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The sin against Maisie had been committed already in Jerrold's heart when it turned from her. Whatever happened, or didn't happen, afterwards, nothing could undo that. And Maisie wouldn't suffer. She wouldn't know. Her thoughts went out again on the dark flood. She couldn't think any more. Half past five. She started up at the click of the gate. That was Jerrold. v
There's no metre to it, and I should certainly be sorry to think a woman wrote it." "Why?" asked Mae, quickly, almost commandingly. Norman glanced at her. There was a tiny rosebud on each cheek. "Because," replied Mrs. Jerrold, "it is too too what, Edith?" "Physical, perhaps," suggested Edith. "It is a satyr-like sort of writing," suggested Norman. "I should advise this person," said Edith
But none of us are just what we should like to be. Fortune has her say in the matter; and as Bacon observes, a man's fortune works on his nature, and his nature on his fortune. Many a play Jerrold no doubt wrote when he would rather have been writing something else, and so on, as life rolled by, and the day that was passing over him required to be provided for.
She forgot that Anne had taken her sons' affection and her place beside her husband's deathbed. And though she couldn't help feeling rather glad that Jerrold had gone to India without Anne, she was sorry for her. She loved her and she meant to keep her. She said she simply could not bear it if Anne left her, and was it the time to choose when she wanted her as she had never wanted her before?
Resuming the letter at last, Bessie read on: "I have asked him to spend a day at Stoneleigh after he has finished his business in Carnarvon, and he has accepted and will be with us at Christmas. He is an American Grey Jerrold, from Boston and the right sort of a fellow, too: not a bit of a cad, if he did thrash me unmercifully the first time I ever saw him.
It made Anne burst into tears. "Oh, Jerrold, that's the worst that's happened yet. Everybody'll cut her, because of me." "Bless you, she won't care. She says she doesn't care about anybody but you and me." "But that's the awful thing, her caring. That's the punishment. The punishment." Again he took her in his arms and comforted her. "What am I to do, Jerry? What am I to do?"
And when, at last, Grey came, and, after greeting the ladies, asked after Bessie, Miss McPherson replied that she was better and had just left them for the garden; and then, as Grey made no move to go in search of her, she suddenly turned upon him with the exclamation: "Grey Jerrold, you are a fool!" "Ye-es?" he answered, interrogatively, as he regarded her with astonishment.
But the little man did not need the soap-stone; he had the warmest, kindest, most unselfish heart that ever beat in a human breast, and never thought of the storm, as he waded through the deep snow and took his seat beside Burton Jerrold in the sleigh, which Sam drove rapidly toward the farm-house in the pasture.
"You're jolly right," he said; and then being in a humorous as well as confidential mood, he told the story of himself and Montagu Jerrold. "Wasn't I a Johnny?" he asked at the end. "Served me right for trying to make a silk purse of myself. Can't be done, I guess." "But you are a silk purse!" Sara protested indignantly. "How can you talk about yourself the way you do?"
Jerry fetched a pencil and paper from the schoolroom; and Anne wrote. Dear Pinkney: We didn't know. We wouldn't have done it if we'd known. We are awfully sorry. Yours truly, P.S. You aren't to answer this. Half an hour later Jerrold knocked at her door. "Anne are you in bed?" She got up and stood with him at the door in her innocent nightgown. "It's all right," he said. "I've seen Pinkney.
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