United States or Brazil ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Aunt Bella would come and stay with Mamma, then Aunt Lavvy, then Mrs. Draper, so that she would not be left alone. Stitch stitch. She wondered: Supposing they weren't coming? Could she have left her mother alone, or would she have given up going and stayed? No. She couldn't have given it up. She had never wanted anything in her life as she wanted to go to Agaye with the Sutcliffes. With Mr.
"You don't really like farming: you only think you ought to. What do you really like?" "Going away. Getting out of this confounded country into the South of France. I'm not really happy, Mary, till I'm pottering about my garden at Agaye." She looked where he was looking. Two drawings above the chimney-piece. A chain of red hills swung out into a blue sea. The Esterel.
She was kneeling now beside her bed. She could see her arms stretched out before her on the counterpane, and her hands, the finger-tips together. She pressed her weak, dragging waist tighter against the bed. "If Anything's there if Anything's there make me give up going. Make me think about Roddy. Not about myself. About Roddy. Roddy. Make me not want to go to Agaye."
"Where do you want to get away to?" "There. Agaye." He leaned forward. His eyes glittered. "You'd like that?" "I'd like it more than anything on earth." "Then," he said, "some day you'll go there." "No. Don't let's talk about it. I shall never go." "I don't see why not. I don't really see why not." She shook her head. "No. That sort of thing doesn't happen."
"Roddy doesn't say he is ill," her mother said. "I wonder what he's coming home for." Supposing you had really gone? Supposing you were at Agaye when Roddy The thought of Roddy gave her a pain in her heart. The thought of not going to Agaye dragged at her waist and made her feel weak, suddenly, as if she were trying to stand after an illness. She went up to her room.
Twelve years after their marriage Veronica was born at Simla, and the coming and going ceased for three years. Then Bartie sent them both home. That time Vera had refused to travel farther westward than Marseilles. She was afraid of damp and cold, and she had got the ship's doctor to order her to the Riviera. She and Veronica had been living for two years in a small villa at Agaye.
She stitched and stitched, making new underclothing. It was going to happen. Summer and Christmas and the New Year had gone. In another week it would happen. She would be sitting with the Sutcliffes in the Paris-Lyons-Mediterranee express, going with them to Agaye. She had to have new underclothing. They would be two days in Paris.
..."Mary Olivier, the woman Nicholson discovered." ..."Mary Olivier, the woman who was Nicholson's mistress." Richard's mistress I know that's what they say, but I can't feel that they're saying it about me. It must be somebody else, some woman I never heard of. Mr. Sutcliffe is dead. He died two weeks ago at Agaye.
The delicate, wrinkled hand came out from under the cashmere shawl to stroke her arm. It kept on stroking, a long, loving, slow caress. It made her queerly aware of her arm white and slender under the big puff of the sleeve lying across Mrs. Sutcliffe's lap. "He'll be happier in his garden at Agaye." She heard herself assenting. "He'll be happier." And breaking out.
Coming home. Expect me to-morrow. Rodney." She knew then that she would not go to Agaye. But not all at once. When she thought of Roddy it was easy to say quietly to herself, "I shall have to give it up." When she thought of Mr. Sutcliffe and the Paris-Lyons-Mediterranee train and the shining, gold-white, unknown towns, it seemed to her that it was impossible to give up going to Agaye.
Word Of The Day