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Updated: May 21, 2025
At the very moment when he returned to the home in the country where he had been born, the blue room had faded to white, his mother was reposing in the bosom of heaven, the picture of his father was no longer there, the peacock-feathers and the vase had disappeared. Some sort of object stood in the clock's place.
Then he see a town clock away off down yonder, and he took up the glass and looked at it, and then looked at his silver turnip, and then at the clock, and then at the turnip again, and says: "That's funny! That clock's near about an hour fast." So he put up his turnip. Then he see another clock, and took a look, and it was an hour fast too. That puzzled him.
"Bella was dressing," said Miss Nugent, calmly, "and you gave orders yesterday that nobody else was to open the door." "Nobody else when she's available," qualified her father, eyeing her sharply. "When I give orders I expect people to use their common sense. Why isn't my tea ready? It's five o'clock." "The clock's twenty minutes fast," said Kate.
Fleur, leaning out of her window, heard the hall clock's muffled chime of twelve, the tiny splash of a fish, the sudden shaking of an aspen's leaves in the puffs of breeze that rose along the river, the distant rumble of a night train, and time and again the sounds which none can put a name to in the darkness, soft obscure expressions of uncatalogued emotions from man and beast, bird and machine, or, maybe, from departed Forsytes, Darties, Cardigans, taking night strolls back into a world which had once suited their embodied spirits.
The old Mayor did not like the whole affair. He could not quite reconcile himself to the stirring of the old Viking blood. He could not sleep for thinking of it, and went out again into the street and strolled slowly towards the square. It was a mild spring night. The church clock's only hand pointed to eleven. The balls had ceased to roll on the bowling alley. The curtains were drawn down.
"Clock's fast," he said, rising and adjusting it. His wife rose almost at the same moment, and with slow deliberate movements began to clear the table. "What what about dinner?" said Mr. Henshaw, still trying to control his fears. "Dinner!" repeated Mrs. Henshaw, in a terrible voice. "You go and tell that creature you were on the 'bus with to get your dinner." Mr.
But now after the woeful day in the middle of the night with the echo of the clock's solitary sound still in the solitary room in the utter stillness of moor and castle emptiness she was startled almost to fright. Something had happened to the pitiful face. A change had come over it not a change which had stolen gradually but a change which was actually sudden.
Peter, dulled by misery, sat opposite his grandfather in the dining-room without moving, conscious of the heavy twilight that the dark blinds flung about the room, feeling the silence that was only accentuated by the old man's uneasy "clack-clack" in his sleep and the clock's regular ticking.
"My watch must be fast," said Mr. Prohack, perturbed. But at eighteen minutes past eleven the clock had audibly struck neither the hour nor the quarter. Sir Paul was a man of tact. He said simply: "I should like a drink, dear old boy." "The clock's not striking," said Mr. Prohack, with solemn joy, as the wonderful truth presented itself to him.
He must've seen it before, if you never did; you don't tell me this little bit o' kidnapping was a sudden idea! It's all been thought out and the ground gone over, and the clock seen, as I say. Seen going. Yet it never strikes our flash friend that a going clock's got to be wound up once a week, and it might be as well to find out which day!" "How do you know he didn't?"
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