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Updated: June 16, 2025
Carstyle was quite colorless; it would have been impossible to guess his native tint. His wife's qualities, if they had affected him at all, had acted negatively.
Vibart had an idea that Mr. Carstyle, while ostensibly reading the paper, had kept count of the number of times that his daughter had led her companion up and down between the syringa-bushes; and for some undefinable reason he resented Mr. Carstyle's unperturbed observation more than his wife's zealous self-effacement.
I was not obliged to do my visiting on foot when I was younger, and my doctor tells me that to persons accustomed to a carriage no exercise is more injurious than walking." She glanced at her husband with a smile of unforgiving sweetness. "Fortunately," she concluded, "it agrees with Mr. Carstyle." A Newport drawing-room. Tapestries, flowers, bric-a-brac.
"Well, I was a damned coward once and I've been trying to live it down ever since." Vibart looked at him incredulously and Mr. Carstyle caught the look with a smile. "Why not? Do I look like a Hercules?" He held up his loose-skinned hand and shrunken wrist. "Not built for the part, certainly; but that doesn't count, of course.
"Yes," said Mr. Carstyle slowly, "I thought they were running." "It certainly looked like it for a minute. Let's sit down, shall we? I feel rather breathless myself." Vibart saw that his friend could hardly stand. They seated themselves on a tree-trunk by the roadside, and Mr. Carstyle continued to wipe his forehead in silence.
Carstyle jump into the middle of the road, in front of the buggy. He stood there immovable, his arms extended, his legs apart, in an attitude of indomitable resistance. Almost at the same moment Vibart realized that the man in the buggy had his horses in hand. "They're not running!" Vibart shouted, springing into the road and catching Mr. Carstyle's alpaca sleeve.
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