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Updated: May 16, 2025
In a house there, lived a lady, a widowed lady, who was Doris's godmother, and to whom Doris who had lost her own mother in her childhood had turned for counsel before now. How long it was since she had seen "Cousin Julia"! nearly two months. And here she was, hastening to her, and not able to bear the thought that in all human probability Cousin Julia was not in town.
If Doris could have had her way, Granny Grimshaw would have been present at these also, but on this point the old woman showed herself determined, not to say obstinate. She maintained that her place was the kitchen, and that her presence was absolutely necessary there, a point of view which no argument of Doris's could persuade her to relinquish.
Doris's face twitched and then, because she was in that state closely bordering upon the unknown, that state open to impressions and suggestions from sources outside the explainable, Silver Gap seemed to open alluringly to her imagination. It was like a dropped stitch to be taken up and woven into the pattern! She suddenly felt that she had always known she must go back.
They were Caryl and his host Abingdon. For a few moments they stood talking, then went away together round an angle of the house. Scarcely had they disappeared before a girl's light figure appeared at an upstairs window. Doris's mischievous face peeped forth, wearing her gayest, most impudent grimace.
Through some glass doors open to the garden came in little wandering winds which played with some loose papers on the floor, and blew Doris's hair about her eyes as she stooped over her easel, absorbed in her drawing. Apparently absorbed: her subliminal mind, at least, was far away, wandering on a craggy Scotch moor.
I ain't got a decent cap to my back: if I was to die to-morrow, I ain't got no cap that's fit to lay me out in. 'Blast ye, says he, 'why didn't ye die when ye had a cap?" The more impassioned side of life does not suit Miss Jewett so well as the humorous and pastoral; but each detail about her heroine is attractive, and nothing in recent fiction, is more true, touching, and womanly than Doris's journey to Westmarket in the autumnal dawn to keep her lover at home from the fishing-banks.
He listened for Doris's next words. "Childie, it sounds enticing and just like you. I will talk it over with Uncle David." The voices upstairs fell into a silence and Martin got up and paced the room. A few minutes later Doris came down the stairs and, singing softly, entered the living room. There was welcome in her eyes; the languor and helpless expression had faded from her face.
"If only it had been Ethel," was the vague, uncertain thought: "any one in the world almost but Doris." And again, "Why had Dudley been so incredibly blind to Doris's real nature? Why had he of all men been caught by a pretty face? Was it possible he thought his life would need no other help and comfort but that of a charming exterior in his wife?"
Every touch in it has been sharpened a dozen times. All the same a wonderful performance!" Lord Dunstable, meanwhile, sat absolutely silent, his hat on the back of his head, his attention fixed on his wife. As the group broke up, and the chairs were pushed back, he said in Doris's ear "Isn't she an awfully clever woman, my wife?"
Doris's grey eyes gleamed. "No, Jeff!" she repeated, more calmly, and with the words she slipped Hugh's envelope into the bosom of her dress. "I can't give you my letters to answer indeed." Jeff withdrew his hand, and began to eat his breakfast in utter silence. Doris played with hers until the silence became intolerable, and then, very suddenly and very winningly, she leaned towards him.
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