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Updated: May 2, 2025
'Look here, he said, 'E. W. Smith is here, and he 's wanted! 'First of all, said Peter, 'who is E. W. Smith, and why the dickens should you imagine he is here? Dunbar gave him a quick look. 'Is any one here? he asked. 'No one but Ross and Christopherson and myself, said Peter. 'Purvis was here, but he started for Buenos Ayres last night, and I have no idea where he is now.
We had never seen each other, but when I mentioned my name and said I was anxious to have news of Mrs. Christopherson, she led me into a sitting-room, and began to talk confidentially. She was a good-natured Yorkshirewoman, very unlike the common London landlady. 'Yes, Mrs. Christopherson had been taken ill two days ago. It began with a long fainting fit.
'It is my name, said the stranger, in a subdued and uncertain voice. 'Indeed? The book used to belong to you? 'It belonged to me. He laughed oddly, a tremulous little crow of a laugh, at the same time stroking his head, as if to deprecate disbelief. 'You never heard of the sale of the Christopherson library? To be sure, you were too young; it was in 1860.
'Ay, I'll tell you; I was coming to that. Mrs. Christopherson has relatives well off a fat and selfish lot, as far as I can make out never lifted a finger to help her until now. One of them's a Mrs. Keeting, the widow of some City porpoise, I'm told. Well, this woman has a home down in Norfolk. She never lives there, but a son of hers goes there to fish and shoot now and then.
The country round Bowshott is known as 'stiff' for hunting people, but Kitty had marked out a straight line for herself, and took everything that came in her way with a sort of foolhardiness which made a trifle of big hedges or yawning ditches, and all the time she was saying to herself, 'I will never forgive him, never! She had given her whole heart to Nigel Christopherson, and believed that he had given his to her.
The crisis through which he had passed had made him, in appearance, a yet older man; when he declared his happiness tears came into his eyes, and his head shook with a senile tremor. Before they left London, I saw Mrs. Christopherson a pale, thin, slightly made woman, who had never been what is called good-looking, but her face, if ever face did so, declared a brave and loyal spirit.
Still, Miss Abingdon was not accustomed to the presence of a sick man in her house, and she paused on the door-mat before entering the room, and said to herself, 'I feel very awkward. Then she timidly tapped at the door and went in. Sir Nigel Christopherson was lying in bed reading the Bible. When he was not getting into debt, or riding races, or playing polo, or loving Mrs.
We began to talk of the books on the stall, and turning away together continued our conversation. Christopherson was not only a well-bred but a very intelligent and even learned man. No, he had never written anything never; he was only a bookworm, he said. Thereupon he crowed faintly and took his leave. It was not long before we again met by chance.
In telling me about it, Christopherson crowed as I had never heard him; but methought his eye avoided that part of the floor which had formerly been hidden, and in the course of our conversation he now and then became absent, with head bowed. Of the joy he felt in his wife's recovery there could, however, be no doubt.
He came to announce that everything had been settled for the packing and transporting of Mr. Christopherson's library; it remained only to decide the day. 'There's no hurry, exclaimed Christopherson. 'There's really no hurry. I'm greatly obliged to you, Mr. Pomfret, for all the trouble you are taking. We'll settle the date in a day or two a day or two.
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