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Updated: June 11, 2025
"Yes," we said all together, studying him the while. "Yes, this is Van Diemen's Avenue." "Thanks," he replied, and withdrew his foot from our bottom step. It seemed as though he was about to depart and leave us guessing, when he spoke again. "Perhaps you know the house I want," he said. "Carville's the name. I," he added as if in an afterthought, "am Mr. Carville."
Carville not only grew no flowers herself, but permitted her chickens to wander deleteriously among ours. A brief and passing glance from the street would have given a stranger no inkling of the state of affairs. Indeed, Mrs. Carville's domain and ours were un-American in the fact that there had at one time been a fence between us.
Carville's voice behind me, and I turned. "What do you think, sir?" he said, and waved his hand. "You are right," I replied in a low tone. "You are certainly right. As for your San Giorgio," I smiled, "I'm afraid, Mr. Carville, you are a cleverer man than I thought you!" "Come down and have a smoke," he said. "I've some letters to see to."
It was nearly dark and we watched his face reflecting the glow. Suddenly Bill realized the time and rose. "Won't you stay to dinner?" she asked. "No thank you," he said. "Mrs. Carville's going into Newark this evening, I believe, and we're going to take the boys to a show." He rose. "I must get back. Good-night." "Come in and finish your story," said Mac. "All right. Good-night and thank you."
When we first came to America we planted all our seeds in the garden too deep and they grew downward, assuming awful and grotesque forms. In some such way Mr. Carville's imagination was working within him, fashioning, as I say, a new type. I insist upon this, inasmuch as beyond it I have no mementoes of him.
I am continually torn in the conflict between realism and what are called "unworthy thoughts." If it were not for a fear of traducing my own character by an ambiguous phrase, I would confess to many "unworthy thoughts" of many worthy people. I suppress them, of course, as I suppressed these concerning Mrs. Carville's trip to New York and the secular gaiety that now sat like a diadem on Mrs.
We were all looking for this hole, but somehow it had eluded us. I, in my humble way, had groped and analyzed and plotted to find it, but without success, when suddenly it seemed to me I heard a voice from the other side, Mr. Carville's voice, telling us not only what the world looked like out there, but also how he got there. This is no doubt a fanciful picture; but one of Mr.
I was very tired, and the four-mile journey in the trolley-car was tedious. As I passed the dark house next door, Mrs. Carville's voice came back to me as she caught the meaning of my words that evening. I had said it was easy to love without responsibility, and she had answered with an eagerness of assent that I could not forget.
When one is prone on the grass, a clothes-line drawn tight about one's arms, and a triumphant cow-boy of eight years in the very act of placing his foot on one's neck, it is difficult to look dignified. The sudden intrusion of an unsympathetic personality will banish the romantic illusion. It may be that the sombre look in Mrs. Carville's face was merely expressive of a doubt of my sanity.
It is called "Pelham," and will be amusing to read aloud in the family. Will Mr. Venables call at Carville's on his way up, have the book charged to Mr. Lawrence Newt, and present it, with Mr. Newt's compliments, to his sister?
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