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Updated: May 13, 2025
Nature simplest of topics, he thought lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.
This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie" some one really desirable.
Maple arriving at the door and depositing this chair, those varnished book-cases, that writing-table. The table recalled Mrs. Honeychurch's letter. He did not want to read that letter his temptations never lay in that direction; but he worried about it none the less.
"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height," he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" In height and in the splendour of the hills? Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself.
Then she listened to the horse's hoofs "He has not told he has not told." That melody was blurred by the soft road. "CAN'T we have the hood down?" she demanded, and her mother, with sudden tenderness, said: "Very well, old lady, stop the horse." And the horse was stopped, and Lucy and Powell wrestled with the hood, and squirted water down Mrs. Honeychurch's neck.
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