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Grandmama is a very nice person, but why does she never listen when I speak of father? I go and read to her sometimes when she is feeling well, and she says she likes my reading better than Brian's; he gabbles on so quick and never stops, because he wants to get it over. Sometimes I stop altogether in the middle of a chapter and talk instead. We have very nice talks we talk about you.
Old people always have some such queer notions. Of course love all depends upon what sort of person you are. Now, as I see it, Mama and Grandmama are not the sort of persons who have real love-affairs. Devoted as I am to both of them, I cannot but perceive they are lacking in real depth of sentiment. They simply do not understand or care about such matters.
Grandmama, who had fallen asleep and dropped the London Mercury onto the floor, diverted the conversation by waking up and remarking that it seemed a less interesting number than usual on the whole, though some of the pieces of poetry were pretty, and that Mrs. Hilary ought not to lie under the open window. Mrs. Hilary, who was getting worse, admitted that she had better be in bed.
What had she done to life, that it should have deserted her and left her stranded on the shores of a watering-place, empty-handed and pitiful, alone with time the enemy, and with Grandmama, for whom it was all very well? In the Crescent music blared out once more the Army, calling for strayed sheep in the rain. "Glory for you, glory for me!" it shouted. And then, presently: "Count your blessings!
You've got hold of only one tiny part of it the part practised by Austrian professors on Viennese degenerates. Many of the doctors are really sane and brilliant. I know of cases...." "Well," said Mrs. Hilary, quickly and rather crossly, "I can't talk about it before Grandmama." Neville got up to meet Grandmama, put a hand under her arm, and conducted her to her special chair beneath the cedar.
A bitter game, for you build and others take, and your labour is but lost that builded; you sow and others reap. But Grandmama and May were both good-tempered and ladylike. They played prettily together, age and youth. Why did life play one these tricks, Mrs. Hilary cried within herself.
Pamela, who seemed lightly, and as it were casually, to swing a key to the door against which Neville, among many others, beat; Pamela, going about her work, keen, debonair and detached, ironic, cool and quiet, responsive to life and yet a thought disdainful of it, lightly holding and easily renouncing; the world's lover, yet not its servant, her foot at times carelessly on its neck to prove her power over it Pamela said blandly to Grandmama, when the old lady commented one day on her admirable composure, "Life's so short, you see.
She never stayed in so long as this; she usually only plunged in and came out. Grandmama, stopping on the esplanade in her donkey chair, was waving and beckoning to her. Grandmama knew she had been in too long, and that her rheumatism would be bad. "Come out, dear," Grandmama called, in her old thin voice. "Come out. You've been in far too long." Mrs. Hilary only waved her hand to Grandmama.
Two of his brothers were killed in the mutiny; they were heroes, I think. They were called Geoffry and Roger." The little boy made up his mind that he should never like the new uncle. The disparaging accent on his father's name was an insult. Mr. Colquhoun had married Jeff's aunt, his mother's eldest sister, and lived at Loch Lossie with grandmama, under whose roof Jeff was to be.
The children, too, with all the natural gayety of their years, found that something of sweetness and comfort had dropped out of life something of the charm and dearness of home was gone with "grandmama," from the Palace, the Castle, the seaside mansion, as well as from pleasant Frogmore, where they were always so welcome.
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