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Updated: May 4, 2025
He had no fancy for leaving havoc in his wake and would have preferred to sow a quick growth of oblivion in the spaces wasted by his unconsidered inroads; but if he supplied the seed it was clearly Mrs. Aubyn's business to see to the raising of the crop.
He was at an age when all the gifts and graces are but so much undiscriminated food to the ravening egoism of youth. In seeking Mrs. Aubyn's company he was prompted by an intuitive taste for the best as a pledge of his own superiority.
I don't know how much it takes to fill a book." "Not love-letters, you say?" "Why?" flashed from Glennard. "Oh, nothing only the big public is sentimental, and if they WERE why, you could get any money for Margaret Aubyn's love-letters." Glennard was silent. "Are the letters interesting in themselves? I mean apart from the association with her name?" "I'm no judge."
Glennard had small faith in the abstract judgments of the other sex; he knew that half the women who were horrified by the publication of Mrs. Aubyn's letters would have betrayed her secrets without a scruple. The sudden lowering of his emotional pitch brought a proportionate relief. He told himself that now the worst was over and things would fall into perspective again.
"Oh, just the letters a woman would write to a man she knew well. They were tremendous friends, he and she." "And she wrote a clever letter?" "Clever? It was Margaret Aubyn." A great silence filled the room. It seemed to Glennard that the words had burst from him as blood gushes from a wound. "Great Scott!" said Flamel, sitting up. "A collection of Margaret Aubyn's letters?
"Because he told you that I was under obligations to him?" She turned pale. "Under obligations?" "Oh, don't let's beat about the bush. Didn't he tell you it was I who published Mrs. Aubyn's letters? Answer me that." "No," she said; and after a moment which seemed given to the weighing of alternatives, she added: "No one told me." "You didn't know then?" She seemed to speak with an effort.
At night he dreamed of home, and constantly visited his father in visions, saying always the same words, "Father, I am alive and well." "And now," whispered the child, nestling closer in St. Aubyn's embrace, "the wonderful thing is that today, for the first and only time since I have been in this cave, my dog has not come to me!
Aubyn's letters. It happened to be the only letter the early post had brought, and he glanced across the table at his wife, who had come down before him and had probably laid the envelope on his plate.
"We must keep a bright lookout presently," the skipper said; "there are some nasty rocks off the coast of Jersey. We must give them a wide berth. We had best make round to the south of the island, and lay to there till we can pick up a pilot to take us into St. Helier. I don't think it will be worth while trying to get into St. Aubyn's Bay by ourselves."
Austin, breathless with interest, hung upon St Aubyn's lips as he pointed out the peculiarities of each great master represented, and explained how, for instance, by a fold of the drapery or the crook of a finger, the characteristic mannerisms of the painter could be detected, and the school to which a given work belonged could approximately be determined; drew attention to the unifying and grouping of the different features of a composition; spoke learnedly of textures, qualities, and tactile values; and laid stress on the importance of colour, light, atmosphere, and the sense of motion, as contrasted with the undue preponderance too often attached by critics to mere outline.
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