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Updated: June 10, 2025
Until a wonderful and illuminating happening in his eleventh year, little Paul Kegworthy had taken existence with the fatalism of a child. Of his stepfather, who smelt lustily of sour beer, bad tobacco and incidentally of other things undetected by Paul's nostrils, and whom he saw rarely, he dwelt in mortal terror.
I'll resign and fight the constituency again, under my real name of Kegworthy, provided, of course, the local people are willing to adopt me on the understanding, however, that the party support me, or, at least, don't put forward another candidate. I'm not going to turn berserk." "That's a sporting offer, at any rate.
The young man worked tense and quick at the luminous eyes. He broke a long silence by asking, "What's your name?" "Paul Kegworthy." "Paul? That's odd." In the sphere of life to which the ragged urchin belonged Toms and Bills and Jims were as thick as blackberries, but Pauls were rare. "What's odd?" said Paul. "Your name. How did you get it? It's uncommon." "I suppose it is," said Paul.
The only one who appeared in his week-day grime and tatterdemalion outfit was little Paul Kegworthy. He had not changed his clothes, because he had no others; and he had not washed his face, because it had not occurred to him to do so. Moreover, Mrs. Button had made no attempt to improve his forlorn aspect, for the simple reason that she had never heard of the Sunday-school treat.
He had many friends of the easy theatrical sort, who knew him as Paul Savelli, a romantically visaged, bright-natured, charming, intellectual, and execrably bad young actor. But there was only one Jane who knew him as little Paul Kegworthy.
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