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Updated: June 25, 2025
"Having organised his band, he attacked the Spanish forces; laying siege to the town of Maturin, and in three successive encounters supplying himself with arms, ammunition, and every military essential. His force was then regularly enrolled by the Congress as a portion of its troops, and in appearance and discipline became far superior to the generality of the guerillas.
You may be typewriting his manuscripts. And then, I am a widow, and often rather lonely you could come in and read to me occasionally." "But I've never read anything." "How fortunate!" said Insall, who had entered the doorway in time to hear Janet's exclamation. "More than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn't read." Mrs. Maturin laughed. But Insall waved his hand deprecatingly.
"He asked me to give you this," she said, and left the room. Janet read it, and let it fall on the bedspread, where it was still lying when her friend returned and began tidying the room. From the direction of the guide's cabin, on the point, came the sounds of talk and laughter, broken by snatches of habitant songs. Augusta Maturin smiled.
Maturin, who seemed to hold out to her the promise of a woman's friendship for which she had felt a life-long need: a woman friend who would understand the insatiate yearning in her that gave her no rest in her search for a glittering essence never found, that had led her only to new depths of bitterness and despair. It would destroy her, if indeed it had not already done so. Mrs.
I pretended not to notice it but I was sorry I'd said anything about it." "She didn't say anything?" "Not a word." "Didn't you know that, before the strike, she was Ditmar's private stenographer?" "No!" Augusta Maturin exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me?" "It never occurred to me to tell you," Insall replied. "That must have something to do with it!" said Mrs. Maturin.
Radcliffe's stories he thought admirable; those of Lewis he cited as hardly being equalled by Stendhal's Chartreuse de Parme; and Maturin oddly as it strikes us now he not only styled the most original modern author that the United Kingdom could boast of, but assigned him a place, beside Moliere and Goethe, as one of the greatest geniuses of Europe.
What you have to give is yourself." His fingers trembled on her arm, but she saw him smile a little before he spoke again. "Augusta Maturin was right when she said that you were the woman I needed. I didn't realize it then perhaps she didn't but now I'm sure of it. Will you come to me?"
But his swift glance had noticed the expression in her eyes, the sagged condition of her clothes, the attitude that proclaimed exhaustion. He took her by the arm and led her to the little storeroom, turning on the light and placing her in a chair. Darkness descended on her.... Mrs. Maturin, returning from an errand, paused for an instant in the doorway, and ran forward and bent over Janet.
"It was so beautiful in the spring," Janet continued, dropping the coat she held into the drawer. "And it wasn't just the trees and the grass with the yellow dandelions, it was the houses, too I've often wondered why those houses pleased me so much. I wanted to live in every one of them. Do you know that feeling?" Mrs. Maturin nodded.
But even among the dramatic authors of the present day, he was unwilling to allow that there was a great and palpable decline from the glory of preceding ages, and his toast alone would bear him out in denying the truth of the proposition. After eulogizing the names of Baillie, Byron, Coleridge, Maturin, and others, he begged to have the honour of proposing "The Health of James Sheridan Knowles."
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