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Updated: May 6, 2025
The Cartarets had been in Garthdale nine years. Gwenda Cartaret sat in the dining-room at the Vicarage alone with her father. It was nearly ten o'clock of the March evening. They waited for the striking of the clock.
Through all Garthdale and Rathdale, in the Manors and the Lodges and the Granges, in the farmhouses and the cottages, in the inns and little shops, there was a stir of pity and compassion. The people who had left off calling at the Vicarage called again with sympathy and kind inquiries. They were inclined to forget how impossible the Cartarets had been. They were sorry for Gwenda.
He had got into the habit again of looking in at the Vicarage for tea every Wednesday. They were having tea in the orchard now. And in June the Vicarage orchard was a pleasanter place than the surgery. It was in fact a very pleasant place. Pleasanter than the gray and amber drawing-room. When Rowcliffe came to think of it, he owed the Cartarets many pleasant things.
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