. When he saw her face in the lamp-light, looking pained, with all the soft lines gone out of it, he threw his hat aside and seated himself. "Oh! you know I want to stay if you will let me!" he exclaimed. All the softness came back. She laughed, and went and put her hand on his shoulder. "This is the first moment you have seemed like the old Robert. I'll go tell Celestine." She hurried away to tell Celestine to set an extra place. She even sent
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warmth and entreaty which had not been there before the same glance which had penetrated to the sleeping places of her soul and awakened them. A hundred times Edna had pictured Robert's return, and imagined their first meeting. It was usually at her home, whither he had sought her out at once. She always fancied him expressing or betraying in some way his love for her. And here, the reality was that they sat ten feet apart, she at the window, crushing geranium leaves in her hand and smelling them, he twirling around on the piano stool, saying: "I was very much surprised to hear of Mr. Pontellier's absence; it's a wonder Mademoiselle Reisz did not tell me; and your moving mother told me yesterday. I should think you would have gone to New York with him, or to Iberville with the children, rather than be bothered here with housekeeping. And you are going abroad, too, I hear. We shan't have you at Grand Isle next summer; it won't seem do you see much of Mademoiselle Reisz? She often spoke of you in the few letters she wrote." "Do you remember that you promised to write to me when you went away?" A flush overspread his whole face. "I couldn't believe that my letters would be of any interest to you." "That is an excuse; it isn't the truth." Edna reached for her hat on the piano. She adjusted it, sticking the hat pin through the heavy coil of hair with some deliberation. "Are you not going to wait for Mademoiselle Reisz?" asked Robert. "No; I have found when she is absent this long, she is liable not to come back till late." She drew on her gloves, and Robert picked up his hat. "Won't you wait for her?" asked Edna. "Not if you think she will not be back till late," adding, as if suddenly aware of some discourtesy in his speech, "and I should miss the pleasure of walking home with you." Edna locked the door and put the key back in its hiding-place. They went together, picking their way across muddy streets and sidewalks encumbered with the cheap display of small tradesmen. Part of the distance they rode in the car, and after disembarking, passed the Pontellier mansion, which looked broken and half torn asunder. Robert had never known the house, and looked at it with interest.<|quote|>"I never knew you in your home,"</|quote|>he remarked. "I am glad you did not." "Why?" She did not answer. They went on around the corner, and it seemed as if her dreams were coming true after all, when he followed her into the little house. "You must stay and dine with me, Robert. You see I am all alone, and it is so long since I have seen you. There is so much I want to ask you." She took off her hat and gloves. He stood irresolute, making some excuse about his mother who expected him; he even muttered something about an engagement. She struck a match and lit the lamp on the table; it was growing dusk. When he saw her face in the lamp-light, looking pained, with all the soft lines gone out of it, he threw his hat aside and seated himself. "Oh! you know I want to stay if you will let me!" he exclaimed. All the softness came back. She laughed, and went and put her hand on his shoulder. "This is the first moment you have seemed like the old Robert. I'll go tell Celestine." She hurried away to tell Celestine to set an extra place. She even sent her off in search of some added delicacy which she had not thought of for herself. And she recommended great care in dripping the coffee and having the omelet done to a proper turn. When she reentered, Robert was turning over magazines, sketches, and things that lay upon the table in great disorder. He picked up a photograph, and exclaimed: "Alc e Arobin! What on earth is his picture doing here?" "I tried to make a sketch of his head one day," answered Edna, "and he thought the photograph might help me. It was at the other house. I thought it had been left there. I must have packed it up with my drawing materials." "I should think you would give it back to him if you have finished with it." "Oh! I have a great many such photographs. I never think of returning them. They don't amount to anything." Robert kept on looking at the picture. "It seems to me do you think his head worth drawing? Is he a friend of Mr. Pontellier's? You never said you knew him." "He isn't a friend of Mr. Pontellier's; he's a friend of mine. I always knew him that is, it
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seemingly without knowing what he was saying or doing. "Mrs. Pontellier! How do you happen oh! how well you look! Is Mademoiselle Reisz not here? I never expected to see you." "When did you come back?" asked Edna in an unsteady voice, wiping her face with her handkerchief. She seemed ill at ease on the piano stool, and he begged her to take the chair by the window. She did so, mechanically, while he seated himself on the stool. "I returned day before yesterday," he answered, while he leaned his arm on the keys, bringing forth a crash of discordant sound. "Day before yesterday!" she repeated, aloud; and went on thinking to herself, "day before yesterday," in a sort of an uncomprehending way. She had pictured him seeking her at the very first hour, and he had lived under the same sky since day before yesterday; while only by accident had he stumbled upon her. Mademoiselle must have lied when she said, "Poor fool, he loves you." "Day before yesterday," she repeated, breaking off a spray of Mademoiselle's geranium; "then if you had not met me here to-day you wouldn't when that is, didn't you mean to come and see me?" "Of course, I should have gone to see you. There have been so many things" he turned the leaves of Mademoiselle's music nervously. "I started in at once yesterday with the old firm. After all there is as much chance for me here as there was there that is, I might find it profitable some day. The Mexicans were not very congenial." So he had come back because the Mexicans were not congenial; because business was as profitable here as there; because of any reason, and not because he cared to be near her. She remembered the day she sat on the floor, turning the pages of his letter, seeking the reason which was left untold. She had not noticed how he looked only feeling his presence; but she turned deliberately and observed him. After all, he had been absent but a few months, and was not changed. His hair the color of hers waved back from his temples in the same way as before. His skin was not more burned than it had been at Grand Isle. She found in his eyes, when he looked at her for one silent moment, the same tender caress, with an added warmth and entreaty which had not been there before the same glance which had penetrated to the sleeping places of her soul and awakened them. A hundred times Edna had pictured Robert's return, and imagined their first meeting. It was usually at her home, whither he had sought her out at once. She always fancied him expressing or betraying in some way his love for her. And here, the reality was that they sat ten feet apart, she at the window, crushing geranium leaves in her hand and smelling them, he twirling around on the piano stool, saying: "I was very much surprised to hear of Mr. Pontellier's absence; it's a wonder Mademoiselle Reisz did not tell me; and your moving mother told me yesterday. I should think you would have gone to New York with him, or to Iberville with the children, rather than be bothered here with housekeeping. And you are going abroad, too, I hear. We shan't have you at Grand Isle next summer; it won't seem do you see much of Mademoiselle Reisz? She often spoke of you in the few letters she wrote." "Do you remember that you promised to write to me when you went away?" A flush overspread his whole face. "I couldn't believe that my letters would be of any interest to you." "That is an excuse; it isn't the truth." Edna reached for her hat on the piano. She adjusted it, sticking the hat pin through the heavy coil of hair with some deliberation. "Are you not going to wait for Mademoiselle Reisz?" asked Robert. "No; I have found when she is absent this long, she is liable not to come back till late." She drew on her gloves, and Robert picked up his hat. "Won't you wait for her?" asked Edna. "Not if you think she will not be back till late," adding, as if suddenly aware of some discourtesy in his speech, "and I should miss the pleasure of walking home with you." Edna locked the door and put the key back in its hiding-place. They went together, picking their way across muddy streets and sidewalks encumbered with the cheap display of small tradesmen. Part of the distance they rode in the car, and after disembarking, passed the Pontellier mansion, which looked broken and half torn asunder. Robert had never known the house, and looked at it with interest.<|quote|>"I never knew you in your home,"</|quote|>he remarked. "I am glad you did not." "Why?" She did not answer. They went on around the corner, and it seemed as if her dreams were coming true after all, when he followed her into the little house. "You must stay and dine with me, Robert. You see I am all alone, and it is so long since I have seen you. There is so much I want to ask you." She took off her hat and gloves. He stood irresolute, making some excuse about his mother who expected him; he even muttered something about an engagement. She struck a match and lit the lamp on the table; it was growing dusk. When he saw her face in the lamp-light, looking pained, with all the soft lines gone out of it, he threw his hat aside and seated himself. "Oh! you know I want to stay if you will let me!" he exclaimed. All the softness came back. She laughed, and went and put her hand on his shoulder. "This is the first moment you have seemed like the old Robert. I'll go tell Celestine." She hurried away to tell Celestine to set an extra place. She even sent her off in search of some added delicacy which she had not thought of for herself. And she recommended great care in dripping the coffee and having the omelet done to a proper turn. When she reentered, Robert was turning over magazines, sketches, and things that lay upon the table in great disorder. He picked up a photograph, and exclaimed: "Alc e Arobin! What on earth is his picture doing here?" "I tried to make a sketch of his head one day," answered Edna, "and he thought the photograph might help me. It was at the other house. I thought it had been left there. I must have packed it up with my drawing materials." "I should think you would give it back to him if you have finished with it." "Oh! I have a great many such photographs. I never think of returning them. They don't amount to anything." Robert kept on looking at the picture. "It seems to me do you think his head worth drawing? Is he a friend of Mr. Pontellier's? You never said you knew him." "He isn't a friend of Mr. Pontellier's; he's a friend of mine. I always knew him that is, it is only of late that I know him pretty well. But I'd rather talk about you, and know what you have been seeing and doing and feeling out there in Mexico." Robert threw aside the picture. "I've been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle; the quiet, grassy street of the _Ch ni re;_ the old fort at Grande Terre. I've been working like a machine, and feeling like a lost soul. There was nothing interesting." She leaned her head upon her hand to shade her eyes from the light. "And what have you been seeing and doing and feeling all these days?" he asked. "I've been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle; the quiet, grassy street of the _Ch ni re Caminada;_ the old sunny fort at Grande Terre. I've been working with a little more comprehension than a machine, and still feeling like a lost soul. There was nothing interesting." "Mrs. Pontellier, you are cruel," he said, with feeling, closing his eyes and resting his head back in his chair. They remained in silence till old Celestine announced dinner. XXXIV The dining-room was very small. Edna's round mahogany would have almost filled it. As it was there was but a step or two from the little table to the kitchen, to the mantel, the small buffet, and the side door that opened out on the narrow brick-paved yard. A certain degree of ceremony settled upon them with the announcement of dinner. There was no return to personalities. Robert related incidents of his sojourn in Mexico, and Edna talked of events likely to interest him, which had occurred during his absence. The dinner was of ordinary quality, except for the few delicacies which she had sent out to purchase. Old Celestine, with a bandana _tignon_ twisted about her head, hobbled in and out, taking a personal interest in everything; and she lingered occasionally to talk patois with Robert, whom she had known as a boy. He went out to a neighboring cigar stand to purchase cigarette papers, and when he came back he found that Celestine had served the black coffee in the parlor. "Perhaps I shouldn't have come back," he said. "When you are tired of me, tell me to go." "You never tire me. You must have forgotten the hours and hours at Grand Isle in which we grew accustomed
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The Mexicans were not very congenial." So he had come back because the Mexicans were not congenial; because business was as profitable here as there; because of any reason, and not because he cared to be near her. She remembered the day she sat on the floor, turning the pages of his letter, seeking the reason which was left untold. She had not noticed how he looked only feeling his presence; but she turned deliberately and observed him. After all, he had been absent but a few months, and was not changed. His hair the color of hers waved back from his temples in the same way as before. His skin was not more burned than it had been at Grand Isle. She found in his eyes, when he looked at her for one silent moment, the same tender caress, with an added warmth and entreaty which had not been there before the same glance which had penetrated to the sleeping places of her soul and awakened them. A hundred times Edna had pictured Robert's return, and imagined their first meeting. It was usually at her home, whither he had sought her out at once. She always fancied him expressing or betraying in some way his love for her. And here, the reality was that they sat ten feet apart, she at the window, crushing geranium leaves in her hand and smelling them, he twirling around on the piano stool, saying: "I was very much surprised to hear of Mr. Pontellier's absence; it's a wonder Mademoiselle Reisz did not tell me; and your moving mother told me yesterday. I should think you would have gone to New York with him, or to Iberville with the children, rather than be bothered here with housekeeping. And you are going abroad, too, I hear. We shan't have you at Grand Isle next summer; it won't seem do you see much of Mademoiselle Reisz? She often spoke of you in the few letters she wrote." "Do you remember that you promised to write to me when you went away?" A flush overspread his whole face. "I couldn't believe that my letters would be of any interest to you." "That is an excuse; it isn't the truth." Edna reached for her hat on the piano. She adjusted it, sticking the hat pin through the heavy coil of hair with some deliberation. "Are you not going to wait for Mademoiselle Reisz?" asked Robert. "No; I have found when she is absent this long, she is liable not to come back till late." She drew on her gloves, and Robert picked up his hat. "Won't you wait for her?" asked Edna. "Not if you think she will not be back till late," adding, as if suddenly aware of some discourtesy in his speech, "and I should miss the pleasure of walking home with you." Edna locked the door and put the key back in its hiding-place. They went together, picking their way across muddy streets and sidewalks encumbered with the cheap display of small tradesmen. Part of the distance they rode in the car, and after disembarking, passed the Pontellier mansion, which looked broken and half torn asunder. Robert had never known the house, and looked at it with interest.<|quote|>"I never knew you in your home,"</|quote|>he remarked. "I am glad you did not." "Why?" She did not answer. They went on around the corner, and it seemed as if her dreams were coming true after all, when he followed her into the little house. "You must stay and dine with me, Robert. You see I am all alone, and it is so long since I have seen you. There is so much I want to ask you." She took off her hat and gloves. He stood irresolute, making some excuse about his mother who expected him; he even muttered something about an engagement. She struck a match and lit the lamp on the table; it was growing dusk. When he saw her face in the lamp-light, looking pained, with all the soft lines gone out of it, he threw his hat aside and seated himself. "Oh! you know I want to stay if you will let me!" he exclaimed. All the softness came back. She laughed, and went and put her hand on his shoulder. "This is the first moment you have seemed like the old Robert. I'll go tell Celestine." She hurried away to tell Celestine to set an extra place. She even sent her off in search of some added delicacy which she had not thought of for herself. And she recommended great care in dripping the coffee and having the omelet done to a proper turn. When she reentered, Robert was turning over magazines, sketches, and things that lay upon the table in great disorder. He picked up a photograph, and exclaimed: "Alc e Arobin! What on earth is his picture doing here?" "I tried to make a sketch of his head one day," answered Edna, "and he thought the photograph might help me. It was at the other house. I thought it had been left there. I must have packed it up with my drawing materials." "I should think you would give it back to him if you have finished with it." "Oh! I have a great many such photographs. I never think of returning them. They don't amount to anything." Robert kept on looking at the picture. "It seems to me do you think his head worth drawing? Is he a friend of Mr. Pontellier's? You never said you knew him." "He isn't a friend of Mr. Pontellier's; he's a friend of mine. I always knew him that is, it is only of late that I know him pretty well. But I'd rather talk about you, and know what you have been seeing
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The Awakening
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"A really good talk,"
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Miss Welland
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she expected him to speak.<|quote|>"A really good talk,"</|quote|>she went on, smiling with
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her rumpled hair. He fancied she expected him to speak.<|quote|>"A really good talk,"</|quote|>she went on, smiling with what seemed to Archer an
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Ellen came in from a walk; so I stayed and had a long talk with her. It was ages since we'd had a real talk...." She had dropped into her usual armchair, facing his, and was running her fingers through her rumpled hair. He fancied she expected him to speak.<|quote|>"A really good talk,"</|quote|>she went on, smiling with what seemed to Archer an unnatural vividness. "She was so dear--just like the old Ellen. I'm afraid I haven't been fair to her lately. I've sometimes thought--" Archer stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece, out of the radius of the lamp. "Yes, you've thought--?"
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up astonished. "Is it late?" "After seven. I believe you've been asleep!" She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation. "I went to see Granny, and just as I was going away Ellen came in from a walk; so I stayed and had a long talk with her. It was ages since we'd had a real talk...." She had dropped into her usual armchair, facing his, and was running her fingers through her rumpled hair. He fancied she expected him to speak.<|quote|>"A really good talk,"</|quote|>she went on, smiling with what seemed to Archer an unnatural vividness. "She was so dear--just like the old Ellen. I'm afraid I haven't been fair to her lately. I've sometimes thought--" Archer stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece, out of the radius of the lamp. "Yes, you've thought--?" he echoed as she paused. "Well, perhaps I haven't judged her fairly. She's so different--at least on the surface. She takes up such odd people--she seems to like to make herself conspicuous. I suppose it's the life she's led in that fast European society; no doubt we seem dreadfully dull
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conscious thoughts, without sense of the lapse of time, in a deep and grave amazement that seemed to suspend life rather than quicken it. "This was what had to be, then ... this was what had to be," he kept repeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutch of doom. What he had dreamed of had been so different that there was a mortal chill in his rapture. The door opened and May came in. "I'm dreadfully late--you weren't worried, were you?" she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder with one of her rare caresses. He looked up astonished. "Is it late?" "After seven. I believe you've been asleep!" She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation. "I went to see Granny, and just as I was going away Ellen came in from a walk; so I stayed and had a long talk with her. It was ages since we'd had a real talk...." She had dropped into her usual armchair, facing his, and was running her fingers through her rumpled hair. He fancied she expected him to speak.<|quote|>"A really good talk,"</|quote|>she went on, smiling with what seemed to Archer an unnatural vividness. "She was so dear--just like the old Ellen. I'm afraid I haven't been fair to her lately. I've sometimes thought--" Archer stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece, out of the radius of the lamp. "Yes, you've thought--?" he echoed as she paused. "Well, perhaps I haven't judged her fairly. She's so different--at least on the surface. She takes up such odd people--she seems to like to make herself conspicuous. I suppose it's the life she's led in that fast European society; no doubt we seem dreadfully dull to her. But I don't want to judge her unfairly." She paused again, a little breathless with the unwonted length of her speech, and sat with her lips slightly parted and a deep blush on her cheeks. Archer, as he looked at her, was reminded of the glow which had suffused her face in the Mission Garden at St. Augustine. He became aware of the same obscure effort in her, the same reaching out toward something beyond the usual range of her vision. "She hates Ellen," he thought, "and she's trying to overcome the feeling, and to get me to
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a deep inner radiance. His heart beat with awe: he felt that he had never before beheld love visible. "Oh, I shall be late--good-bye. No, don't come any farther than this," she cried, walking hurriedly away down the long room, as if the reflected radiance in his eyes had frightened her. When she reached the door she turned for a moment to wave a quick farewell. Archer walked home alone. Darkness was falling when he let himself into his house, and he looked about at the familiar objects in the hall as if he viewed them from the other side of the grave. The parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran up the stairs to light the gas on the upper landing. "Is Mrs. Archer in?" "No, sir; Mrs. Archer went out in the carriage after luncheon, and hasn't come back." With a sense of relief he entered the library and flung himself down in his armchair. The parlour-maid followed, bringing the student lamp and shaking some coals onto the dying fire. When she left he continued to sit motionless, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes fixed on the red grate. He sat there without conscious thoughts, without sense of the lapse of time, in a deep and grave amazement that seemed to suspend life rather than quicken it. "This was what had to be, then ... this was what had to be," he kept repeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutch of doom. What he had dreamed of had been so different that there was a mortal chill in his rapture. The door opened and May came in. "I'm dreadfully late--you weren't worried, were you?" she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder with one of her rare caresses. He looked up astonished. "Is it late?" "After seven. I believe you've been asleep!" She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation. "I went to see Granny, and just as I was going away Ellen came in from a walk; so I stayed and had a long talk with her. It was ages since we'd had a real talk...." She had dropped into her usual armchair, facing his, and was running her fingers through her rumpled hair. He fancied she expected him to speak.<|quote|>"A really good talk,"</|quote|>she went on, smiling with what seemed to Archer an unnatural vividness. "She was so dear--just like the old Ellen. I'm afraid I haven't been fair to her lately. I've sometimes thought--" Archer stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece, out of the radius of the lamp. "Yes, you've thought--?" he echoed as she paused. "Well, perhaps I haven't judged her fairly. She's so different--at least on the surface. She takes up such odd people--she seems to like to make herself conspicuous. I suppose it's the life she's led in that fast European society; no doubt we seem dreadfully dull to her. But I don't want to judge her unfairly." She paused again, a little breathless with the unwonted length of her speech, and sat with her lips slightly parted and a deep blush on her cheeks. Archer, as he looked at her, was reminded of the glow which had suffused her face in the Mission Garden at St. Augustine. He became aware of the same obscure effort in her, the same reaching out toward something beyond the usual range of her vision. "She hates Ellen," he thought, "and she's trying to overcome the feeling, and to get me to help her to overcome it." The thought moved him, and for a moment he was on the point of breaking the silence between them, and throwing himself on her mercy. "You understand, don't you," she went on, "why the family have sometimes been annoyed? We all did what we could for her at first; but she never seemed to understand. And now this idea of going to see Mrs. Beaufort, of going there in Granny's carriage! I'm afraid she's quite alienated the van der Luydens ..." "Ah," said Archer with an impatient laugh. The open door had closed between them again. "It's time to dress; we're dining out, aren't we?" he asked, moving from the fire. She rose also, but lingered near the hearth. As he walked past her she moved forward impulsively, as though to detain him: their eyes met, and he saw that hers were of the same swimming blue as when he had left her to drive to Jersey City. She flung her arms about his neck and pressed her cheek to his. "You haven't kissed me today," she said in a whisper; and he felt her tremble in his arms. XXXII. "At the court of the
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said, without moving. It seemed as if he held his heart in his hands, like a full cup that the least motion might overbrim. Then her last phrase struck his ear and his face clouded. "Go home? What do you mean by going home?" "Home to my husband." "And you expect me to say yes to that?" She raised her troubled eyes to his. "What else is there? I can't stay here and lie to the people who've been good to me." "But that's the very reason why I ask you to come away!" "And destroy their lives, when they've helped me to remake mine?" Archer sprang to his feet and stood looking down on her in inarticulate despair. It would have been easy to say: "Yes, come; come once." He knew the power she would put in his hands if she consented; there would be no difficulty then in persuading her not to go back to her husband. But something silenced the word on his lips. A sort of passionate honesty in her made it inconceivable that he should try to draw her into that familiar trap. "If I were to let her come," he said to himself, "I should have to let her go again." And that was not to be imagined. But he saw the shadow of the lashes on her wet cheek, and wavered. "After all," he began again, "we have lives of our own.... There's no use attempting the impossible. You're so unprejudiced about some things, so used, as you say, to looking at the Gorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid to face our case, and see it as it really is--unless you think the sacrifice is not worth making." She stood up also, her lips tightening under a rapid frown. "Call it that, then--I must go," she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist. "Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head turning suddenly at the thought of losing her; and for a second or two they looked at each other almost like enemies. "When?" he insisted. "Tomorrow?" She hesitated. "The day after." "Dearest--!" he said again. She had disengaged her wrist; but for a moment they continued to hold each other's eyes, and he saw that her face, which had grown very pale, was flooded with a deep inner radiance. His heart beat with awe: he felt that he had never before beheld love visible. "Oh, I shall be late--good-bye. No, don't come any farther than this," she cried, walking hurriedly away down the long room, as if the reflected radiance in his eyes had frightened her. When she reached the door she turned for a moment to wave a quick farewell. Archer walked home alone. Darkness was falling when he let himself into his house, and he looked about at the familiar objects in the hall as if he viewed them from the other side of the grave. The parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran up the stairs to light the gas on the upper landing. "Is Mrs. Archer in?" "No, sir; Mrs. Archer went out in the carriage after luncheon, and hasn't come back." With a sense of relief he entered the library and flung himself down in his armchair. The parlour-maid followed, bringing the student lamp and shaking some coals onto the dying fire. When she left he continued to sit motionless, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes fixed on the red grate. He sat there without conscious thoughts, without sense of the lapse of time, in a deep and grave amazement that seemed to suspend life rather than quicken it. "This was what had to be, then ... this was what had to be," he kept repeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutch of doom. What he had dreamed of had been so different that there was a mortal chill in his rapture. The door opened and May came in. "I'm dreadfully late--you weren't worried, were you?" she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder with one of her rare caresses. He looked up astonished. "Is it late?" "After seven. I believe you've been asleep!" She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation. "I went to see Granny, and just as I was going away Ellen came in from a walk; so I stayed and had a long talk with her. It was ages since we'd had a real talk...." She had dropped into her usual armchair, facing his, and was running her fingers through her rumpled hair. He fancied she expected him to speak.<|quote|>"A really good talk,"</|quote|>she went on, smiling with what seemed to Archer an unnatural vividness. "She was so dear--just like the old Ellen. I'm afraid I haven't been fair to her lately. I've sometimes thought--" Archer stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece, out of the radius of the lamp. "Yes, you've thought--?" he echoed as she paused. "Well, perhaps I haven't judged her fairly. She's so different--at least on the surface. She takes up such odd people--she seems to like to make herself conspicuous. I suppose it's the life she's led in that fast European society; no doubt we seem dreadfully dull to her. But I don't want to judge her unfairly." She paused again, a little breathless with the unwonted length of her speech, and sat with her lips slightly parted and a deep blush on her cheeks. Archer, as he looked at her, was reminded of the glow which had suffused her face in the Mission Garden at St. Augustine. He became aware of the same obscure effort in her, the same reaching out toward something beyond the usual range of her vision. "She hates Ellen," he thought, "and she's trying to overcome the feeling, and to get me to help her to overcome it." The thought moved him, and for a moment he was on the point of breaking the silence between them, and throwing himself on her mercy. "You understand, don't you," she went on, "why the family have sometimes been annoyed? We all did what we could for her at first; but she never seemed to understand. And now this idea of going to see Mrs. Beaufort, of going there in Granny's carriage! I'm afraid she's quite alienated the van der Luydens ..." "Ah," said Archer with an impatient laugh. The open door had closed between them again. "It's time to dress; we're dining out, aren't we?" he asked, moving from the fire. She rose also, but lingered near the hearth. As he walked past her she moved forward impulsively, as though to detain him: their eyes met, and he saw that hers were of the same swimming blue as when he had left her to drive to Jersey City. She flung her arms about his neck and pressed her cheek to his. "You haven't kissed me today," she said in a whisper; and he felt her tremble in his arms. XXXII. "At the court of the Tuileries," said Mr. Sillerton Jackson with his reminiscent smile, "such things were pretty openly tolerated." The scene was the van der Luydens' black walnut dining-room in Madison Avenue, and the time the evening after Newland Archer's visit to the Museum of Art. Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden had come to town for a few days from Skuytercliff, whither they had precipitately fled at the announcement of Beaufort's failure. It had been represented to them that the disarray into which society had been thrown by this deplorable affair made their presence in town more necessary than ever. It was one of the occasions when, as Mrs. Archer put it, they "owed it to society" to show themselves at the Opera, and even to open their own doors. "It will never do, my dear Louisa, to let people like Mrs. Lemuel Struthers think they can step into Regina's shoes. It is just at such times that new people push in and get a footing. It was owing to the epidemic of chicken-pox in New York the winter Mrs. Struthers first appeared that the married men slipped away to her house while their wives were in the nursery. You and dear Henry, Louisa, must stand in the breach as you always have." Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden could not remain deaf to such a call, and reluctantly but heroically they had come to town, unmuffled the house, and sent out invitations for two dinners and an evening reception. On this particular evening they had invited Sillerton Jackson, Mrs. Archer and Newland and his wife to go with them to the Opera, where Faust was being sung for the first time that winter. Nothing was done without ceremony under the van der Luyden roof, and though there were but four guests the repast had begun at seven punctually, so that the proper sequence of courses might be served without haste before the gentlemen settled down to their cigars. Archer had not seen his wife since the evening before. He had left early for the office, where he had plunged into an accumulation of unimportant business. In the afternoon one of the senior partners had made an unexpected call on his time; and he had reached home so late that May had preceded him to the van der Luydens', and sent back the carriage. Now, across the Skuytercliff carnations and the massive plate,
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the lashes on her wet cheek, and wavered. "After all," he began again, "we have lives of our own.... There's no use attempting the impossible. You're so unprejudiced about some things, so used, as you say, to looking at the Gorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid to face our case, and see it as it really is--unless you think the sacrifice is not worth making." She stood up also, her lips tightening under a rapid frown. "Call it that, then--I must go," she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist. "Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head turning suddenly at the thought of losing her; and for a second or two they looked at each other almost like enemies. "When?" he insisted. "Tomorrow?" She hesitated. "The day after." "Dearest--!" he said again. She had disengaged her wrist; but for a moment they continued to hold each other's eyes, and he saw that her face, which had grown very pale, was flooded with a deep inner radiance. His heart beat with awe: he felt that he had never before beheld love visible. "Oh, I shall be late--good-bye. No, don't come any farther than this," she cried, walking hurriedly away down the long room, as if the reflected radiance in his eyes had frightened her. When she reached the door she turned for a moment to wave a quick farewell. Archer walked home alone. Darkness was falling when he let himself into his house, and he looked about at the familiar objects in the hall as if he viewed them from the other side of the grave. The parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran up the stairs to light the gas on the upper landing. "Is Mrs. Archer in?" "No, sir; Mrs. Archer went out in the carriage after luncheon, and hasn't come back." With a sense of relief he entered the library and flung himself down in his armchair. The parlour-maid followed, bringing the student lamp and shaking some coals onto the dying fire. When she left he continued to sit motionless, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes fixed on the red grate. He sat there without conscious thoughts, without sense of the lapse of time, in a deep and grave amazement that seemed to suspend life rather than quicken it. "This was what had to be, then ... this was what had to be," he kept repeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutch of doom. What he had dreamed of had been so different that there was a mortal chill in his rapture. The door opened and May came in. "I'm dreadfully late--you weren't worried, were you?" she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder with one of her rare caresses. He looked up astonished. "Is it late?" "After seven. I believe you've been asleep!" She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation. "I went to see Granny, and just as I was going away Ellen came in from a walk; so I stayed and had a long talk with her. It was ages since we'd had a real talk...." She had dropped into her usual armchair, facing his, and was running her fingers through her rumpled hair. He fancied she expected him to speak.<|quote|>"A really good talk,"</|quote|>she went on, smiling with what seemed to Archer an unnatural vividness. "She was so dear--just like the old Ellen. I'm afraid I haven't been fair to her lately. I've sometimes thought--" Archer stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece, out of the radius of the lamp. "Yes, you've thought--?" he echoed as she paused. "Well, perhaps I haven't judged her fairly. She's so different--at least on the surface. She takes up such odd people--she seems to like to make herself conspicuous. I suppose it's the life she's led in that fast European society; no doubt we seem dreadfully dull to her. But I don't want to judge her unfairly." She paused again, a little breathless with the unwonted length of her speech, and sat with her lips slightly parted and a deep blush on her cheeks. Archer, as he looked at her, was reminded of the glow which had suffused her face in the Mission Garden at St. Augustine. He became aware of the same obscure effort in her, the same reaching out toward something beyond the usual range of her vision. "She hates Ellen," he thought, "and she's trying to overcome the feeling, and to get me to help her to overcome it." The thought moved him, and for a moment he was on the point of breaking the silence between them, and throwing himself on her mercy. "You understand, don't you," she went on, "why the family have sometimes been annoyed? We all did what we could for her at first; but she never seemed to understand. And now this idea of going to see Mrs. Beaufort, of going there in Granny's carriage! I'm afraid she's quite alienated the van der Luydens ..." "Ah," said Archer with an impatient laugh. The open door had closed between them again. "It's time to dress; we're dining out, aren't we?" he asked, moving from the fire. She rose also, but lingered near the hearth. As he walked past her she moved forward impulsively, as though to detain him: their eyes met, and he saw that hers were of the same swimming blue as when he had left her to drive to Jersey City. She flung her arms about his neck and pressed her cheek to his. "You haven't kissed me today," she said in a whisper; and he felt her tremble in his arms. XXXII. "At the court of the Tuileries," said Mr. Sillerton Jackson with his reminiscent smile, "such things were pretty openly tolerated." The scene was the van der Luydens' black walnut dining-room in Madison Avenue, and the time the evening after Newland Archer's visit to the Museum of Art. Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden had come to town for a few days from Skuytercliff, whither they had precipitately fled at the announcement of Beaufort's failure. It had been represented
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The Age Of Innocence
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He flushed with disappointment, and she went on:
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No speaker
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please. Madame Olenska's gone out."<|quote|>He flushed with disappointment, and she went on:</|quote|>"She's gone out, my child:
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today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out."<|quote|>He flushed with disappointment, and she went on:</|quote|>"She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to
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"And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out."<|quote|>He flushed with disappointment, and she went on:</|quote|>"She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that
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with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out."<|quote|>He flushed with disappointment, and she went on:</|quote|>"She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife of a scoundrel,' "I answered." 'Well,' "she says," 'and so am I, and yet all my family want me to
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pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted. "Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it," he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out."<|quote|>He flushed with disappointment, and she went on:</|quote|>"She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife of a scoundrel,' "I answered." 'Well,' "she says," 'and so am I, and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' "Well, that floored me, and I let her go; and finally one day she said it was raining too hard to go out on foot, and she wanted me to lend her my carriage." 'What for?' "I asked her; and she said:" 'To go and see cousin Regina' "--COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of the window, and saw it wasn't raining a drop; but I understood her, and I let her have the carriage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, and so is she; and I've always liked courage above everything." Archer bent down
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day: if she would not take the extreme step he had urged, she had at last yielded to half-measures. He sank back into the thought with the involuntary relief of a man who has been ready to risk everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security. "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted. "Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it," he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out."<|quote|>He flushed with disappointment, and she went on:</|quote|>"She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife of a scoundrel,' "I answered." 'Well,' "she says," 'and so am I, and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' "Well, that floored me, and I let her go; and finally one day she said it was raining too hard to go out on foot, and she wanted me to lend her my carriage." 'What for?' "I asked her; and she said:" 'To go and see cousin Regina' "--COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of the window, and saw it wasn't raining a drop; but I understood her, and I let her have the carriage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, and so is she; and I've always liked courage above everything." Archer bent down and pressed his lips on the little hand that still lay on his. "Eh--eh--eh! Whose hand did you think you were kissing, young man--your wife's, I hope?" the old lady snapped out with her mocking cackle; and as he rose to go she called out after him: "Give her her Granny's love; but you'd better not say anything about our talk." XXXI. Archer had been stunned by old Catherine's news. It was only natural that Madame Olenska should have hastened from Washington in response to her grandmother's summons; but that she should have decided to remain under her roof--especially now that Mrs. Mingott had almost regained her health--was less easy to explain. Archer was sure that Madame Olenska's decision had not been influenced by the change in her financial situation. He knew the exact figure of the small income which her husband had allowed her at their separation. Without the addition of her grandmother's allowance it was hardly enough to live on, in any sense known to the Mingott vocabulary; and now that Medora Manson, who shared her life, had been ruined, such a pittance would barely keep the two women clothed and fed. Yet Archer was convinced that Madame
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the way? In my youth young men didn't desert pretty women unless they were made to!" She gave another chuckle, and interrupted it to say almost querulously: "It's a pity she didn't marry you; I always told her so. It would have spared me all this worry. But who ever thought of sparing their grandmother worry?" Archer wondered if her illness had blurred her faculties; but suddenly she broke out: "Well, it's settled, anyhow: she's going to stay with me, whatever the rest of the family say! She hadn't been here five minutes before I'd have gone down on my knees to keep her--if only, for the last twenty years, I'd been able to see where the floor was!" Archer listened in silence, and she went on: "They'd talked me over, as no doubt you know: persuaded me, Lovell, and Letterblair, and Augusta Welland, and all the rest of them, that I must hold out and cut off her allowance, till she was made to see that it was her duty to go back to Olenski. They thought they'd convinced me when the secretary, or whatever he was, came out with the last proposals: handsome proposals I confess they were. After all, marriage is marriage, and money's money--both useful things in their way ... and I didn't know what to answer--" She broke off and drew a long breath, as if speaking had become an effort. "But the minute I laid eyes on her, I said:" 'You sweet bird, you! Shut you up in that cage again? Never!' "And now it's settled that she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as long as there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn't mind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given her proper allowance." The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mind he hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had so definitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the moment he could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole over him the delicious sense of difficulties deferred and opportunities miraculously provided. If Ellen had consented to come and live with her grandmother it must surely be because she had recognised the impossibility of giving him up. This was her answer to his final appeal of the other day: if she would not take the extreme step he had urged, she had at last yielded to half-measures. He sank back into the thought with the involuntary relief of a man who has been ready to risk everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security. "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted. "Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it," he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out."<|quote|>He flushed with disappointment, and she went on:</|quote|>"She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife of a scoundrel,' "I answered." 'Well,' "she says," 'and so am I, and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' "Well, that floored me, and I let her go; and finally one day she said it was raining too hard to go out on foot, and she wanted me to lend her my carriage." 'What for?' "I asked her; and she said:" 'To go and see cousin Regina' "--COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of the window, and saw it wasn't raining a drop; but I understood her, and I let her have the carriage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, and so is she; and I've always liked courage above everything." Archer bent down and pressed his lips on the little hand that still lay on his. "Eh--eh--eh! Whose hand did you think you were kissing, young man--your wife's, I hope?" the old lady snapped out with her mocking cackle; and as he rose to go she called out after him: "Give her her Granny's love; but you'd better not say anything about our talk." XXXI. Archer had been stunned by old Catherine's news. It was only natural that Madame Olenska should have hastened from Washington in response to her grandmother's summons; but that she should have decided to remain under her roof--especially now that Mrs. Mingott had almost regained her health--was less easy to explain. Archer was sure that Madame Olenska's decision had not been influenced by the change in her financial situation. He knew the exact figure of the small income which her husband had allowed her at their separation. Without the addition of her grandmother's allowance it was hardly enough to live on, in any sense known to the Mingott vocabulary; and now that Medora Manson, who shared her life, had been ruined, such a pittance would barely keep the two women clothed and fed. Yet Archer was convinced that Madame Olenska had not accepted her grandmother's offer from interested motives. She had the heedless generosity and the spasmodic extravagance of persons used to large fortunes, and indifferent to money; but she could go without many things which her relations considered indispensable, and Mrs. Lovell Mingott and Mrs. Welland had often been heard to deplore that any one who had enjoyed the cosmopolitan luxuries of Count Olenski's establishments should care so little about "how things were done." Moreover, as Archer knew, several months had passed since her allowance had been cut off; yet in the interval she had made no effort to regain her grandmother's favour. Therefore if she had changed her course it must be for a different reason. He did not have far to seek for that reason. On the way from the ferry she had told him that he and she must remain apart; but she had said it with her head on his breast. He knew that there was no calculated coquetry in her words; she was fighting her fate as he had fought his, and clinging desperately to her resolve that they should not break faith with the people who trusted them. But during the ten days which had elapsed since her return to New York she had perhaps guessed from his silence, and from the fact of his making no attempt to see her, that he was meditating a decisive step, a step from which there was no turning back. At the thought, a sudden fear of her own weakness might have seized her, and she might have felt that, after all, it was better to accept the compromise usual in such cases, and follow the line of least resistance. An hour earlier, when he had rung Mrs. Mingott's bell, Archer had fancied that his path was clear before him. He had meant to have a word alone with Madame Olenska, and failing that, to learn from her grandmother on what day, and by which train, she was returning to Washington. In that train he intended to join her, and travel with her to Washington, or as much farther as she was willing to go. His own fancy inclined to Japan. At any rate she would understand at once that, wherever she went, he was going. He meant to leave a note for May that should cut off any other alternative. He had fancied himself
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proper allowance." The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mind he hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had so definitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the moment he could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole over him the delicious sense of difficulties deferred and opportunities miraculously provided. If Ellen had consented to come and live with her grandmother it must surely be because she had recognised the impossibility of giving him up. This was her answer to his final appeal of the other day: if she would not take the extreme step he had urged, she had at last yielded to half-measures. He sank back into the thought with the involuntary relief of a man who has been ready to risk everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security. "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted. "Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it," he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out."<|quote|>He flushed with disappointment, and she went on:</|quote|>"She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife of a scoundrel,' "I answered." 'Well,' "she says," 'and so am I, and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' "Well, that floored me, and I let her go; and finally one day she said it was raining too hard to go out on foot, and she wanted me to lend her my carriage." 'What for?' "I asked her; and she said:" 'To go and see cousin Regina' "--COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of the window, and saw it wasn't raining a drop; but I understood her, and I let her have the carriage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, and so is she; and I've always liked courage above everything." Archer bent down and pressed his lips on the little hand that still lay on his. "Eh--eh--eh! Whose hand did you think you were kissing, young man--your wife's, I hope?" the old lady snapped out with her mocking cackle; and as he rose to go she called out after him: "Give her her Granny's love; but you'd better
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The Age Of Innocence
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"No more do I,"
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Katharine Hilbery
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believe it," he said shortly.<|quote|>"No more do I,"</|quote|>she replied. "What about the
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Henry." "But I don t believe it," he said shortly.<|quote|>"No more do I,"</|quote|>she replied. "What about the stars?" he asked a moment
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he said aloud, expressing what he supposed to be her attitude, much in her accent. Perhaps she detected the imitation, for looking gently at him, she said, with ironical composure: "Well, if you believe that your life must be simple, Henry." "But I don t believe it," he said shortly.<|quote|>"No more do I,"</|quote|>she replied. "What about the stars?" he asked a moment later. "I understand that you rule your life by the stars?" She let this pass, either because she did not attend to it, or because the tone was not to her liking. Once more she paused, and then she inquired:
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of anything?" he inquired, with a smile. "Oh, things happen. That s about all," she let drop in her casual, decided way. "That certainly seems to explain some of your actions," Henry thought to himself. "One thing s about as good as another, and one s got to do something," he said aloud, expressing what he supposed to be her attitude, much in her accent. Perhaps she detected the imitation, for looking gently at him, she said, with ironical composure: "Well, if you believe that your life must be simple, Henry." "But I don t believe it," he said shortly.<|quote|>"No more do I,"</|quote|>she replied. "What about the stars?" he asked a moment later. "I understand that you rule your life by the stars?" She let this pass, either because she did not attend to it, or because the tone was not to her liking. Once more she paused, and then she inquired: "But do you always understand why you do everything? Ought one to understand? People like my mother understand," she reflected. "Now I must go down to them, I suppose, and see what s happening." "What could be happening?" Henry protested. "Oh, they may want to settle something," she replied vaguely,
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marriage will make you more human." At this she lowered the newspaper an inch or two, but said nothing. Indeed, she sat quite silent for over a minute. "When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don t seem to matter very much, do they?" she said suddenly. "I don t think I ever do consider things like the stars," Henry replied. "I m not sure that that s not the explanation, though," he added, now observing her steadily. "I doubt whether there is an explanation," she replied rather hurriedly, not clearly understanding what he meant. "What? No explanation of anything?" he inquired, with a smile. "Oh, things happen. That s about all," she let drop in her casual, decided way. "That certainly seems to explain some of your actions," Henry thought to himself. "One thing s about as good as another, and one s got to do something," he said aloud, expressing what he supposed to be her attitude, much in her accent. Perhaps she detected the imitation, for looking gently at him, she said, with ironical composure: "Well, if you believe that your life must be simple, Henry." "But I don t believe it," he said shortly.<|quote|>"No more do I,"</|quote|>she replied. "What about the stars?" he asked a moment later. "I understand that you rule your life by the stars?" She let this pass, either because she did not attend to it, or because the tone was not to her liking. Once more she paused, and then she inquired: "But do you always understand why you do everything? Ought one to understand? People like my mother understand," she reflected. "Now I must go down to them, I suppose, and see what s happening." "What could be happening?" Henry protested. "Oh, they may want to settle something," she replied vaguely, putting her feet on the ground, resting her chin on her hands, and looking out of her large dark eyes contemplatively at the fire. "And then there s William," she added, as if by an afterthought. Henry very nearly laughed, but restrained himself. "Do they know what coals are made of, Henry?" she asked, a moment later. "Mares tails, I believe," he hazarded. "Have you ever been down a coal-mine?" she went on. "Don t let s talk about coal-mines, Katharine," he protested. "We shall probably never see each other again. When you re married" Tremendously to his surprise, he
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side, directly Katharine got into his presence, and the sense of the stars dropped from her, she knew that any intercourse between people is extremely partial; from the whole mass of her feelings, only one or two could be selected for Henry s inspection, and therefore she sighed. Then she looked at him, and their eyes meeting, much more seemed to be in common between them than had appeared possible. At any rate they had a grandfather in common; at any rate there was a kind of loyalty between them sometimes found between relations who have no other cause to like each other, as these two had. "Well, what s the date of the wedding?" said Henry, the malicious mood now predominating. "I think some time in March," she replied. "And afterwards?" he asked. "We take a house, I suppose, somewhere in Chelsea." "It s very interesting," he observed, stealing another look at her. She lay back in her arm-chair, her feet high upon the side of the grate, and in front of her, presumably to screen her eyes, she held a newspaper from which she picked up a sentence or two now and again. Observing this, Henry remarked: "Perhaps marriage will make you more human." At this she lowered the newspaper an inch or two, but said nothing. Indeed, she sat quite silent for over a minute. "When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don t seem to matter very much, do they?" she said suddenly. "I don t think I ever do consider things like the stars," Henry replied. "I m not sure that that s not the explanation, though," he added, now observing her steadily. "I doubt whether there is an explanation," she replied rather hurriedly, not clearly understanding what he meant. "What? No explanation of anything?" he inquired, with a smile. "Oh, things happen. That s about all," she let drop in her casual, decided way. "That certainly seems to explain some of your actions," Henry thought to himself. "One thing s about as good as another, and one s got to do something," he said aloud, expressing what he supposed to be her attitude, much in her accent. Perhaps she detected the imitation, for looking gently at him, she said, with ironical composure: "Well, if you believe that your life must be simple, Henry." "But I don t believe it," he said shortly.<|quote|>"No more do I,"</|quote|>she replied. "What about the stars?" he asked a moment later. "I understand that you rule your life by the stars?" She let this pass, either because she did not attend to it, or because the tone was not to her liking. Once more she paused, and then she inquired: "But do you always understand why you do everything? Ought one to understand? People like my mother understand," she reflected. "Now I must go down to them, I suppose, and see what s happening." "What could be happening?" Henry protested. "Oh, they may want to settle something," she replied vaguely, putting her feet on the ground, resting her chin on her hands, and looking out of her large dark eyes contemplatively at the fire. "And then there s William," she added, as if by an afterthought. Henry very nearly laughed, but restrained himself. "Do they know what coals are made of, Henry?" she asked, a moment later. "Mares tails, I believe," he hazarded. "Have you ever been down a coal-mine?" she went on. "Don t let s talk about coal-mines, Katharine," he protested. "We shall probably never see each other again. When you re married" Tremendously to his surprise, he saw the tears stand in her eyes. "Why do you all tease me?" she said. "It isn t kind." Henry could not pretend that he was altogether ignorant of her meaning, though, certainly, he had never guessed that she minded the teasing. But before he knew what to say, her eyes were clear again, and the sudden crack in the surface was almost filled up. "Things aren t easy, anyhow," she stated. Obeying an impulse of genuine affection, Henry spoke. "Promise me, Katharine, that if I can ever help you, you will let me." She seemed to consider, looking once more into the red of the fire, and decided to refrain from any explanation. "Yes, I promise that," she said at length, and Henry felt himself gratified by her complete sincerity, and began to tell her now about the coal-mine, in obedience to her love of facts. They were, indeed, descending the shaft in a small cage, and could hear the picks of the miners, something like the gnawing of rats, in the earth beneath them, when the door was burst open, without any knocking. "Well, here you are!" Rodney exclaimed. Both Katharine and Henry turned round very quickly and
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fender. He had a fine head, the brow arched in the Elizabethan manner, but the gentle, honest eyes were rather skeptical than glowing with the Elizabethan vigor. He gave the impression that he had not yet found the cause which suited his temperament. He turned, put down his book, and looked at her. He noticed her rather pale, dew-drenched look, as of one whose mind is not altogether settled in the body. He had often laid his difficulties before her, and guessed, in some ways hoped, that perhaps she now had need of him. At the same time, she carried on her life with such independence that he scarcely expected any confidence to be expressed in words. "You have fled, too, then?" he said, looking at her cloak. Katharine had forgotten to remove this token of her star-gazing. "Fled?" she asked. "From whom d you mean? Oh, the family party. Yes, it was hot down there, so I went into the garden." "And aren t you very cold?" Henry inquired, placing coal on the fire, drawing a chair up to the grate, and laying aside her cloak. Her indifference to such details often forced Henry to act the part generally taken by women in such dealings. It was one of the ties between them. "Thank you, Henry," she said. "I m not disturbing you?" "I m not here. I m at Bungay," he replied. "I m giving a music lesson to Harold and Julia. That was why I had to leave the table with the ladies I m spending the night there, and I shan t be back till late on Christmas Eve." "How I wish" Katharine began, and stopped short. "I think these parties are a great mistake," she added briefly, and sighed. "Oh, horrible!" he agreed; and they both fell silent. Her sigh made him look at her. Should he venture to ask her why she sighed? Was her reticence about her own affairs as inviolable as it had often been convenient for rather an egoistical young man to think it? But since her engagement to Rodney, Henry s feeling towards her had become rather complex; equally divided between an impulse to hurt her and an impulse to be tender to her; and all the time he suffered a curious irritation from the sense that she was drifting away from him for ever upon unknown seas. On her side, directly Katharine got into his presence, and the sense of the stars dropped from her, she knew that any intercourse between people is extremely partial; from the whole mass of her feelings, only one or two could be selected for Henry s inspection, and therefore she sighed. Then she looked at him, and their eyes meeting, much more seemed to be in common between them than had appeared possible. At any rate they had a grandfather in common; at any rate there was a kind of loyalty between them sometimes found between relations who have no other cause to like each other, as these two had. "Well, what s the date of the wedding?" said Henry, the malicious mood now predominating. "I think some time in March," she replied. "And afterwards?" he asked. "We take a house, I suppose, somewhere in Chelsea." "It s very interesting," he observed, stealing another look at her. She lay back in her arm-chair, her feet high upon the side of the grate, and in front of her, presumably to screen her eyes, she held a newspaper from which she picked up a sentence or two now and again. Observing this, Henry remarked: "Perhaps marriage will make you more human." At this she lowered the newspaper an inch or two, but said nothing. Indeed, she sat quite silent for over a minute. "When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don t seem to matter very much, do they?" she said suddenly. "I don t think I ever do consider things like the stars," Henry replied. "I m not sure that that s not the explanation, though," he added, now observing her steadily. "I doubt whether there is an explanation," she replied rather hurriedly, not clearly understanding what he meant. "What? No explanation of anything?" he inquired, with a smile. "Oh, things happen. That s about all," she let drop in her casual, decided way. "That certainly seems to explain some of your actions," Henry thought to himself. "One thing s about as good as another, and one s got to do something," he said aloud, expressing what he supposed to be her attitude, much in her accent. Perhaps she detected the imitation, for looking gently at him, she said, with ironical composure: "Well, if you believe that your life must be simple, Henry." "But I don t believe it," he said shortly.<|quote|>"No more do I,"</|quote|>she replied. "What about the stars?" he asked a moment later. "I understand that you rule your life by the stars?" She let this pass, either because she did not attend to it, or because the tone was not to her liking. Once more she paused, and then she inquired: "But do you always understand why you do everything? Ought one to understand? People like my mother understand," she reflected. "Now I must go down to them, I suppose, and see what s happening." "What could be happening?" Henry protested. "Oh, they may want to settle something," she replied vaguely, putting her feet on the ground, resting her chin on her hands, and looking out of her large dark eyes contemplatively at the fire. "And then there s William," she added, as if by an afterthought. Henry very nearly laughed, but restrained himself. "Do they know what coals are made of, Henry?" she asked, a moment later. "Mares tails, I believe," he hazarded. "Have you ever been down a coal-mine?" she went on. "Don t let s talk about coal-mines, Katharine," he protested. "We shall probably never see each other again. When you re married" Tremendously to his surprise, he saw the tears stand in her eyes. "Why do you all tease me?" she said. "It isn t kind." Henry could not pretend that he was altogether ignorant of her meaning, though, certainly, he had never guessed that she minded the teasing. But before he knew what to say, her eyes were clear again, and the sudden crack in the surface was almost filled up. "Things aren t easy, anyhow," she stated. Obeying an impulse of genuine affection, Henry spoke. "Promise me, Katharine, that if I can ever help you, you will let me." She seemed to consider, looking once more into the red of the fire, and decided to refrain from any explanation. "Yes, I promise that," she said at length, and Henry felt himself gratified by her complete sincerity, and began to tell her now about the coal-mine, in obedience to her love of facts. They were, indeed, descending the shaft in a small cage, and could hear the picks of the miners, something like the gnawing of rats, in the earth beneath them, when the door was burst open, without any knocking. "Well, here you are!" Rodney exclaimed. Both Katharine and Henry turned round very quickly and rather guiltily. Rodney was in evening dress. It was clear that his temper was ruffled. "That s where you ve been all the time," he repeated, looking at Katharine. "I ve only been here about ten minutes," she replied. "My dear Katharine, you left the drawing-room over an hour ago." She said nothing. "Does it very much matter?" Henry asked. Rodney found it hard to be unreasonable in the presence of another man, and did not answer him. "They don t like it," he said. "It isn t kind to old people to leave them alone although I ve no doubt it s much more amusing to sit up here and talk to Henry." "We were discussing coal-mines," said Henry urbanely. "Yes. But we were talking about much more interesting things before that," said Katharine. From the apparent determination to hurt him with which she spoke, Henry thought that some sort of explosion on Rodney s part was about to take place. "I can quite understand that," said Rodney, with his little chuckle, leaning over the back of his chair and tapping the woodwork lightly with his fingers. They were all silent, and the silence was acutely uncomfortable to Henry, at least. "Was it very dull, William?" Katharine suddenly asked, with a complete change of tone and a little gesture of her hand. "Of course it was dull," William said sulkily. "Well, you stay and talk to Henry, and I ll go down," she replied. She rose as she spoke, and as she turned to leave the room, she laid her hand, with a curiously caressing gesture, upon Rodney s shoulder. Instantly Rodney clasped her hand in his, with such an impulse of emotion that Henry was annoyed, and rather ostentatiously opened a book. "I shall come down with you," said William, as she drew back her hand, and made as if to pass him. "Oh no," she said hastily. "You stay here and talk to Henry." "Yes, do," said Henry, shutting up his book again. His invitation was polite, without being precisely cordial. Rodney evidently hesitated as to the course he should pursue, but seeing Katharine at the door, he exclaimed: "No. I want to come with you." 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
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"It s very interesting," he observed, stealing another look at her. She lay back in her arm-chair, her feet high upon the side of the grate, and in front of her, presumably to screen her eyes, she held a newspaper from which she picked up a sentence or two now and again. Observing this, Henry remarked: "Perhaps marriage will make you more human." At this she lowered the newspaper an inch or two, but said nothing. Indeed, she sat quite silent for over a minute. "When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don t seem to matter very much, do they?" she said suddenly. "I don t think I ever do consider things like the stars," Henry replied. "I m not sure that that s not the explanation, though," he added, now observing her steadily. "I doubt whether there is an explanation," she replied rather hurriedly, not clearly understanding what he meant. "What? No explanation of anything?" he inquired, with a smile. "Oh, things happen. That s about all," she let drop in her casual, decided way. "That certainly seems to explain some of your actions," Henry thought to himself. "One thing s about as good as another, and one s got to do something," he said aloud, expressing what he supposed to be her attitude, much in her accent. Perhaps she detected the imitation, for looking gently at him, she said, with ironical composure: "Well, if you believe that your life must be simple, Henry." "But I don t believe it," he said shortly.<|quote|>"No more do I,"</|quote|>she replied. "What about the stars?" he asked a moment later. "I understand that you rule your life by the stars?" She let this pass, either because she did not attend to it, or because the tone was not to her liking. Once more she paused, and then she inquired: "But do you always understand why you do everything? Ought one to understand? People like my mother understand," she reflected. "Now I must go down to them, I suppose, and see what s happening." "What could be happening?" Henry protested. "Oh, they may want to settle something," she replied vaguely, putting her feet on the ground, resting her chin on her hands, and looking out of her large dark eyes contemplatively at the fire. "And then there s William," she added, as if by an afterthought. Henry very nearly laughed, but restrained himself. "Do they know what coals are made of, Henry?" she asked, a moment later. "Mares tails, I believe," he hazarded. "Have you ever been down a coal-mine?" she went on. "Don t let s talk about coal-mines, Katharine," he protested. "We shall probably never see each other again. When you re married" Tremendously to his surprise, he saw the tears stand in her eyes. "Why do you all tease me?" she said. "It isn t kind." Henry could not pretend that he was altogether ignorant of her meaning, though, certainly, he had never guessed that she minded the teasing. But before he knew what to say, her eyes were clear again, and the sudden crack in the surface was almost filled up. "Things aren t easy, anyhow," she stated. Obeying an impulse of genuine affection, Henry spoke. "Promise me, Katharine, that if I can ever help you, you will let me." She seemed to consider, looking once more into the red of the fire, and decided to refrain from any explanation. "Yes, I promise that," she said at length, and Henry felt himself gratified by her complete sincerity, and began to tell her now about the coal-mine, in obedience to her love of facts. They were, indeed, descending the shaft in a small cage, and could hear the picks of the miners, something like the gnawing of rats, in the earth beneath them, when the door was burst open, without any knocking. "Well, here you are!" Rodney exclaimed. Both Katharine and Henry turned round very quickly and rather guiltily. Rodney was in evening dress. It was clear that his temper was ruffled. "That s where you ve been all the time," he repeated, looking at Katharine. "I ve only been here about ten minutes," she replied. "My dear Katharine, you left the drawing-room over an hour ago." She said nothing. "Does it very much matter?" Henry asked. Rodney found it hard to be unreasonable in the presence of another man, and did not answer him. "They don t like it," he said. "It isn t kind to old people to leave them alone although I ve no doubt it s much more amusing to sit up here and talk to Henry." "We were discussing coal-mines," said Henry urbanely. "Yes. But we were talking about much more interesting things before that," said Katharine. From the apparent determination to hurt him with which she spoke, Henry thought that some sort of explosion on Rodney s part was about to take place. "I can quite understand that,"
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Night And Day
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'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.'
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No speaker
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medals, sir?' "And I said:"<|quote|>'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.'</|quote|>"So he said:" 'What medals
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some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:"<|quote|>'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.'</|quote|>"So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I
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So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:"<|quote|>'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.'</|quote|>"So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me
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you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals." "You must have some." "I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:"<|quote|>'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.'</|quote|>"So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking
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an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals." "You must have some." "I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:"<|quote|>'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.'</|quote|>"So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket." He stopped for us to laugh. "Is that all?" "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right." "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter." We were all laughing. "Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening I found the box in my pocket." What's this? "I said." Medals? "Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know, they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one
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and Robert Cohn. Brett was wearing a Basque beret. So was Mike. Robert Cohn was bare-headed and wearing his spectacles. Brett saw us coming and waved. Her eyes crinkled up as we came up to the table. "Hello, you chaps!" she called. Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an intensity of feeling into shaking hands. Robert Cohn shook hands because we were back. "Where the hell have you been?" I asked. "I brought them up here," Cohn said. "What rot," Brett said. "We'd have gotten here earlier if you hadn't come." "You'd never have gotten here." "What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill." "Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you." "It wasn't bad. We missed you." "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them." "You bring us. What rot." "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?" "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris," Bill said. "Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back." "Don't be an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals." "You must have some." "I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:"<|quote|>'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.'</|quote|>"So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket." He stopped for us to laugh. "Is that all?" "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right." "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter." We were all laughing. "Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening I found the box in my pocket." What's this? "I said." Medals? "Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know, they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one to each girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. Dashing fellow." "Tell the rest," Brett said. "Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said. "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have been grand for the tailor." "Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me now," Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone." "How did you go bankrupt?" Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had
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always a little on the defensive and never apparent, there was this same embarrassed putting the hand on the shoulder, or a "Buen hombre." But nearly always there was the actual touching. It seemed as though they wanted to touch you to make it certain. Montoya could forgive anything of a bull-fighter who had aficion. He could forgive attacks of nerves, panic, bad unexplainable actions, all sorts of lapses. For one who had aficion he could forgive anything. At once he forgave me all my friends. Without his ever saying anything they were simply a little something shameful between us, like the spilling open of the horses in bull-fighting. Bill had gone up-stairs as we came in, and I found him washing and changing in his room. "Well," he said, "talk a lot of Spanish?" "He was telling me about the bulls coming in to-night." "Let's find the gang and go down." "All right. They'll probably be at the caf ." "Have you got tickets?" "Yes. I got them for all the unloadings." "What's it like?" He was pulling his cheek before the glass, looking to see if there were unshaved patches under the line of the jaw. "It's pretty good," I said. "They let the bulls out of the cages one at a time, and they have steers in the corral to receive them and keep them from fighting, and the bulls tear in at the steers and the steers run around like old maids trying to quiet them down." "Do they ever gore the steers?" "Sure. Sometimes they go right after them and kill them." "Can't the steers do anything?" "No. They're trying to make friends." "What do they have them in for?" "To quiet down the bulls and keep them from breaking horns against the stone walls, or goring each other." "Must be swell being a steer." We went down the stairs and out of the door and walked across the square toward the Caf Iru a. There were two lonely looking ticket-houses standing in the square. Their windows, marked SOL, SOL Y SOMBRA, and SOMBRA, were shut. They would not open until the day before the fiesta. Across the square the white wicker tables and chairs of the Iru a extended out beyond the Arcade to the edge of the street. I looked for Brett and Mike at the tables. There they were. Brett and Mike and Robert Cohn. Brett was wearing a Basque beret. So was Mike. Robert Cohn was bare-headed and wearing his spectacles. Brett saw us coming and waved. Her eyes crinkled up as we came up to the table. "Hello, you chaps!" she called. Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an intensity of feeling into shaking hands. Robert Cohn shook hands because we were back. "Where the hell have you been?" I asked. "I brought them up here," Cohn said. "What rot," Brett said. "We'd have gotten here earlier if you hadn't come." "You'd never have gotten here." "What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill." "Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you." "It wasn't bad. We missed you." "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them." "You bring us. What rot." "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?" "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris," Bill said. "Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back." "Don't be an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals." "You must have some." "I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:"<|quote|>'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.'</|quote|>"So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket." He stopped for us to laugh. "Is that all?" "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right." "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter." We were all laughing. "Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening I found the box in my pocket." What's this? "I said." Medals? "Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know, they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one to each girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. Dashing fellow." "Tell the rest," Brett said. "Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said. "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have been grand for the tailor." "Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me now," Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone." "How did you go bankrupt?" Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!" Brett exclaimed. "You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink." "Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said. "I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too. I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going down and see these bulls unloaded or not?" "Let's go down." We called the waiter, paid, and started to walk through the town. I started off walking with Brett, but Robert Cohn came up and joined her on the other side. The three of us walked along, past the Ayuntamiento with the banners hung from the balcony, down past the market and down past the steep street that led to the bridge across the Arga. There were many people walking to go and see the bulls, and carriages drove down the hill and across the bridge, the drivers, the horses, and the whips rising above the walking people in the street. Across the bridge we turned up a road to the corrals. We passed a wine-shop with a sign in the window: Good Wine 30 Centimes A Liter. "That's where we'll go when funds get low," Brett said. The woman standing in the door of the wine-shop looked at us as we passed. She called to some one in the house and three girls came to the window and stared. They were staring at Brett. At the gate of the corrals two men took tickets from the people that went in. We went in through the gate. There were trees inside and a low, stone house. At the far end was the stone wall of the corrals, with apertures in the stone that were like loopholes running all along the face of each corral. A ladder led up to the top of the wall, and people were climbing up the ladder and spreading down to stand on the walls that separated the two corrals. As we came up the ladder, walking across the grass under the trees, we passed the big, gray painted cages with the bulls in them. There was one bull in each travelling-box. They had come by train from a bull-breeding ranch in Castile, and had
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one at a time, and they have steers in the corral to receive them and keep them from fighting, and the bulls tear in at the steers and the steers run around like old maids trying to quiet them down." "Do they ever gore the steers?" "Sure. Sometimes they go right after them and kill them." "Can't the steers do anything?" "No. They're trying to make friends." "What do they have them in for?" "To quiet down the bulls and keep them from breaking horns against the stone walls, or goring each other." "Must be swell being a steer." We went down the stairs and out of the door and walked across the square toward the Caf Iru a. There were two lonely looking ticket-houses standing in the square. Their windows, marked SOL, SOL Y SOMBRA, and SOMBRA, were shut. They would not open until the day before the fiesta. Across the square the white wicker tables and chairs of the Iru a extended out beyond the Arcade to the edge of the street. I looked for Brett and Mike at the tables. There they were. Brett and Mike and Robert Cohn. Brett was wearing a Basque beret. So was Mike. Robert Cohn was bare-headed and wearing his spectacles. Brett saw us coming and waved. Her eyes crinkled up as we came up to the table. "Hello, you chaps!" she called. Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an intensity of feeling into shaking hands. Robert Cohn shook hands because we were back. "Where the hell have you been?" I asked. "I brought them up here," Cohn said. "What rot," Brett said. "We'd have gotten here earlier if you hadn't come." "You'd never have gotten here." "What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill." "Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you." "It wasn't bad. We missed you." "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them." "You bring us. What rot." "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?" "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris," Bill said. "Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back." "Don't be an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals." "You must have some." "I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:"<|quote|>'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.'</|quote|>"So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket." He stopped for us to laugh. "Is that all?" "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right." "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter." We were all laughing. "Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening I found the box in my pocket." What's this? "I said." Medals? "Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know, they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one to each girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. Dashing fellow." "Tell the rest," Brett said. "Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said. "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have been grand for the tailor." "Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me now," Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone." "How did you go bankrupt?" Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!" Brett exclaimed. "You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink." "Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said. "I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too. I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going down and see these bulls unloaded or
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The Sun Also Rises
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"I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?"
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The Artful Dodger
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for some seconds, in silence.<|quote|>"I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?"</|quote|>said the Dodger mournfully. "I
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Charley Bates. They both smoked, for some seconds, in silence.<|quote|>"I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?"</|quote|>said the Dodger mournfully. "I think I know that," replied
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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.<|quote|>"I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?"</|quote|>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
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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.<|quote|>"I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?"</|quote|>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
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as "japanning his trotter-cases." The phrase, rendered into plain English, signifieth, cleaning his boots. Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational animal may be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy attitude smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his boots cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of having taken them off, or the prospective misery of putting them on, to disturb his reflections; or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed the feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer that mollified his thoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce, with a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature. He looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for a brief space; and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sign, said, half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates: "What a pity it is he isn't a prig!" "Ah!" said Master Charles Bates; "he don't know what's good for him." The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They both smoked, for some seconds, in silence.<|quote|>"I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?"</|quote|>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
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and dimmed with the rain and smoke of years, it was as much as he could do to make out the forms of the different objects beyond, without making any attempt to be seen or heard, which he had as much chance of being, as if he had lived inside the ball of St. Paul's Cathedral. One afternoon, the Dodger and Master Bates being engaged out that evening, the first-named young gentleman took it into his head to evince some anxiety regarding the decoration of his person (to do him justice, this was by no means an habitual weakness with him); and, with this end and aim, he condescendingly commanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet, straightway. Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful; too happy to have some faces, however bad, to look upon; too desirous to conciliate those about him when he could honestly do so; to throw any objection in the way of this proposal. So he at once expressed his readiness; and, kneeling on the floor, while the Dodger sat upon the table so that he could take his foot in his laps, he applied himself to a process which Mr. Dawkins designated as "japanning his trotter-cases." The phrase, rendered into plain English, signifieth, cleaning his boots. Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational animal may be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy attitude smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his boots cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of having taken them off, or the prospective misery of putting them on, to disturb his reflections; or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed the feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer that mollified his thoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce, with a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature. He looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for a brief space; and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sign, said, half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates: "What a pity it is he isn't a prig!" "Ah!" said Master Charles Bates; "he don't know what's good for him." The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They both smoked, for some seconds, in silence.<|quote|>"I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?"</|quote|>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
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patched great-coat, he went out, and locked the room-door behind him. And so Oliver remained all that day, and for the greater part of many subsequent days, seeing nobody, between early morning and midnight, and left during the long hours to commune with his own thoughts. Which, never failing to revert to his kind friends, and the opinion they must long ago have formed of him, were sad indeed. After the lapse of a week or so, the Jew left the room-door unlocked; and he was at liberty to wander about the house. It was a very dirty place. The rooms upstairs had great high wooden chimney-pieces and large doors, with panelled walls and cornices to the ceiling; which, although they were black with neglect and dust, were ornamented in various ways. From all of these tokens Oliver concluded that a long time ago, before the old Jew was born, it had belonged to better people, and had perhaps been quite gay and handsome: dismal and dreary as it looked now. Spiders had built their webs in the angles of the walls and ceilings; and sometimes, when Oliver walked softly into a room, the mice would scamper across the floor, and run back terrified to their holes. With these exceptions, there was neither sight nor sound of any living thing; and often, when it grew dark, and he was tired of wandering from room to room, he would crouch in the corner of the passage by the street-door, to be as near living people as he could; and would remain there, listening and counting the hours, until the Jew or the boys returned. In all the rooms, the mouldering shutters were fast closed: the bars which held them were screwed tight into the wood; the only light which was admitted, stealing its way through round holes at the top: which made the rooms more gloomy, and filled them with strange shadows. There was a back-garret window with rusty bars outside, which had no shutter; and out of this, Oliver often gazed with a melancholy face for hours together; but nothing was to be descried from it but a confused and crowded mass of housetops, blackened chimneys, and gable-ends. Sometimes, indeed, a grizzly head might be seen, peering over the parapet-wall of a distant house; but it was quickly withdrawn again; and as the window of Oliver's observatory was nailed down, and dimmed with the rain and smoke of years, it was as much as he could do to make out the forms of the different objects beyond, without making any attempt to be seen or heard, which he had as much chance of being, as if he had lived inside the ball of St. Paul's Cathedral. One afternoon, the Dodger and Master Bates being engaged out that evening, the first-named young gentleman took it into his head to evince some anxiety regarding the decoration of his person (to do him justice, this was by no means an habitual weakness with him); and, with this end and aim, he condescendingly commanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet, straightway. Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful; too happy to have some faces, however bad, to look upon; too desirous to conciliate those about him when he could honestly do so; to throw any objection in the way of this proposal. So he at once expressed his readiness; and, kneeling on the floor, while the Dodger sat upon the table so that he could take his foot in his laps, he applied himself to a process which Mr. Dawkins designated as "japanning his trotter-cases." The phrase, rendered into plain English, signifieth, cleaning his boots. Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational animal may be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy attitude smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his boots cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of having taken them off, or the prospective misery of putting them on, to disturb his reflections; or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed the feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer that mollified his thoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce, with a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature. He looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for a brief space; and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sign, said, half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates: "What a pity it is he isn't a prig!" "Ah!" said Master Charles Bates; "he don't know what's good for him." The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They both smoked, for some seconds, in silence.<|quote|>"I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?"</|quote|>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. "Something in this way, old feller," said Charly. As he said it, Master Bates caught up an end of his neckerchief; and, holding it erect in the air, dropped his head on his shoulder, and jerked a curious sound through his teeth; thereby indicating, by a lively pantomimic representation, that scragging and hanging were one and the same thing. "That's what it means," said Charley. "Look how he stares, Jack! I never did see such prime company as that 'ere boy; he'll be the death of me, I know he will." Master Charley Bates, having laughed heartily again, resumed his pipe with tears in his eyes. "You've been brought up bad," said the Dodger, surveying his boots with much satisfaction when Oliver had polished them. "Fagin will make something of you, though, or you'll be the first he ever
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himself to a process which Mr. Dawkins designated as "japanning his trotter-cases." The phrase, rendered into plain English, signifieth, cleaning his boots. Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational animal may be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy attitude smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his boots cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of having taken them off, or the prospective misery of putting them on, to disturb his reflections; or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed the feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer that mollified his thoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce, with a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature. He looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for a brief space; and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sign, said, half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates: "What a pity it is he isn't a prig!" "Ah!" said Master Charles Bates; "he don't know what's good for him." The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They both smoked, for some seconds, in silence.<|quote|>"I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?"</|quote|>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
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Oliver Twist
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