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Updated: June 8, 2025
She stopped at last, with a quick gasp. Looking at her, he chafed her limp hands, his huge, uncouth face growing pale. When she was better, he said, gravely, "I want you, Margret. Not at home, child. I want to show you something." He turned with her suddenly off the main road into a by-path, helping her along, watching her stealthily, but going on with his disjointed, bearish growls.
She was like a dead thing now: what need to torture her longer? Let him be manly and go out to his solitary life, taking the remembrance of what he had done with him for company. He rose uncertainly, then came to her: was that the way to leave her? "I am going, Margret," he whispered, "but let me tell you a story before I go, a Christmas story, say.
Margret, through the stifling air, worked steadily alone in the dusty office, her face bent over the books, never changing but once. It was a trifle then; yet, when she looked back afterwards, the trifle was all that gave the day a name. The room shook, as I said, with the thunderous, incessant sound of the engines and the looms; she scarcely heard it, being used to it.
How happy I would be, if it were not for the thought of her uncomfortable position there! Lilly agrees with me that, once out of it, she never wishes to see the vile place again. Margret says that when the Lord had finished all the world and all the people, he had some scraps left, and just thought he'd "batch up" Clinton with them. Perhaps she is right. Sunday, 26th October.
Two or three years had passed before Margret showed signs of failing. Then at the end of one very cold winter people noticed that she grew feebler. She was away from mass one or two Sundays, and then one Sunday she reappeared walking with the aid of a stick and looking plainly ill and weak.
Margret looked at him as if he were an accusing spirit, coming down, as woman must, from heights of self-renunciation or bold resolve, to an undarned stocking or an uncooked meal. "Kittle's b'ilin'," he announced, flinging in the information as a general gratuity. "That will do, Joel," said Mrs. Howth. The tone of stately blandness which Mrs.
As it approached in the slow-coming winter, the days growing shorter, and the nights longer and more solitary, so Margret became more real to him, not rejected and lost, but as the wife she might have been, with the simple, passionate love she gave him once.
Jack discovered after a time that the good dinners were putting a skin and roundness on Margret that might give her a new lease of life perhaps a not quite desirable result. The neighbours looked on at Mrs. Jack's 'antics' with something little short of scandal. They met by twos and threes to talk over it, and came to the conclusion that Mrs.
Margret got up a way of thanking all alike in a honeyed voice that had a queer sound of mockery in it, and after a time some of the more independent spirits dropped out of the chase, 'pitching, as they expressed it, 'her ould money to the divil. Mrs.
It was growing late; the evening air more motionless and cool; the russet gold of the sunshine mottled only the hill-tops now; in the valleys there was a duskier brown, deepening every moment. Margret turned from the road, and went down the fields.
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