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Updated: June 7, 2025
Just as if this had really been the dream it seemed, she felt incapable of speech or action. "So..." said Mr. Carmyle, becoming articulate, and allowed an impressive aposiopesis to take the place of the rest of the speech. A cold fury had gripped him. He pointed at Gerald, began to speak, found that he was stuttering, and gulped back the words.
Sally was tempted to reply that she gathered that, but a sudden embarrassment curbed her tongue. She had just remembered that at their last meeting she had been abominably rude to this man. She was never rude to anyone, without subsequent remorse. She contented herself with a tame "Yes." "Yes," said Mr. Carmyle, "it is a good many years since I have taken a real holiday.
Sally's rebellious temper was well ablaze now, but she fought it down. She would dearly have loved to give battle to Mr. Carmyle it was odd, she felt, how she seemed to have constituted herself Ginger's champion and protector but she perceived that, if she wished, as she did, to hear more of her red-headed friend, he must be humoured and conciliated. "But what happened?
Carmyle, and the fact that he had found someone to share the bad news, seemed to cheer him a little. "Not here?" "No. Apparently..." Bruce Carmyle's scowl betrayed that resentment which a well-balanced man cannot but feel at the unreasonableness of others. "... Apparently, for some extraordinary reason, she has taken it into her head to dash over to England." Ginger tottered.
Bruce Carmyle had not entirely made up his mind regarding Sally, but on one point he was clear, that she should not, if he could help it, pass out of his life. Her abrupt departure had left him with that baffled and dissatisfied feeling which, though it has little in common with love at first sight, frequently produces the same effects.
A devastating feeling of loss smote her like a blow. "Yes, I've had enough of this place," Bruce Carmyle was saying. "Good night," said Sally. She hesitated. "When shall I see you?" she asked awkwardly. It occurred to Bruce Carmyle that he was not showing himself at his best. He had, he perceived, allowed his nerves to run away with him. "You don't mind if I go?" he said more amiably.
"Thanks." Bruce Carmyle wrote the information down with a gold pencil in a dapper little morocco-bound note-book. He was the sort of man who always has a pencil, and the backs of old envelopes never enter into his life. There was a pause. Bruce Carmyle coughed. "I saw Uncle Donald this morning," he said. His manner had lost its geniality.
But he also had a most excruciating headache, and when he drew himself up haughtily to ask Mr. Carmyle what the devil he meant by it, a severe access of pain sent him huddling back immediately to a safer attitude. He clasped his forehead and groaned. "Get out!" For a moment Gerald hesitated.
Carmyle swung round with a frown on his dark face which seemed to say that he had not found the janitor's conversation entertaining. The sight of Ginger plainly did nothing to lighten his gloom. "Hullo!" he said. "Hullo!" said Ginger. Uncomfortable silence followed these civilities. "Have you come to see Miss Nicholas?" "Why, yes." "She isn't here," said Mr.
"Give them to me and I'll send them to her," suggested Ginger. "Good Lord, man!" snapped Mr. Carmyle. "I'm capable of sending a few books to America. Where does she live?" Ginger revealed the sacred number of the holy street which had the luck to be Sally's headquarters. He did it because with a persistent devil like his cousin there seemed no way of getting out of it: but he did it grudgingly.
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