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Updated: June 29, 2025
Oh, my poor Harold, my poor Harold!" For once her tears could not extinguish the flame of his anger. "But you told me he beat you," he cried. "And if he did, I dare say I deserved it. Oh, my darling, my darling!" She laid her face on the stone and sobbed. John Lefolle stood by in silent torture.
Beat that essence of charm and purity, God's best gift to man, redeeming him from his own grossness! Could such things be? John Lefolle would as soon have credited the French legend that English wives are sold in Smithfield. No! it could not be real that this flower-like figure was thrashed. 'Do you mean to say ? he cried.
When John Lefolle met her, Cecilia was with her, and the first conversation was triangular. Cecilia fired most of the shots; she was a bouncing, rattling beauty, chockful of confidence and high spirits, except when asked to do the one thing she could do sing! Then she became quite genuinely a nervous, hesitant, pale little thing.
He tried to soothe her, to caress her, but she repulsed him. "Go to your yacht to your miserable shimmering waters. I shall spend my honeymoon here alone.... You discovered I was Irish." She came "to meet John Lefolle," but John Lefolle did not know he was to meet Winifred Glamorys.
Beat that essence of charm and purity, God's best gift to man, redeeming him from his own grossness! Could such things be? John Lefolle would as soon have credited the French legend that English wives are sold in Smithfield. No! it could not be real that this flower-like figure was thrashed. "Do you mean to say ?" he cried.
Life apart, they felt, was impossible, and, removed from the sobering influences of his cap and gown, John Lefolle dreamed of throwing everything to the winds. His literary reputation had opened out a new career.
A week later this horsey husband of hers brought her on to Brighton for the races there, and hither John Lefolle flew. But her husband shadowed her, and he could only lift his hat to her as they passed each other on the Lawns. Sometimes he saw her sitting pensively on a chair while her lord and thrasher perused a pink sporting-paper.
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