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Updated: May 9, 2025
A woman by the irony of a fate that has thwarted the original design of Nature. Sally Bishop is a woman before everything. Miss Hallard is a woman last of all. How these two, in their blatant contrasts, were brought together, is an example of one of those mysterious forces in the great machinery of life which we are unable to comprehend.
That night when Sally returned from Kew, Traill had noticed her depression. "What's Miss Hallard been saying to you?" he asked. "Telling you that you're leading a terrible life, I suppose." "No, why should she? Do you think I am, Jack?" "Me? I should hope not, since I'm the cause of it. Do you feel you're doing anything very terrible?
Then he began to run, shouting, down Piccadilly, so they put him very reluctantly into a nice Private Asylum, and there he died, screaming. This story is a prologue to Peter's life in London.... The story struck his fancy; he thought of it sometimes. On a late stormy afternoon in November, 1895, Peter finished his book, "Reuben Hallard."
Everything that he had ever done or been his sentiments, his grossnesses, his restraints and his rebellions were now concerned in this pursuit. No other human being Stephen, Norah Monogue, Bobby, Alice now had any interest for him. His reviews were written he knew not how, the editions of "Reuben Hallard" might run into the gross for all he cared, "The Stone House" lay neglected.
"How provoking of her not to come to tea properly. Well, Peter? How was it all?" He was guilty of abominable rudeness. He burst from the room without a word and banged, desperately, the door behind him. The shout of applause with which "Reuben Hallard" was greeted still remains one of the interesting cases in modern literary history.
Zanti digging for treasure beneath the grey flags of Bennett Square, of Clare Elizabeth Rossiter riding down Oxford Street amidst the shouts of the populace, of the world as a coloured globe on which he, Peter Westcott, the author of that masterpiece, "Reuben Hallard," had set his foot ... so, triumphant, he slept. On the next morning the Attack on London began.
He could have sung and shouted and walked, right over the tops of the roofs, with the rain beating and cooling his body, out into the mist of the horizon. His book, "Reuben Hallard!" London was swimming in thick brown mud, and the four lamps coming out in Bennett Square in a dim, sickly fashion and he, Peter Westcott, had written a book....
The division seems to me sharper every day. I believe I've left it all behind." She looked at him sharply. "You're afraid of all that earlier time," she said. "Yes, I am." "It made you write 'Reuben Hallard. Perhaps this life here in London..." "It's safer," he caught her up. "Don't," she answered him very gravely, "play for safety. It's the most dangerous thing in the world."
Alice Galleon delightful woman though she was, of course couldn't endure that another woman should receive such praise Jealousy! Ah!... And the aged and weighty author of "Reuben Hallard," to whom the world was naturally an open book, and life known to its foundations, nodded to himself. How people, intelligent enough in other ways, could be so short-sighted!
"I'll give the church a solid gold reredos or contribute any sum to any alms " "Please go. I cannot tolerate any more." Jim left the old man in such agitation that a reporter named Hallard, who shadowed him, feeling in his journalistic bones that a big story would break about him soon, noted his condition and called on Doctor Mosely.
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