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Oh I hope not, Mrs. Morrison. And she do know about it. She heard it last night. And Sir Augustus himself has promised the young lady to go and help." "Sir Augustus?" "And we all think it so kind of him, and so kind of the young lady too," said Mrs. Vickerton, gathering courage. "Sir Augustus?" repeated Mrs. Morrison. Then a horrid presentiment laid cold fingers on her heart.
Vickerton every day and she was a woman who loved to talk; but those of the Shuttleworth servants who were often in Minehead on divers errands ratified and added to all he said, and embellished the tale besides with what was to them the most interesting part, the unmistakable signs their Augustus showed of intending to marry the young woman. This did not interest the murderer.
Vickerton, the postmistress's son, get to a paperhanger's and order him and his men to come out in shoals to Symford the next morning at daybreak, making the paperhanger vow, who had never seen them, that the cottages should be done by nightfall.
Then, happening to come to the seashore, he stood for a moment refreshing his nostrils with saltness, for he was desperately worn out, and what he did after that heaven knows. Anyhow young Vickerton found him hours afterwards walking up and down the shingle in the dark, waving his arms about and crying "O, qui me gelidis convallibus Haemi Sistat et ingenti ramorum protegat umbra!"
Vickerton was wrapping up and ate it, putting great pressure on herself to do it carelessly, with a becoming indifference. "It's good bread," said Mrs. Vickerton, doing up her parcel. "Where in the world do you get it from?" asked Priscilla enthusiastically. "The man must be a genius." "The carrier brings it every day," said Mrs. Vickerton, pleased and touched by such appreciation.
"Talking German out loud to himself," said young Vickerton to his mother that night; and it is possible that he had been doing it all the time. And while he was doing these things Priscilla was having calls paid her. Nothing could exceed her astonishment when about four o'clock, as she was sitting deep in thought and bored on the arm of a horsehair chair, Mrs.
There she stood and waited for the villagers to question them about this unheard of thing; and it was bad to see how they melted away in other directions, out at unused gates, making detours over the grass, visiting the long-neglected graves of relatives, anywhere rather than along the ordinary way, which was the path where the vicar's wife stood. At last came Mrs. Vickerton the postmistress.
"I did hear they pretty well all thought of it," said Mrs. Vickerton, coughing. "Beautiful weather, isn't it, Mrs. Morrison." "They are to have tea there?" Mrs. Vickerton gazed pleasantly at the clouds and the tree-tops. "I should think there might be tea, Mrs. Morrison," she said; and the vision of that mighty list of cakes rising before her eyes made her put up her hand and cough again.
She was a genteel woman who called no one mum. The innkeeper's wife slipped deftly away among graves. "Is it true that the children are going to Baker's Farm this afternoon?" asked Mrs. Morrison, turning and walking grimly by Mrs. Vickerton. "I did hear something about it, Mrs. Morrison," said Mrs. Vickerton, hiding her agitation behind a series of smiles with sudden endings. "All?"
"Is any one else going to help?" she asked quickly. "Only the young lady's uncle, and " Mrs. Vickerton hesitated, and looked at the vicar's wife with a slightly puzzled air. "And who?" "Of course Mr. Robin." It is the practice of Providence often to ignore the claims of poetic justice.
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