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Updated: June 14, 2025
Miss Halcombe was standing with her hat in her hand, and her shawl over her arm, by the large window that led out to the lawn, and was looking at me attentively. "Have you any leisure time to spare," she asked, "before you begin to work in your own room?" "Certainly, Miss Halcombe. I have always time at your service." "I want to say a word to you in private, Mr. Hartright.
The two or three lines which follow contain fragments of words only, mingled with blots and scratches of the pen. On the next page of the Diary, another entry appears. It is in a man's handwriting, large, bold, and firmly regular, and the date is "June the 21st." The illness of our excellent Miss Halcombe has afforded me the opportunity of enjoying an unexpected intellectual pleasure.
The house was still. She went over to the window then, threw it wide open, and sat down crouched upon the broad sill. She did not sob now nor wail out. She did not feel like sobbing or wailing. She only wanted to think; she must think, she had need to think. That this neglect of Halcombe Dike's meant something she did not try to conceal from her bitter thoughts.
My own conviction was that they were plainly with him, and I accordingly declared that his explanation was, to my mind, unquestionably a satisfactory one. Miss Halcombe, after looking at me very earnestly, said a few words, on her side, to the same effect with a certain hesitation of manner, however, which the circumstances did not seem to me to warrant.
Vesey," said Miss Halcombe, looking brighter, sharper, and readier than ever, by contrast with the undemonstrative old lady at her side, "what will you have? A cutlet?" Mrs. Vesey crossed her dimpled hands on the edge of the table, smiled placidly, and said, "Yes, dear." "What is that opposite Mr. Hartright? Boiled chicken, is it not? I thought you liked boiled chicken better than cutlet, Mrs.
Marian Halcombe is nothing now but my eldest sister, who provides for our household wants by the toil of her own hands. We two, in the estimation of others, are at once the dupes and the agents of a daring imposture. We are supposed to be the accomplices of mad Anne Catherick, who claims the name, the place, and the living personality of dead Lady Glyde. That is our situation.
Miss Halcombe waited on the door-steps until the fly drew up, and then advanced to shake hands with an old gentleman, who got out briskly the moment the steps were let down. Mr. Gilmore had arrived. I looked at him, when we were introduced to each other, with an interest and a curiosity which I could hardly conceal.
I read it constantly in my own copy of the edition printed by subscription, in the first days of my widowhood and at every fresh perusal I derive an increase of spiritual benefit and edification. There was no improvement in Miss Halcombe, and the second night was even worse than the first. Mr. Dawson was constant in his attendance.
She had heard nothing in the interim of Sir Percival Glyde, but letters had reached her from Madame Fosco, making the most affectionate inquiries on the part of her husband and herself. Instead of answering these letters, Miss Halcombe caused the house in St. John's Wood, and the proceedings of its inmates, to be privately watched. Nothing doubtful was discovered.
You cannot ask for that proof, Miss Halcombe, and it is therefore my duty to you, and still more to Miss Fairlie, to offer it. May I beg that you will write at once to the mother of this unfortunate woman to Mrs. Catherick to ask for her testimony in support of the explanation which I have just offered to you." I saw Miss Halcombe change colour, and look a little uneasy.
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