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Updated: June 27, 2025
The lighted candle fell from Celia's nerveless fingers and rolled over and over across the floor, trailing a smoking wick. Berkley's hand steadied her trembling arm. "Why are you frightened?" he asked calmly. "There is nothing dead about what I saw."
"It would have been ruder to neglect us, little Puritan! I want to see Connie Berkley's boy. I'm glad he came." Celia Craig, once Celia Marye Ormond Paige, stood watching her taller sister-in-law twisting up her hair and winding the thick braid around the crown of her head a la coronal.
"Is that why you care?" she asked slowly. "Ailsa! Good God I scarcely know what I'm saying " "I know." She stepped back, eyes darkening to deepest violet retreated, facing him, step by step to the doorway, through it; and left him standing there. Berkley's first letter to her was written during that week of lovely weather, the first week in March.
Berkley's face looked dreadfully battered and white, but he was master of himself, careful of his equilibrium, and very polite to everybody. "You're hic! killin' yourself," said Cortlandt, balancing himself carefully in the doorway. "Don't put it that way," protested Berkley. "I'm trying to make fast time, that's all. I'm in a hurry."
And, one afternoon when Letty was on duty and she and Celia were busy with their mending in Celia's room, she thought about Berkley's letter and his enmity, and remembered Celia's silent aversion at the same moment. "Celia," she said, looking up, "would you mind telling me what it is that you dislike about my old and very dear friend, Colonel Arran?"
Yet, she could scarcely endure the strain, the overmastering desire to say something in Berkley's behalf to make him better understood to explain to Hallam, and have Hallam explain to his troop that Berkley was his own most reckless enemy, that there was good in him, kindness, a capacity for better things
On the following morning, Flemming and Berkleystarted on their way to Innsbruck, like Huon of Bordeaux and Scherasmin on their way to Babylon. Berkley's self-assumed duty was to console his companion; a duty which he performed like an old Spanish Matadora, a woman whose business was to attend the sick, and put her elbow into the stomach of the dying to shorten their agony. Epigraph
Berkley's witty eloquence was a wonder. It is to my uneasy period, when I was sick with private griefs and giddy with striving to reconcile incompatibilities, that the episode of the Chickens belongs. I was looking dissatisfied out of one of my windows. Hohenfels, disappointed of a promenade by an afternoon shower, was looking dissatisfied out of the other.
"Some days after, uncle kindly took me to spend the day with Vea. I was delighted to find that Patrick had been removed to Mrs. Berkley's, and had stood the journey very well. He had been carried on a stretcher by some of the fishermen; and they had borne him along so gently that Patrick declared he had never felt the least motion, and thought he had been lying on his bed all the time.
"It's the company he keeps," he said "a lot of fast men fast enough to be talked about, fashionable enough to be tolerated Jack Casson is one of them, and that little ass, Arthur Wye. That's the crowd a horse-racing, hard-drinking, hard-gambling crew." "But he is Mr. Berkley's circumstances how can he do such things "
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