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Updated: May 18, 2025
I'm afraid the bread-and-butter is too substantial; will you try a bun instead?" "It is delicious!" Flora Macmichel said, and put the slice again to her lips, and again placed it unbitten in the saucer. "There is," said the clergyman's wife in a lowered tone, "something awful I mean in the sense of being full of awe in being entrusted by God with only one child.
Mrs Macmichel bowed a condescending head as she passed on, receiving no form of salutation but a stare from a pair of vacant eyes in return. "Well, really! Such people!" the lady said to herself, as she walked disdainfully on. "Even here you would expect a man would know he is always expected to take off his hat when a woman bows to him!" "Mrs Macmichel!" a voice said at her back.
"A day or two, and I must return these people's call," Mrs Macmichel said to herself as she passed the Rectory gate. "What a bore!" Two or three days ago the rector and his wife, calling on their new parishioner at the Court, had found her just returned from lunch with the shooting party in the field.
We considered Freddy a fine boy. And whom do you think he takes after?" "He is like you about the eyes," Mrs Macmichel said. She gave the photograph hurriedly back. She could not endure to look upon the eyes closed now upon their "first dark day of nothingness." Mrs Jones put the portrait tenderly in its place. "That big photograph standing above the clock was taken only the other day," she said.
Never once did she seem to me to sorrow painfully. The child, for long and long after she was dead, seemed with her, she told me." She leant forward in her chair; her voice, which was a rather harsh-speaking voice, grew low and earnest. Was it possible that she she, Flora Macmichel had joined the company of the preachers!
Mrs Macmichel took the papers, glanced at them, laid them on her lap, tried to say yes and no in the right places to the information now eagerly poured forth to her; tried to keep her eyes from that letter which the clergyman's wife had been interrupted in writing. It had fluttered to the floor as she had looked through her writing-case, and now lay, unheeded by her, at the visitor's feet.
Mrs Macmichel's eyes were turned uneasily upon the door at which the servant had suddenly appeared. "Mrs Pyman is afraid she can't wait any longer now, ma'am. She wouldn't keep you more'n a minute, if you could speak to her, she says." Mrs Macmichel put out a hand and gripped the arm of her hostess as she rose from her seat "Don't " she said imploringly, "don't go! We are so so comfortable."
Mrs Macmichel thrust the envelope into the pocket of her coat, and kept her hand upon it there. "It is from my dressmaker; she is always bothering," she said. "But are you sure, as you have not read it?" "Quite sure. I always know when they come from her." The hand which seized upon her cup again was shaking.
Hardly crediting that it could be upon her, Flora Macmichel, accustomed to move in paths so carefully smoothed, to have all ugly things hidden from her sight, that this task of matchless unpleasantness had been thrust, she turned and walked slowly towards the Rectory door.
"It is a mercy Freddy does not see the old fashion, the shabbiness. He only sees home," she said. Always Freddy! Poor Freddy, who would never see home again! Searching wildly in her, at this crisis, stagnant mind for anything to turn the poor woman from her subject, Mrs Macmichel remembered the Parish Room. Here should be a mine of conversational wealth. She would work it for all it was worth.
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