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Updated: May 10, 2025
That she, Wilhelmina Bennett, who had gone through the world seeking a Galahad, should finish her career as the wife of a man who hid under beds simply because people shot at him with elephant guns was abhorrent to her. Why, Samuel Marlowe would have perished rather than do such a thing.
"And I wouldn't take all the world not to teach English composition," retorted Miss Marlowe proudly. "Besides," she added with true Irish lucidity, "it isn't English composition I'm teaching. It's Life, and it's the biggest job in the world." THE last two weeks of the Easter term were a long and a hard pull.
Rostand, in Cyrano de Bergerac, has shown us the “Cadets” of Molière’s time, a fighting, rhyming, devil-may-care band, who wore their hearts on their sleeves and chips on their stalwart shoulders; much such a brotherhood, in short, as we love to imagine that Shakespeare, Kit Marlowe, Greene, and their intimates formed when they met at the “Ship” to celebrate a success or drink a health to the drama.
A larger and deeper conception of human character than any of the old dramatists had reached displayed itself in Richard the Third, in Falstaff, or in Hotspur; while in Constance and Richard the Second the pathos of human suffering was painted as even Marlowe had never dared to paint it. No dramas have done so much for Shakspere's enduring popularity with his countrymen as these historical plays.
The next morning in New York, Jasper ran across Mr. Whitney on Broadway. "Well said; that you, Jasper? Why aren't you up at the house?" "I came on the night express," said Jasper, finding it hard to wait a minute, "on a matter of importance for Mr. Marlowe. Sorry, Brother Mason, but I can't stop now." "You'll be up to-night, of course," said Mason Whitney.
Do you want to see it? She ran across the twilight room, and turned on a reading lamp beside the escritoire. Then, leaning on his shoulder, she read what follows: DEAR MR MARLOWE, YOU WILL PERHAPS REMEMBER THAT WE MET, UNDER UNHAPPY CIRCUMSTANCES, IN JUNE OF LAST YEAR AT MARLSTONE. At this point Mrs Manderson raised her eyes quickly from the letter. Her dark brows were drawn together.
No, no; you needn't tell me that the chain of evidence is complete. I know it is. But evidence of what? Of Mr. Marlowe having impersonated my husband that night, and having escaped by way of my window, and built up an alibi. I have read your despatch again and again, Mr. Trent, and I don't see that those things can be doubted." Trent gazed at her with narrowed eyes.
Jacob transcribed a whole passage from Marlowe. Miss Julia Hedge, the feminist, waited for her books. They did not come. She wetted her pen. She looked about her. Her eye was caught by the final letters in Lord Macaulay's name. And she read them all round the dome the names of great men which remind us "Oh damn," said Julia Hedge, "why didn't they leave room for an Eliot or a Bronte?"
'I can quite believe, too, that at the time you didn't think of the possibility I mentioned. But surely, apart from that, it would have been safer to do as I said; go by the window of an unoccupied room. 'Do you think so? said Marlowe. 'All I can say is, I hadn't the nerve to do it. I tell you, when I entered Manderson's room I shut the door of it on more than half my terrors.
Manderson say something when they came in through the back entrance. He said, as near as I can remember, "If Harris is there, every minute is of importance. You want to start right away. And not a word to a soul." Mr. Marlowe answered, "Very well. I will just change out of these clothes and then I am ready" or words to that effect. I heard this plainly as they passed the window of my pantry.
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