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The young poet, so careful of his prose style, had not perceived that what he had written was blank verse of the purest; which to Jewdwine in itself sufficiently revealed the disorder of his mind. That cri de coeur rang in Jewdwine's brain for the next twenty-four hours. Then at the last moment he came forward with an offer of one thousand three hundred. The library was sold, to Isaac Rickman.
"I wasn't going to let him sign them, but he took the wind out of my sails by stating beforehand that he didn't want to that if I didn't mind mind, if you please he'd very much rather not. S.K.R. Savage Keith Rickman." "Good Lord!" said Rankin; "what must he be like?" "Ask Jewdwine," said Stables; "he's Jewdwine's man." "Excuse me," said Maddox, "he is mine. I say, Jewdwine, what is he like?"
Maddox was Jewdwine's enemy; and to have given Jewdwine away at that moment would have meant delivering him over to Maddox to destroy. No; when he thought of it he could hardly say he had defended his friend's honour at the expense of his own; for Jewdwine's honour was Lucia's, and Lucia's was not Jewdwine's but his, indistinguishably, inseparably his.
He paused for so long that his next remark, thoughtfully produced, seemed to have no reference to Rickman's communication. "Fielding is getting very old." If Rickman had been in a state of mind to attend carefully to Jewdwine's manner, he might have gathered that the incident had caused him some uneasiness.
You can stare for ever without pinching your nose or gouging your next door neighbour's eye out with your elbow Oh yes, rather; he's a friend of Horace Jewdwine's. Do observe Tubs bathing; his figure is not adapted Did you say a gentleman? Yes, no, yes; ask somebody else. It entirely depends on the point of view. He's an awfully good sort.
It was Jewdwine's excuse that the vitality seemed inexhaustible. Jewdwine, as he had once said, dreaded the divine fire. He would ultimately have subdued the flame by a persistent demand for brilliance of another kind. He admired his immortal adolescence; he would have him young and lyrical for ever. He had discovered everything in him but the dramatic poet he was yet to be.
Jewdwine's "Absolute" had been obliged to "climb down." "Not," said Jewdwine, "if that review is really to lead public opinion." "And certainly not," said Rickman, "if public opinion is to lead the review." "In either case," said Jewdwine nobly, "the principles remain." "Only they're not applied?" "They are not applied, because there is nothing to apply them to.
There was moreover an indescribable pathos in the contrast presented by the remains of the old self, its loftiness, its lucidity, and the vulgarity with which he had wrapped it round. Jewdwine's intellectual splendour had never been so impressive as now when it showed thus tarnished and obscured. "At any rate," he went on, "he is infinitely less absurd. He knows his limitations. Also his mistakes.
He had got to make that clear to Jewdwine; and anything more unpleasant than the coming interview he could not well conceive. Unpleasantness you would have said, was far from Jewdwine's mind that Sunday evening. He himself suggested nothing of the sort.
"What's wrong with it?" "Nothing nothing. Only it isn't exactly what you'd call a gentleman." "Oh. Well, I think you might have told me that before." "I've been trying to tell you." Kitty reflected a moment. "So it's making a catalogue, is it? Whose bright idea is that?" "It was grandpapa's. It's mine now." She did not mention that it was also Horace Jewdwine's.
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