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Updated: June 19, 2025
I'm going to behave myself, though, I am, I am; but I hope she won't expect too much, that she won't push forward too fast now." "Oh, Alice, I don't believe Cordelia's that kind of a girl at all; she's too proud.
"I believe." he said, gayly, "I am still able to read as well in your face, mother, as I could when I was a boy, and took pains to discover whether or not I had deserved punishment for some naughty prank. I believe I have understood your mute dialogue with Cordelia. Will you confess the truth to me if I tell you what Cordelia's glances and your nod signified?" "Yes, if you guess it."
The one over the library mantel is broken, too." "Oh, it is a sign of death!" Cordelia's feet were heard as she staggered on the stairs. She almost fell into the room. She reeled over to Mr. Townsend and clutched his arm. He cast a sidewise glance, half furious, half commiserating at her. "Well, what is it all about?" he asked. "I don't know. What is it? Oh, what is it?
At home Emmy Lou cried with her head buried in Aunt Cordelia's new bolster sham; for how could she confess to Hattie and to Rosalie that it was a parlour and a lap-board? Upon consultation, Uncle Charlie said, let her do as she pleased, since damage to her seemed to be inevitable either way. So, Emmy Lou, rejoicing, departed one morning for the Grammar School.
But Aunt Cordelia's vulnerable spot was touched; she grew quite heated. Emily Louise learned that she was a Pringle and a Pope. "And a MacLauren?" queried Emily Louise. But Aunt Cordelia's enthusiasm had cooled. There came a time when Emily Louise divined why. All at once talk began at school, about a thing looming ahead, called an Election.
At the mere thought of presenting Bobby to this paragon of social perfection, Percival shuddered. He could imagine Sister Cordelia's pitiless survey of the girl through her lorgnette, the lifting of her brows over some mortal sin against taste or some deadly transgression in her manner of speech.
Emmy Lou was to advance one foot, stretch forth a hand and say, in the character of orphan for whom no asylum was offered, "We know not where we go." That very morning, at gray of dawn, Emmy Lou had crept from her own into Aunt Cordelia's bed, to say it over, for it weighed heavily on her mind, "We know not where we go."
They smiled at each other in concert, and a faint touch of colour arose to Miss Cordelia's slightly withered cheeks. "Do you know," she said, hesitating, smiling yes, and thrilling a little, too "we've had so much to do with bringing it about, that somehow I feel as though it's going to be my baby " "Why, Cordelia!" whispered Miss Patty, who had been nodding throughout this confession.
Now we can plan crack-the-whip with her, for that is not a speaking game," observed a middle-sized girl, who had been a comrade of Cordelia's heretofore. "She will not have time to crack the whip," said Hannah.
The only excuse that can be offered, not good for much, is that Shakespeare found the story in the Arcadia, and that in his day horrors on the stage were not so repulsive as they are to us. Cordelia's death taken from Holinshed is almost as bad. It is not involved in the tragedy like the death of Ophelia or of Desdemona. All's Well that Ends Well.
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