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Updated: June 9, 2025
I've been making inquiries; quite a number of the professors have typewriting to be done, and they will be glad to give their manuscripts to you instead of sending them to Boston. And there's Brooks Insall too if he ever takes it into his head to write another book. You wouldn't have any trouble reading his manuscript, it's like script. Of course it has to be copied. You can board with Mrs.
I pretended not to notice it but I was sorry I'd said anything about it." "She didn't say anything?" "Not a word." "Didn't you know that, before the strike, she was Ditmar's private stenographer?" "No!" Augusta Maturin exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me?" "It never occurred to me to tell you," Insall replied. "That must have something to do with it!" said Mrs. Maturin.
I've seen him twice, but he never told me." "Why, my dear, do you mean to say you haven't heard of Brooks Insall?" "Brooks Insall." Janet repeated the name, as her eyes sought his figure between the tables. "No." "I'm sure I don't know why I should have expected you to hear of him," declared the lady, repentantly. "He's a writer an author."
Maturin appeared, with an envelope in her hand. "I've got a letter from Brooks Insall, Janet," she said, with a well-disguised effort to speak naturally. "It's not the first one he's sent me, but I haven't mentioned the others. He's in Silliston and I wrote him about the daughter." "Yes," said Janet. "Well he wants to come up here, to see you, before we go away.
Insall smiled. "It's a question of brains. You have to have brains to be a sociologist," he answered, as he held up for her the fur coat. With a gesture of gentle reproof she slipped into it, and turned to Janet. "You must let me see more of you, my dear," she said. "I'm at the best hotel, I can't remember the name, they're all so horrible but I'll be here until to-morrow afternoon.
Maturin called him the Pied Piper of Hampton. As time went on, Janet sometimes wondered over the quiet manner in which these two people, Insall and Mrs. Maturin, took her visits as though they were matters of course, and gave her their friendship. There was, really, no obvious excuse for her coming, not even that of the waifs for food and yet she came to be fed.
Janet would grow hot from shyness. "Say what you think, my dear," Mrs. Maturin would urge her. "And remember that your own opinion is worth more than Shakespeare's or Napoleon's!" Insall would escort her home to Mrs. Case's boarding house.... One afternoon early in June Janet sat in her little room working at her letters when Brooks Insall came in.
Insall was standing with his head thrown back, his eyes stilt seemingly fixed on the musket that had suggested his remark a pose eloquent, she thought, of the mental and physical balance of the man. She wondered what belief gave him the free mastery of soul and body he possessed. Some firm conviction, she was sure, must energise him yet she respected him the more for concealing it.
I often wonder whether she has got out of it into the light whether we can rescue her." Mrs. Maturin paused. "What do you mean?" Insall asked. "Well, it's difficult to describe, what I feel she's such a perplexing mixture of old New England and modernity, of a fatalism, and an aliveness that fairly vibrates.
It's it's the same as if I were married to him only worse." "Worse!" Insall repeated uncomprehendingly.... And then she was aware that he had left her side. He was standing by the window. A thrush began to sing in the maple. She stole silently toward the door, and paused to look back at him, once to meet his glance. He had turned.
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