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Updated: June 4, 2025
And besides, as at Lydford, for much of the day, she was absorbed in the material details of her life, being rubbed and dressed and undressed, and adorned and fed and catered to. They were spending the few days before sailing in a very grand hotel, overlooking Central Park.
She said instantly, "Do you know, I've just thought what it is you all remind me of I mean Lydford, and the beautiful clothes, and nobody bothering about anything but tea and ideas and knowing the right people. I knew it made me think of something else, and now I know it's a Henry James novel!" That's what they try to be like at least to talk like James people. But it's not always easy.
Marshall-Smith had stopped to listen in the midst of the exhausting toil of telling Hélène which dresses to pack and which to leave hanging in the Lydford house. She now resumed her labors unflaggingly, waving away to the closet a mauve satin, and beckoning into a trunk a favorite black-and-white chiffon. To Sylvia she said, "Now I know exactly how a balloon feels when it is pricked."
At Lydford is a remarkable chasm where a rude arch is thrown across an abyss, at the bottom of which, eighty feet below, the Lyd rattles along in its contracted bed. This is a favorite place for suicides, and the tale is still told of a benighted horseman, caught in a heavy storm, who spurred his horse along the road at headlong speed to seek shelter in the village.
Sylvia, reverting to a chance remark, now said: "I never happened to hear you speak of your mother before. Does she ever come to Lydford?" He shook his head. "No, she vibrates between the Madison Avenue house and the Newport one. She's very happy in those two places. She's Mr. Sommerville's sister, you know. She's one of Morrison's devotees too. She collects under his guidance."
After spending every summer of her life in Lydford, it would be surprising if so energetic a child as Molly hadn't assimilated the Vermont formula for fighting fire.
She was earning money to pay for her last year in college, and dropped a history book out of her basket as she started to get back in the wagon, and Father picked it up and said, 'Why, good Lord! who in Lydford reads Gibbon? And Mother said it was hers, and they talked a while, and then he got in and rode off with her."
The oldest part of the present building is the chancel of the 14th cent. There is a piscina in the S. wall, and over the S. porch a sun-dial of 1653. Southey's father was a farmer here. Lydford, East and West, two small villages about 1/2 m. apart, lying on either side of the Fosseway, 5 m. W. of Castle Cary.
Aunt Victoria's Lydford was so different from Mother's, it seemed scarcely possible they could be the same place.
"Well I can fence a little and talk French; we are in Paris winters, you know. We don't stay in Lydford for the winter. Nobody does." "Everybody goes away?" queried Judith. "What a funny town!" "Oh, except the people who live there the Vermonters." Judith was more and more at a loss. "Don't you live there?" "No, we don't live anywhere. We just stay places for a while.
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