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Updated: May 10, 2025
"This is the place," the Vicar had said. He had addressed himself to Alice; and it had been as if he had said, This the place, the infernal, the damnable place, you've brought us to with your behavior. Their hatred of it had made Gwenda love it. "You can have your old Garthdale all to yourself," Alice had said. "Nobody else wants it." That, to Gwenda, was the charm of it.
It frightened Gwenda. But it did not really frighten Alice. She rejoiced in it, rather, and exulted. After all, it was a good thing that she had not got pneumonia, which might have killed her as it had killed John Greatorex. She had got what served her purpose better. It served all her purposes.
Once Rowcliffe had made up his mind that Gwenda couldn't be anything to him he had let go and through sheer exhaustion had fallen more and more into his wife's hands, and for the last two years her labor had been easy and its end sure. She had him, bound to her bed and to her fireside. He said and thought that he was happy. He meant that he was extremely comfortable.
And when she had told it she turned her eyes to Gwenda with a look of subtle penetration and of triumph. "At last," she said, "After three years." And she added, "I knew you would be glad." "I am glad," said Gwenda. She was glad. She was determined to be glad. She looked glad. And she kissed Mary and said again that she was very glad.
Robina's heart ached for poor Gwenda. She wrote and said so. She said she knew she was a brute for not going back to Gwenda's father. She would do it if she could, but she simply couldn't. She hadn't got the nerve. And Robina did more. She pulled wires and found the curate. That he was a ritualist was no drawback in Robina's eyes. In fact, she declared it was a positive advantage. Mr.
If there is any kick left in Gwenda Pottingdon, or whoever your E.O.N. guest of the moment may be, just mention carelessly that your climbing putella is the only one in England, since the one at Chatsworth died last winter. There isn't such a thing as a climbing putella, but Gwenda Pottingdon and her kind don't usually know one flower from another without prompting."
She plunged for another argument and found it. "What I can't stand is living with Papa." Ally agreed that this was rather more than plausible. The next person to be told was Rowcliffe. It was known in the village through the telegrams that Gwenda was going away. The postmistress told Mrs. Gale, who told Mrs. Blenkiron.
"No wonder you went to sleep. Were the Williamses there?" "Yes, and the Griffiths of Plâsdu, and the Henry Reeses, and Captain Scott is staying with them. Well, I'm going to have a smoke." But at the door he turned round with a fresh bit of news. "Oh, what d'ye think, Gwenda?
The thing had the air of justifying Gwenda's behavior by its consequences. That was what Robina had been reckoning on. For, if it had been Gwenda she had been thinking of, she would have kept her instead of handing her over to Lady Frances. The companion secretaries of that distinguished philanthropist had no sinecure even at a hundred a year.
"So that," she pursued, "I'm the horrid thing that's happened to you? It looks like it." "It feels like it. Let's say you're the horrid thing that's happened to me, and leave it at that." They left it. Rowcliffe had a sort of impression that he had said all that he had had to say. The Vicar had called Gwenda into his study one day.
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