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She went to the shop and even committed the great extravagance of getting a new white widow's front for her bonnet, and also a pair of new black silk gloves, and then she waited restlessly until the arrival of Mrs. Aylmer. Mrs. Aylmer arrived in state by a train which reached Dawlish about noon, and the other Mrs. Aylmer the poor one and her daughter Florence watched her from afar.
He was the sort of man one instinctively calls Bill. The anti-race-suicide enthusiast with the rubber rings did not call Lord Dawlish Bill, but otherwise his manner was intimate.
"Sir Peter says she is getting well; and Mr. Martin ; but Mr. Martin isn't much account." "She eats and drinks again?" "Pretty well; not as it used to be, you know, miss. I tell her she ought to go somewheres, but she don't like moving nohow. She never did. I tell her if she'd go to Dawlish, just for a week. But she don't think there's a bed fit to sleep on, nowhere, except just her own."
This speech in itself should have been enough to warn Lord Dawlish of impending doom. As far as love, affection, and tenderness are concerned, a girl might just as well hit a man with an axe as say 'Well, Bill? to him when they have met unexpectedly in the moonlight after long separation. But Lord Dawlish was too shattered by surprise to be capable of observing nuances.
No, somehow or other, even if she put detectives on his trail, she must find him, and be off with the old love now that she was on with the new. She reached the gate and leaned over it. And as she did so someone in the shadow of a tall tree spoke her name. A man came into the light, and she saw that it was Lord Dawlish.
Lord Dawlish stood in the doorway of the outhouse, holding the body of Eustace gingerly by the tail. It was a solemn moment. There was no room for doubt as to the completeness of the extinction of Lady Wetherby's pet. Dudley Pickering's bullet had done its lethal work. Eustace's adventurous career was over. He was through.
"Miss Aylmer! What Miss Aylmer?" "Her name is Florence. I met her in London. I met her also at Dawlish. She is very poor. She is a brave girl, independent, with courage and ability. She is about to make a striking success in the world of literature; but she is poor poor almost to the point of starvation.
Bill Dawlish was this fortunate bloke, but, from the look of him as he caught sight of her, one would have said that he did not appreciate his luck. The fact of the matter was that he had only just finished giving the father of the family his shilling, and he was afraid that Claire had seen him doing it. For Claire, dear girl, was apt to be unreasonable about these little generosities of his.
But every now and then, perhaps once a year, she would put down her knitting so soon as Marion came in sight and come into the road to meet her and would give her nervous, absent-minded greetings. Then she would draw her into the furthest edge of the pavement, because the blind have such sharp hearing, and she would whisper: "Have you heard from him lately?" "No." "He's still at Dawlish?"
Your brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could not live without one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain "Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,
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