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Updated: June 27, 2025


But the routine work of the garden, which always was demanding a little more time than one had to spare for it, was subject, of course, to interruptions. I did the churning twice a week, and Mrs. Gabbitas the 'working' and 'making up' of the butter. And there were other matters, including occasional errands to the town a message for a storekeeper, or a note for the master at his office.

My mind made a queer little reluctant leap it felt like being forced to leap over a bottomless chasm and alighted upon the sovereigns that were just disappearing again as Mr. Gabbitas shut his drawer. "I won't interrupt your talk further," said Miss Ramell, receding doorward. Mr.

Over and over went my poor little brain, tired out and unable to stop on my treadmill of troubles. Nettie. Rawdon. My mother. Gabbitas. Nettie. . . Suddenly I came upon emotional exhaustion. Some clock was striking midnight. After all, I was young; I had these quick transitions.

Gabbitas always spoke, not alone as one having authority, but, and above all, as one who managed all affairs, things, and people within her reach, as indeed she did to a great extent. A most capable and managing woman was Mrs. Gabbitas. I adopted an air of marked deference towards her, I remember; in part from motives of policy, and partly too because her capability really impressed me.

A silly wrangle! a preposterous wrangle! you must imagine our talk becoming louder, with a developing quarrelsome note my mother no doubt hovering on the staircase and listening in alarm as who should say, "My dear, don't offend it! Oh, don't offend it! Mr. Gabbitas enjoys its friendship. Try to think whatever Mr. Gabbitas says" though we still kept in touch with a pretence of mutual deference.

Gabbitas, with a certain mystery behind his glasses, had promised to see what he could do for me, and she wanted to keep him up to that promise. I half consented, and then my desire for Nettie took hold of me. I told my mother I wasn't going to church, and set off about eleven to walk the seventeen miles to Checkshill.

For a disciple I must confess I was particularly ill acquainted with the works of the master. Indeed, all I knew of him had come to me through a two-column article in The Clarion for the previous week. . . . But the Rev. Gabbitas did not read The Clarion. I am, I know, putting a strain upon your credulity when I tell you that I now have little doubt that the Rev.

Gabbitas sniffed, and expressed very plainly the doubts she felt about shorthand ever providing me with meals of the kind I enjoyed at her kitchen table. 'I suppose the fact is gardening isn't good enough for you, and you want to be a gentleman, the good soul said, with sounding irony. And, whilst I made some modestly deprecatory sound in reply, my thoughts said: 'You are precisely right.

After a good deal of thought, I decided that the best effect was obtained by fastening the top button of the coat, turning back one lower corner with careful negligence, and keeping it there by holding one hand in my trouser pocket. In that order, then, I interviewed Mrs. Gabbitas in the scullery, to receive her congratulations before proceeding to church.

I don't think he proves his case. I don't think Christianity is true. He knows himself for the pretender he is. His reasoning's Rot." Mr. Gabbitas went, I think, a shade paler than his wont, and propitiation vanished from his manner. His eyes and mouth were round, his face seemed to get round, his eyebrows curved at my remarks.

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