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Your father was that way. Most of the women here would rather have been the wife of Cracked McGregor ugly as he was than to have stayed with their own husbands. I heard my mother say that to father when they lay quarrelling in bed at night and I lay listening." The boy was overcome with the thought of a woman talking to him so frankly. He looked at her and said what was in his mind.
"I believe," he declared hoarsely, "that there are two men standing there." "Tell me, are they moving?" she demanded. "They seem to be simply watching the house," he replied. She was silent. He could hear her breath come and go. "They still do not move?" she asked, after a few seconds. He shook his head, and she turned away, listening to some footsteps in the hall.
Rather he seemed to be uttering his thoughts aloud; the old habit of making a running explanation for the benefit of a clinic or the better understanding of an assistant was subconsciously asserting itself, and it was to Rose as though she were listening to the outpouring of a fountain of knowledge, whose waters engulfed her mind and made it gasp, yet carried her along with them.
It seemed to me that he was perpetually listening, watching, waiting for something to happen: a word spoken suddenly, the sharp opening of a door, would make him start, turn crimson, and almost tremble; the mention of Lovelock brought a helpless look, half a convulsion, like that of a man overcome by great heat, into his face.
"There is at least no further reason why she should not know all" he meditated. "Since my chance is gone, I cannot make matters worse by speaking, and it will be a relief to tell her." He paused, dwelling on the idea of his speaking and her listening how differently from what he had thought of before and then went on "To-morrow is as good as any other time.
I can assure you that, when I look in my own heart, I find myself more fortunate in having met with a person who has brought light to my mind than miserable at having taken the veil; for the greatest happiness must certainly consist in living and in dying peacefully a happiness which can hardly be obtained by listening to all the idle talk with which the priests puzzle our brains."
Fields draws of the young author reciting his new productions to his listening family; though, when they met, he sometimes read older literature to them.
He turned from the door, stretched himself on the cot, and with his face to the wall listened while Silverthorn cursed. Shortly after midnight Sanderson was sound asleep on the cot in the cell when a strange, scraping noise awakened him. He lay still for a long time, listening, until he discovered that the sound came from the window.
What was it he had said in his broken English as he went away? that he would come back; that she was "beautibul." All at once as she lay still, her head throbbing, her feet and hands icy cold, she sat up listening. "Ah-again!" she cried. She sprang from her bed, rushed to the door, and strained her eyes into the silver night. She called into the icy void, "Qui va la? Who goes?"
This gentleman was the centre of an eager circle; half a dozen men were talking to him, listening deferentially when he spoke, and each of these men, so Mrs. Bunting realised, was a Somebody.
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