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Updated: May 28, 2025
Other girls of Fanny's age, at such times, cleaned out their bureau drawers and read forbidden novels. Fanny armed herself with the third best broom, the dust-pan, and an old bushel basket. She swept up chips, scraped up ashes, scoured the preserve shelves, washed the windows, cleaned the vegetable bins, and got gritty, and scarlet-cheeked and streaked with soot.
Fanny's spirits lived on it half the morning, deriving some accession of pleasure from its writer being himself to go away.
He had apparently had time, moreover, to catch the conclusion of Fanny's act; his eyes attached themselves, through the large space allowing just there, as happened, a free view, to the shining fragments at this lady's feet.
She had, however, been so informed in Fanny's letter, but all that had gone out of her head. "Yes; he has come back. He has been in Norway, you know, fishing." "Yes," said Lucy. "I am sure you will remember all that took place when you came to me, not long ago, in my little room upstairs at Framley Court."
"Gertrude," said Fanny, pulling Gertrude's dress to attract her attention, and speaking in a loud whisper, "are you engaged? are you engaged to him?" "Yes," whispered Gertrude, anxious, if possible, to gratify Fanny's curiosity and silence her questioning. "Oh, I'm so glad! I'm so glad!" shouted Fanny, dancing round the room and flinging up her arms.
Brookenham herself, who had opened the door as her friend spoke and who quickly advanced with an echo of it. "Lady Fanny's visitors?" and, though her eyes rather avoided than met his own, she seemed to cover her ladyship's husband with a vague but practised sympathy. "What on earth are you saying to Harold about them?" Thus it was that at the end of a few minutes Mr.
"Yes; but a change that has shown her to have been unspoilable. We were just agreeing on the ball-room perfections of her and your sister in their several lines." "Very different lines," said Alick, smiling. "I can't judge of Fanny's," said Rachel, "but your sister is almost enough to make one believe there can be some soul in young lady life."
That would make Fanny think it was Ralph they had quarrelled about. Barbara put this note on Fanny's dressing-table. Then she went up to the White Hart, to Ralph Bevan. She waited in his sitting-room till he came back from Oxford. "Hallo, old thing, what are you doing here?" "Ralph do you awfully mind if we don't dine at the Manor?" "If we don't why?" "Because I've left them.
You can't hate Waddington." "You don't?" "Oh, Lord, no. I wouldn't mind him a bit, poor old thing, if he wasn't Fanny's husband." He had almost as good as owned it, almost put her in possession of their secret. She conceived it his secret, Fanny's secret as all innocence on her part, all chivalry on his; tender and hopeless and pure.
That was a mere shock, that was a pain as if Fanny's violence had been a violence redoubled and acting beyond its intention, a violence calling up the hot blood as a blow across the mouth might have called it. Maggie knew as she turned away from him that she didn't want his pain; what she wanted was her own simple certainty not the red mark of conviction flaming there in his beauty.
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