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Updated: June 8, 2025
Nancy suspected that her fashionable and expensive dress signified extravagance and vanity rather than wealth. 'I have brought a letter to show you which she has sent me from abroad. Read it, and form your own conclusion. Is it the letter of an injured innocent? A scrawl on foreign note-paper, which ran thus: DEAR MRS DAMEREL, Just a word to console you for the loss of my society.
He wore evening dress; his thin hair was parted down the middle; his smooth-shaven and rather florid face expressed the annoyance of a hungry man at so unseasonable an interruption. 'Do forgive me, began Mrs. Damerel, in a pathetic falsetto. 'I have been so upset, I felt obliged to seek advice immediately, and no one seemed so likely to be of help to me as you a man of the world.
It is about Horace that I want to speak. It began with 'My dear Nancy, and ended, 'Yours affectionately. Glad of the opportunity thus offered, she answered at once, making an appointment for the next day. When Mrs. Damerel came, Nancy was even more struck than at their former meeting with her resemblance to Horace. Eyes and lips recalled Horace at every moment.
Even as she made the inquiry, he answered it by coughing very badly. 'I don't think this place suits you, Horace, said Mrs. Damerel gravely. 'You're not imprudent, I hope? Don't go out after dark? Oh, it was nothing, Horace maintained; for several days he had hardly coughed at all. But with every word he uttered, Mrs.
'Leave that to me, returned Mrs Damerel. Next day, when Lucy returned from the post-office, where she had taken a letter for Luke, she found another lying on the table, in Larkin's handwriting. On reading the superscription, she found it was addressed to the War-Office.
'I've been keeping a secret from you, said Horace, in the low voice which had to express his sorrow, for he could not preserve a gloomy countenance with Fanny before him. 'But I can tell you now. 'A secret? And what business had you to keep secrets from me? 'It's about Mrs. Damerel. When I was at the seaside she told me who she really is. She's my aunt my mother's sister. Queer, isn't it?
They went forth again into the sunshine. At the door both coughed, and both pretended that it wasn't a cough at all, but a voluntary little hem. Mrs. Damerel was younger than ever. She had spent October abroad, with her friends Mrs. and Miss. Chittle, and the greater part of November at Brighton, with other friends.
'Do you think she is the kind of person to plot any harm against one? 'She had better not try it on, said Crewe, in his natural voice. Then, as if recollecting himself, he pursued more softly: 'But I was going to speak of her. You haven't heard that Miss. Lord has taken a position in the new branch of that Dress Supply Association? Mrs. Damerel kept an astonished silence.
And then she said, "I knew your mother very well." Nancy leaned forward, her lips apart. 'Queer, wasn't it? Then she went on to say that her name was Mrs. Damerel; had I ever heard it? No, I couldn't remember the name at all. She was a widow, she said, and had lived mostly abroad for a great many years; now she was come back to settle in England.
Damerel generous; she admitted every excuse for Winifred, and persuaded herself that in procuring Horace such a wife she was doing him only a nominal wrong. The young people could live apart from that corner of Society in which Miss. Chittle's name gave occasion to smiles or looks of perfunctory censure.
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