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Updated: June 8, 2025
You heard them, murmuring together, as they passed out of sight, going forward to share the common and ineffable experience. Well.... The pagan had disappeared in the psychic! Cecil Grimshaw's melancholy and pessimism, his love of power, his delight in cruelty, in beauty, in the erotic, the violent, the strange, had vanished! Pierre Pilleux was a humanitarian. Cecil Grimshaw never had been.
For over two years she had been chained to the same house, in the same street, with the desire but not the power to move. Only once had she managed to change her quarters with the aid of William, and the result had been disastrous. For the first time in his life William had lost a day at Grimshaw's to move the furniture, and for six months he had brooded over the lost time.
He was dimly aware that somebody had entered the store door, had spoken to Winters, and that the junior clerk had shown the visitor into Grimshaw's private office. But Allen Drew's thoughts were too far afield to be caught by this incident, or to become easily concentrated upon humdrum business affairs. He laid down the papers, and sighed. He began to day-dream again.
And sure ye make yer ten times the fees on an English nigger, and never gives us beyant the dollar," continued he, moving off in high dudgeon, and swearing a stream of oaths that made the very blood chill. There was a covert meaning about Mr. Grimshaw's language that was not at all satisfactory to Mr. Dunn's Irish; especially when he knew Mr.
Tucker, she said, had been in love with her; he followed her to Grimshaw's house in Chelsea and quarrelled violently with the poet. His death was an accident. Grimshaw had not touched the statuette. When he saw what had happened, he telephoned to Doctor Waram and then lay down on the couch apparently fainted there, for he did not speak until Doctor Fenton came.
Not all you have heard and read about Grimshaw's career is true. But the best you can say of him is bad enough. He squandered his own fortune first on Esther Levenson and the production of "The Sunken City" and then stole ruthlessly from Dagmar; that is, until she found legal ways to put a stop to it.
He had worked for the same firm since he was a boy, disliking change; but since his second marriage he had been dragged from one house to another. Sometimes he went home to the wrong place, forgetting that they had moved. Every week he planned another short cut to Grimshaw's works, which landed him there half an hour late.
Grimshaw, who was forever saying in effect: "Your money or your home!" That was like demanding our lives because we couldn't live without our home. Our all was in it. Mr. Grimshaw's gun was the power he had over us, and what a terrible weapon it was! I credit him with never realizing how terrible.
In the whole category of feminine names was there ever one so pretty as Ruth? And surely never did a girl, in both form and feature, so fit the name. Suddenly he realized that the door of the private office was open and that Grimshaw's head was thrust out. "Hey! Come here a minute, Allen," he called.
The guide, letting his small blue eyes rest for a moment on Grimshaw's slow-moving hulk, advised them gravely to take the road. "The tall gentleman will not arrive," he remarked. "Nonsense," Grimshaw answered. They went off together, laughing. Grimshaw was wearing his conspicuous climbing clothes tweed jacket, yellow suede waistcoat, knickerbockers, and high-laced boots with hob-nailed soles.
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