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Updated: June 5, 2025
Mr Pickering experienced the discomfiting emotions of the man who pushes violently against an abruptly-yielding door, or treads heavily on the top stair where there is no top stair. He was shaken, and the clamlike stolidity which he had assumed as protection gave way. Night had descended upon Brookport. Eustace, the monkey, was in his little bed; Lord Wetherby in the smoking-room.
I used to know all sorts of fellows, actors and fellows like that, and they're all away somewhere. I tell you, he said, with pathos, 'I never knew I could be so infernally lonesome as I have been these last two days. If I had known what a rotten time I was going to have I would never have left Brookport. 'Brookport! 'It's a place down on Long Island.
The days she spent at Brookport remained in Jill's memory as a smell of dampness and chill and closeness. "You want to buy," said Mr Mariner every time he shut a front-door behind them. "Not rent. Buy. Then, if you don't want to live here, you can always rent in the summer." It seemed incredible to Jill that the summer would ever come. Winter held Brookport in its grip.
The great aim of Elizabeth's life was to make a new man of Nutty. It was her hope that the quiet life and soothing air of Brookport, with unless you counted the money-in-the-slot musical box at the store its absence of the fiercer excitements, might in time pull him together and unscramble his disordered nervous system.
"Good egg, you know. Halloa, here's a postscript. I didn't see it." P.S. I should be glad if you would convey my most cordial respects to Mrs. Moffam. Will you also inform her that I chanced to meet Mr. William this morning on Broadway, just off the boat. He desired me to send his regards and to say that he would be joining you at Brookport in the course of a day or so. Mr.
If Jill's vision of Brookport as a wintery Southend was not entirely fulfilled, neither was Uncle Chris' picture of it as an earthly paradise. At the right time of the year, like most of the summer resorts on the south shore of Long Island, it is not without its attractions; but January is not the month which most people would choose for living in it.
Mr Mariner's life centered around Brookport real estate, and the embarrassed Jill was compelled to inspect sitting-rooms, bathrooms, kitchens, and master's bedrooms till the sound of a key turning in a lock gave her a feeling of nervous exhaustion. Most of her uncle's houses were converted farmhouses and, as one unfortunate purchaser had remarked, not so darned converted at that.
This was the Atlantic pounding the sandy shore of Fire Island. Brookport itself lay inside, on the lagoon called the Great South Bay. "This is Brookport," said Mr Mariner. "That's Haydock's grocery store there by the post-office. He charges sixty cents a pound for bacon, and I can get the same bacon by walking into Patchogue for fifty-seven!"
He brooded awhile on the greed of man, as exemplified by the pirates of Brookport. "The very same bacon!" he said. "How far is Patchogue?" asked Jill, feeling that some comment was required of her. "Four miles," said Mr Mariner. They passed through the village, bearing to the right, and found themselves in a road bordered by large gardens in which stood big, dark houses.
It takes all sorts to make a world, what!" What might be called the revival of Pongo, the restoration of Pongo to the ranks of the things that matter, took place several weeks later, when Archie was making holiday at the house which his father-in-law had taken for the summer at Brookport.
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