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Updated: May 21, 2025
Helena Landless, having been a party to her brother's revelation about Rosa, and having entered into that compact of silence with Mr. Crisparkle, shrank from any allusion to Edwin Drood's name. Why she so avoided it, was mysterious to Rosa, but she perfectly perceived the fact.
Archer is very plausible, and, at least, given Drood's need of evidence, and the lack of evidence against Jasper, we see reason good, in a novel of this kind, for his playing the part of amateur detective. Forster found, and published, a very illegible sketch of a chapter of the tale: "How Mr. Sapsea ceased to be a Member of the Eight Club, Told by Himself."
If Rosebud in her bower now waited Edwin Drood's coming with an uneasy heart, Edwin for his part was uneasy too. With far less force of purpose in his composition than the childish beauty, crowned by acclamation fairy queen of Miss Twinkleton's establishment, he had a conscience, and Mr. Grewgious had pricked it.
Besides, apart from its being politic, it is right. For there can be no question that Neville was wrong. 'He was provoked, Helena submitted. 'He was the assailant, Mr. Crisparkle submitted. They walked on in silence, until Helena raised her eyes to the Minor Canon's face, and said, almost reproachfully: 'O Mr. Crisparkle, would you have Neville throw himself at young Drood's feet, or at Mr.
Quicklime would not destroy these metallic objects, nor would it destroy keys, which would easily prove Drood's identity. If Jasper knew his business, he would, of course, rifle ALL of Edwin's pockets minutely, and would remove the metallic buttons of his braces, which generally display the maker's name, or the tailor's. On research I find "H. Poole & Co., Savile Row" on my buttons.
But I ought to have caught that expression pretty well, for I have seen it often enough. Crack! on Edwin Drood's part. Crack! on Mr. Jasper's part. 'In point of fact, the former resumes, after some silent dipping among his fragments of walnut with an air of pique, 'I see it whenever I go to see Pussy. If I don't find it on her face, I leave it there. You know I do, Miss Scornful Pert.
On the very tick of the minute he was there at the old moss-grown lych-gate, and there Miss Lorne found him when she drove up in Lady Drood's pony phaeton a little time afterward. She was not alone, however.
Jasper. Neville feels it impossible to say less, but would rather not go. He has an impression upon him that he has lost hold of his temper; feels that Edwin Drood's coolness, so far from being infectious, makes him red-hot. Mr. Jasper, still walking in the centre, hand to shoulder on either side, beautifully turns the Refrain of a drinking song, and they all go up to his rooms.
A life of stirring work and interest, a life of change and excitement, a life of domestic ease and love! Look at him! Edwin Drood's face has become quickly and remarkably flushed with the wine; so has the face of Neville Landless. Edwin still sits thrown back in his chair, making that rest of clasped hands for his head. 'See how little he heeds it all! Jasper proceeds in a bantering vein.
Nothing, for instance, could be cleverer as a piece of artistic mystery than the fact that Jasper, the uncle, always kept his eyes fixed on Drood's face with a dark and watchful tenderness; the thing is so told that at first we really take it as only indicating something morbid in the affection; it is only afterwards that the frightful fancy breaks upon us that it is not morbid affection but morbid antagonism.
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