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Wimp did not move. "Tom Mortlake," went on Denzil, looking disappointed, "had a sweetheart." He paused impressively. Wimp said, "Yes?" "Where is that sweetheart now?" "Where, indeed?" "You know about her disappearance?" "You have just informed me of it." "Yes, she is gone without a trace. She went about a fortnight before Mr. Constant's murder." "Murder? How do you know it was murder?" "Mr.
It was this development of the personal novel at the commencement of the nineteenth century, exhibited in Chateaubriand's Rene, Madame de Stael's Corinne, Benjamin Constant's Adolphe, George Sand's Indiana, and Sainte-Beuve's Volupte, which contributed so much to create and establish the Romantic School of fiction with its egoistic lyricism.
Constant's face of surprise at me changed to one of malice. Down at St. Quentin he had suffered much from us pages, as a slow, peevish old dotard must. I had played many a prank on him, but I had not thought he would revenge himself at such time as this. He looked at me with a spiteful grin, and said to the men: "He lies. I do not know him. I never saw him." "Never saw me, Félix Broux!"
Arthur Constant's picture dominated the scene, the only living thing in a hall of the dead. But only for a moment. Mortlake shook off the detective's hand. "Boys!" he cried, in accents of infinite indignation, "this is a police conspiracy." His words relaxed the tension. The stony figures were agitated. A dull excited hubbub answered him.
Arthur Constant's backsliding cheered many by convincing them that others were as bad as themselves; and well-to-do tradesmen saw in Mortlake's wickedness the pernicious effects of Socialism. A dozen new theories were afloat. Constant had committed suicide by Esoteric Buddhism, as witness his devotion to Mme.
He wrote to her, of course, sometimes the landlady knew his writing." Wimp looked Denzil straight in the eyes, and said, "You mean, of course, to accuse Mortlake of the murder of Mr. Constant?" "N-n-no, not at all," stammered Denzil, "only you know what Mr. Grodman wrote to the Pell Mell. The more we know about Mr. Constant's life the more we shall know about the manner of his death.
He sat down in Constant's chair, and, leaning his elbows on the table, thrusting his hands in his hair, he in less than no time read the report through. When he had finished, he arose with pale and distorted features. "Sir," said he to the magistrate in a strange voice, "I have been the involuntary cause of a terrible mistake. This man is innocent."
One of the most striking circumstances in Benjamin Constant's novel, one of the explanations of Ellenore's desertion, is the want of daily or, if you will, of nightly intercourse between her and Adolphe. Each of the lovers has a separate home; they have both submitted to the world and saved appearances.
Constant wished to be woke three-quarters of an hour earlier than usual, and to have his breakfast at seven, having to speak at an early meeting of discontented tram-men. She ran at once, candle in hand, to his bedroom. It was upstairs. All "upstairs" was Arthur Constant's domain, for it consisted of but two mutually independent rooms. Mrs.
Even I never counted on the unfortunate series of accidental phenomena which have led to Mortlake's implication in a network of suspicion. On the other hand, the fact that my servant, Jane, who usually goes about ten, left a few minutes earlier on the night of December 3rd, so that she didn't know of Constant's visit, was a relevant accident.
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