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Updated: June 3, 2025
Mad with rage, blinded and sick with pain, Dickie essayed to fling himself upon his assailant. But Destournelle was too adroit for him. He skipped aside, with his little, bleating, goat-like laugh, and Richard fell heavily full length, his forehead coming in contact with the lower step of the descent from the back of the box. He lay there, too weak to raise himself.
So much for the detail of the young man's appearance. As a whole, that appearance was elegant as only French youth ventures to be elegant. Refinement enveloped Paul Destournelle refinement, over-sensitised and under-vitalised, as that of a rare exotic forced into precocious blossoming by application of some artificial horticultural process.
"No," Dickie said again. For it was true, that which she asserted, true, though penetrated by subtle falsehood impossible, as it seemed to him, to combat, "No, I do not deny it." "You hear!" Helen exclaimed. "Now do what you think fit." Still Destournelle drew the gloves through his hands, holding them by the finger-tips.
Passing out through the high, narrow doorway, she turned her head. "Charles, under no circumstance none, understand am I at home to Monsieur Destournelle." "Very good, my lady," and, as he closed the double-doors, the man-servant looked at the lady's-maid his tongue in his cheek.
You may even instil into her mind some faint conception of the rudiments of morality. To be frank with you, she needs that. A couple of months ago she did me the honour to elope temporarily, of course with M. Paul Destournelle. You may have glanced, one day, at his crapulous verses. I suppose honour demanded that I should pursue the guilty pair and account for one, if not both, of them.
For, in truth, the day of M. Destournelle appeared, just now, to be very effectually over. It had been reasonable enough to urge her natural fears in journeying through a war-distracted land although guarded by Charles, most discreet and resourceful of English men-servants, and Zélie Forestier, most capable of French lady's-maids as excuse for Paul Destournelle joining her at a wayside station a short distance out of Paris and accompanying her south. A la guerre comme
"Tell Charles that I am no longer acquainted with M. Destournelle. If he presumes to call he is to be refused." Helen set her teeth. But whether in anger towards her discarded lover, or the black dress, she would have found it difficult to declare. Again uncertainty held her, suspicion of circumstance, and, in a degree, of herself.
His face had become still again and inscrutable, lightened only by that flickering, mocking smile. It seemed as though the psychological moment were passed and social sense, ordinary fashions of civilised intercourse, had not only come back but come to stay. "I think we will omit Destournelle from our talk in future," he said.
"Reversing the order of Circe Naples inclines one to classic illustration, sometimes a little hackneyed by the way, speaking of Naples, look at the glory of it all just now, Richard! I tried to turn, not men to swine, but swine to men. And I failed, of course. The gods know best. They never attempt metamorphosis on the ascending scale! I let Destournelle come to see me frequently.
I know I was careless, that I laid myself open to the invidious comment, which is usually the reward of all disinterested action. One learns to accept it as a matter of course. And you see Paul Destournelle " "Oh, Destournelle!" Richard exclaimed. "You have read him?" "Every one has read him." "And what do you think of him?"
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