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Updated: June 21, 2025
It would serve every reasonable purpose of disguise without grating on memories of bygone times. A shred of identity was left to cling to. It is less clear why the quasi-daughter whom she had never seen should have repudiated her married name. Polly was under no obligation not to call herself Mrs. Daverill, unless it were compliance with her promise to keep the marriage secret.
It wasn't Burr by any chance now, was it?" "No Daverill." "Because there is a party by the name of Burr if you could have seen your way." This was only the natural civility which sometimes runs riot with an informant's judgment, making him anxious to meet the inquirer at any cost, whatever inalienable stipulations the latter may have committed himself to.
It contained the whole of her small savings. After she left the room, Daverill had glanced round for valuables. An old silver watch of Uncle Mo's, that always stopped unless allowed to lie on its back, was ticking on the dresser. The convict slipped it into his pocket, and looked round for more, opening drawers, looking under dish-covers.
She read it through and remained gazing at it with a fixed stare, rigid with astonishment. "I never wrote it so," said she at last. "Then how to God Almighty did it come as it is? Answer me to that, Polly Daverill." Her bewilderment was absolute, and her distress proportionate. "I never wrote it like that, Daverill. I declare it true and solemn I never did.
"It was a tidy jump up, any way you put it," said the stroke oar. "Well he could have done it! But he was aiming to help his man to a seat in the boat, not to get a lift up for himself. I've not a word to say against Toby Ibbetson, mind you! He took an advantage some wouldn't, maybe. And then it's how you look at it, when all's done. You know what Daverill was wanted for?"
The latter said good-morning first; but, simple as his words were, the gaol-bird manner of guarded suspicion crept into them and stamped the speaker. "Don't like the looks of you, mister!" said Uncle Mo to himself. But aloud he said: "Good-morning to you, sir. I understood you to be inquiring for Mrs. Prichard." "No Daverill. No such a name, this young shaver says." "Not down this Court.
She saw her mistake, too late. Daverill turned his gaze on her again, slowly. "You seem to remember a fat lot about this and that!" said he. He got down off the table, and stepped between Aunt M'riar and the door, saying: "Come you here, mistress!" The harshness of his voice was hideous to her. He caught her wrist, and pulled her to the window.
Jealousy of Heaven-knows-who is a wishy-washy passion. Supply a definite object, and it may become vitriolic. Polly Daverill, whoever she was, was definite, and might be the wife the convict had acknowledged or rather claimed when he first made Miss Julia's acquaintance, over twenty years ago. The lip was perhaps saved from bloodletting by an idea which crossed the mind of the biter.
Indeed, when we reflect that little Ruth Daverill, now Widow Thrale, was under four when her mother tore herself from her to rejoin her husband, it is little wonder that she should take the same view of her own parentage. For one thing, there was the twinship between the mother and aunt. The child under four can have seen little difference between them.
Gwen was conscious that the solicitor sat as still as his prototype Thothmes at the British Museum, and with as immovable a countenance. She took the letter, glancing at the cover. "Who is Mrs. Thornton Daverill?" said she, quite in the dark. "Go on and read," said the Earl. Gwen read half to herself: "'My dear daughter Maisie," and then said aloud: "But that is Mrs. Prichard's name!"
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