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Updated: June 2, 2025
Robert stirred, drawing himself a little nearer to Francey, touching her rough tweed skirt humbly, secretly, as a Catholic might touch a sacred relic for comfort and protection. They were talking a language that he could not understand -they were occupied with things that he despised, not knowing what they were; they made him ashamed of his ignorance and angry with his shame.
Her voice lifted for a moment into the old clearness. "His father was a wonderful man a wonderful, good man. Unhappy. Very unfortunate. Not meant for this world. His mother was my dear friend. If they had lived those two I did what I could I think they will be satisfied it makes me happy " She murmured wearily. And Francey bent her head to listen.
But in the grave square where Francey Wilmot lived he slackened speed, and, under the thick mantle of the trees, stood so still that he was only a deeper shadow. Then release came. It was like gentle summer rain falling on his fever. There was no one to see his weakness. He could think and feel simply and naturally as a lover, without remorse.
The room was against him the faun dancing noiselessly among the shadows, the little things that Francey had gathered about her, the dear personal things that can become terrible in their poignancy, Francey herself, standing there slender and grave-eyed, judging him, weighing him. They were all leagued together. They spoke with one voice. "We belong TO one another. We understand.
His voice died into an unintelligible murmur. So she went alone. The rest, heavy with food and sunshine, nibbled jadedly at the remnants of the feast, exchanging broken, drowsy comments. Perhaps Gertie Sumners was brooding over the three kings with their golden crowns. But Robert knelt and watched Francey run down the hill-side, faster and faster, like a brown shadow.
You might hurt yourself or someone else. It frightens me." And then at once he walked quietly beside her, chilled and dispirited. At any moment the new-found commonplaces might drop from him, and everyone would find out the neighbours who nodded kindly and the tradespeople who bowed them out of their shops just as Francey and the Banditti had found out and turn away from him, ashamed and sorry.
For he was hag-ridden by his unfaithfulness. He drew up a remorseless programme of his days, and after that Francey might only walk home with him from the hospital. And there was an hour on Sunday evening when he was too tired for anything else.
"We three have always held together. He's had no one else to care about. And now you've come, and he thinks you want to take me away from him." "I do," Francey said unexpectedly. "Not in the way he means." "You don't know " "He's been good to me. I'd never have got through without him. I can't have him hurt. And you will fight him, Francey.
She was dead, and it seemed that he had no one in the world. For Francey, loving him as she did, had failed him. But Christine had never failed him. Never at any time had she asked, "Are you a good little boy, Robert?" It would never have occurred to her. She was so sure. She had loved him and, believed in him unfalteringly, and, in her quiet way, died for him. Ricardo drew himself up.
As members of the medical profession we couldn't have it on our conscience " They laughed then, freely, out of the depth of their happiness. She laid her hand in his and he bent his head to kiss it. "You do trust me, Francey?" "Trust you?" "You don't think it's weak of me to love you? You know I'll pass my finals, don't you that I'll be all right?
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