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But our point, at present, is that we do not know how Grewgious, to whom this ring was so dear, employed himself at Cloisterham after Edwin's disappearance between December 25 and December 27.
'Not this time, is the careless answer. 'I leave for London again, to-morrow. But I shall be here, off and on, until next Midsummer; then I shall take my leave of Cloisterham, and England too; for many a long day, I expect. 'Are you going abroad? 'Going to wake up Egypt a little, is the condescending answer. 'Are you reading? 'Reading? repeats Edwin Drood, with a touch of contempt. 'No.
And with a significance, of which, as I have said, he may himself have been dimly half-conscious, among the last words of his unfinished story, written that very afternoon, are words that tell of glorious summer sunshine transfiguring the city of his imagination, and of the changing lights, and the song of birds, and the incense from garden and meadow that "penetrate into the cathedral" of Cloisterham, "subdue its earthy odour, and preach the Resurrection and the Life."
I know that in The Mystery of Edwin Drood he not only praised the Minor Canon of Cloisterham at the expense of the dissenting demagogue, Honeythunder; I know that he even took the last and most disastrous step in the modern English reaction. The modern rich feel quite at home with the dead monks. They would have felt anything but comfortable with the live ones.
Nothing is prettier, thought the good Minor Canon frequently, when taking his seat at table opposite his long-widowed mother. Her thought at such times may be condensed into the two words that oftenest did duty together in all her conversations: 'My Sept! They were a good pair to sit breakfasting together in Minor Canon Corner, Cloisterham.
Tope's window- bill, long a Cloisterham Institution, had disappeared; probably had tumbled down one day, and never been put up again. 'I'll call on Mrs. Tope, said Mr. Datchery, 'after dinner. So when he had done his dinner, he was duly directed to the spot, and sallied out for it.
Drood, in my innocently referring to your betrothal? 'By George! cries Edwin, leading on again at a somewhat quicker pace; 'everybody in this chattering old Cloisterham refers to it I wonder no public-house has been set up, with my portrait for the sign of The Betrothed's Head. Or Pussy's portrait. One or the other. 'I am not accountable for Mr.
My gentleman from Cloisterham, I'll be there before ye, and bide your coming. I've swore my oath that I'll not miss ye twice!
This is a feat not difficult of achievement, seeing that the streets of Cloisterham city are little more than one narrow street by which you get into it and get out of it: the rest being mostly disappointing yards with pumps in them and no thoroughfare exception made of the Cathedral-close, and a paved Quaker settlement, in colour and general confirmation very like a Quakeress's bonnet, up in a shady corner.
He knew every hole and corner of all the depths, and dived and dived and dived, until he could bear the cold no more. His notion was, that he would find the body; he only found a shirt-pin sticking in some mud and ooze. With these discoveries he returned to Cloisterham, and, taking Neville Landless with him, went straight to the Mayor. Mr.
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