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Updated: May 22, 2025
"There can't be two opinions about that, I imagine," said Hirst, hopping briskly across the room, "unless you're in love that fat woman Warrington?" he enquired. "Not one fat woman all fat women," Hewet sighed. "The women I saw to-night were not fat," said Hirst, who was taking advantage of Hewet's company to cut his toe-nails. "Describe them," said Hewet.
"Then why, for goodness' sake, did they do nothing but criticize her when she was alive?" said Helen. Very gentle their voices sounded, as if they fell through the waves of the sea. "If I were to die to-morrow . . ." she began. The broken sentences had an extraordinary beauty and detachment in Hewet's ears, and a kind of mystery too, as though they were spoken by people in their sleep.
Few things distress me more than the moonlight." Hewet retreated, pressing the poems of Thomas Hardy beneath his arm, and in their beds next door to each other both the young men were soon asleep. Between the extinction of Hewet's candle and the rising of a dusky Spanish boy who was the first to survey the desolation of the hotel in the early morning, a few hours of silence intervened.
She spoke reflectively, looking out into the dark garden, and thinking evidently as much of the look of the night as of what she was saying. "Mother?" said Rachel. Hewet's heart leapt, and he noticed the fact. Her voice, though low, was full of surprise. "You didn't know that?" said Helen. "I never knew there'd been any one else," said Rachel.
Hewet's thoughts had followed some such course as this, for the first thing he said as they stood on the edge of the cliff was "I'd like to be in England!" Rachel lay down on her elbow, and parted the tall grasses which grew on the edge, so that she might have a clear view.
What you want, Hirst, you know, is the society of young women of your own age. You don't know how to get on with women, which is a great defect, considering that half the world consists of women." Hirst groaned that he was quite aware of that. But Hewet's complacency was a little chilled as he walked with Hirst to the place where a general meeting had been appointed.
Among the plane-trees they separated, bundling into carriages and driving off, without saying good-night, or saying it only in a half-muffled way. It was so late that there was no time for normal conversation between their arrival at the hotel and their retirement to bed. But Hirst wandered into Hewet's room with a collar in his hand.
Voices crying behind them never reached through the waters in which they were now sunk. The repetition of Hewet's name in short, dissevered syllables was to them the crack of a dry branch or the laughter of a bird.
She had written a great many letters, and had obtained Willoughby's consent. She had dwelt so often upon Mr. Hewet's prospects, his profession, his birth, appearance, and temperament, that she had almost forgotten what he was really like.
But she could draw no conclusions, for Hewet was still reading Gibbon aloud, and Rachel, for all the expression she had, might have been a shell, and his words water rubbing against her ears, as water rubs a shell on the edge of a rock. Hewet's voice was very pleasant. When he reached the end of the period Hewet stopped, and no one volunteered any criticism. "I do adore the aristocracy!"
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