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Updated: May 6, 2025
"Neither one nor t'other, Mo. 'Tain't neither Dave nor Dolly, this time." But something or other was somebody or something, that was clear! Aunt M'riar may have meant this, and yet not seen how very clear she made it. She recurred to that candle, and a suggestion of Uncle Mo's. "It's easy sayin', 'Run the toller off, Mo; but who's to do it with such a little flame?"
Miss Grahame made an effort to get away from abstract Philosophy. "I'm afraid it can't be helped now, anyhow," said she. "Dave is growing, and means to be a man. Oh dear he'll be a man before we know it. He'll be able to read and write in a few months." Uncle Mo's face showed a cloud. "Do ye really think that, ma'am?" he said. "Well I'm afeared you may be right."
I think I like Picture best." Aunt M'riar, not to be out of the conversation, took a formal exception to Uncle Mo's remark: "The ladies they know how old Old Mrs. Marrable in the country is, without your telling of 'em, Mo." "Right you are, M'riar! But they don't know nothing about old Mrs. Prichard." Uncle Mo had spoken at a guess of Mrs. Marrowbone's age, of which he knew nothing.
In that case Predestination would hardly have known which way to turn, to get at some sort of compromise or accommodation that would square matters. If Gwen's understudy had been called on, there would have been to borrow a favourite expression of Uncle Mo's a pretty how-do-you-do, on the part of Predestination.
They had, they said, no idea that they would find in the harem of their enemy Samory the betrothed of Mo's ruler, and I also was compelled to admit myself quite as astounded as themselves. Therefore in brief words explanations and forgiveness were exchanged and I rushed across, and with the ready help of Kona and his men endeavoured to restore her to consciousness.
Of which two twos, Uncle Mo might have known either the one or the other according to which was which but not both. This story has to confess occasional uncertainty about some of its facts. There may have been more behind Uncle Mo's bit of rudeness about Aunt M'riar's disquiet than showed on the surface. However, he never asked any questions.
And sometimes nothing was broke. Otherwise one day at No. 7, Sapps Court, was much the same as another. Uncle Mo's residence in Sapps Court dated many years before the coming of Aunt M'riar; in fact, as far back as the time he was deprived of his anchorage in Soho.
Then Uncle Mo, emerging probably from pitch darkness in the little parlour, and joining in the undertones on inquiry and information mixed mixed soon enough with sobs. Then the struggle against them in Mo's own voice of would-be reassurance: "Poor old M'riar! Don't ye take on so! We'll all die one day." Then more undertones.
If Micky had remembered word for word the whole of this interview, he might have had misgivings of the effect of one thing he had said unawares. It was his reference to Uncle Mo's absence at The Sun during the late afternoon. Manifestly, it left the house in Mr. Wix's imagination untenanted, during some two hours of the day, except by Aunt M'riar, and the children perhaps.
Her young ladyship's laugh rang out with such musical cordiality that the two horror-stricken faces relaxed, and Uncle Mo's got so far as the beginning of a smile. "It's all quite right," said Gwen. "I told Dave I was Gwen just this minute when you were upstairs. He's made it 'sister' so we shan't be compromised, either of us." Whereupon Dave, quite in the dark, assented from sheer courtesy.
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