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Updated: June 29, 2025
So she changed the subject. "That's a nice little girl I see sometimes down at your place. That Winny Dymond. Is she a friend of Vi'let's?" Ranny said she was. "Has Vi'let known her long?" "I think so. I can't say exactly how long." "Before she was married?" "Yes." Something in his manner made her pause, pondering. "Did you know her before you married, Ran?" "Ages before." His mother sighed.
It was from the Chief of Police of Melbourne, announcing that Jessie Dymond had just arrived in that city in a sailing vessel, ignorant of all that had occurred, and had been immediately despatched back to England, having made a statement entirely corroborating the theory of the defence.
To which old Eno replied that he thought he saw himself! As for joining Ranny's precious old Poly., why, for all the Life you were likely to see there, you might as well be in a young ladies' boarding-school. And Ransome said that that was where Jujubes ought to be. He liked young ladies. Chivalry constrained him to a mental reservation: Winny Dymond and the young ladies of the Poly.
He found it, when Winny Dymond ran before him, in the slender, innocent movement of her hips under her thin tunic, in the absurd flap-flapping of the door-knocker plat on her shoulders, in the glances flicked at him by the tail of her eye as she wheeled from him in the endless pursuit and capture and approach and flight, as she was parted, was flung from him and returned to him in the windings of the Maze.
"The supporters of the slave system," says Jonathan Dymond in his admirable work on the Principles of Morality, "will hereafter be regarded with the same public feeling, as he who was an advocate for the slave trade now is."
If Ranny had had more life, more freedom, and more happiness around him in his home, he would not have been driven, as he was, to Violet. "Well, dear, you just think it over. If you don't come you must get somebody." Yes. He must get somebody. He had thought of that. "It can't be Winny Dymond, dear." "No," he assented. "It can't be Winny Dymond."
Not love, not passion, even when in the excitement of the running she swerved to the wrong side and he had to turn her with his two hands upon her waist. For it was the law of their running that, though it was one with the movement of life itself, mysteriously, while the thing lasted, it precluded passion. Ransome left Winny Dymond at St. Ann's Terrace, and went home along the High Street.
Here came old Dymond, the postman, with the usual midday delivery, light as ever, and the well-remembered dot-and-go-one gait.
What was all this about Winny Dymond? He must have missed it last night. "She was always fond of you. It was a lie what I told you about her not being. I said it because I was mad on you. I knew you'd have married her if I'd let you alone." She was cool, the way she showed herself up. That's what she'd done, had she? Lied, so that he might think Winny didn't care for him?
So far was he from referring it to Miss Usher that when it died down he made no attempt to revive it by following the adventure. He was restrained by some obscure instinct of self-preservation, also by the absurd persistence with which in thought he returned again and again to Winny Dymond.
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