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Updated: May 4, 2025
Brockett's thin neck, the untidy egg-shells everything depressed him. "I have had a rotten night," he said, "nightmares. I suppose I ate something anyhow it's a gloomy day." "Yes," said Miss Monogue, pinning some of her hair in at the wrong place and unpinning other parts of it that happened by accident to be right. "I'm afraid it's a poor sort of day for the Procession.
The air was filled with shrill cries the only other sound was the lapping of the water as it curled up the little beach. As Peter stood there there crept upon him a sensation of awe. He took off his hat. The gulls seemed to cease their cries. As another brown sail stole round the white point, gleaming' now in the sun, he knew, with absolute certainty, that Norah Monogue was dead.
He blew the candle out and put his arm through his son's and they went downstairs together. Peter found, next morning, Miss Monogue sitting by her window. She gave him at once the impression of something kept alive by a will-power so determined that Death himself could only stand aside and wait until it might waver.
She ought to have gone before this, but she holds on with her pluck and her love of it all.... Lord! when one thinks of the millions of people who just 'slug' through life not valuing it, doing nothing with it one grudges the waste of their hours when a woman like Miss Monogue could have done so much with them." "Am I doing her any harm, going in to see her?" "No doing her good.
Anyhow there's no reason to drag Norah Monogue into this. The matter is perfectly clear. I will not have dirty old men like that coming into the house." "Clare, you shall not speak of my friends " "Oh, shan't I? When I married you I didn't marry all your old horrid friends " "Drop it, Clare or I shall be angry " She sprang to her feet, faced him. He had never in his life seen such fury.
"But why, why," said the gentleman, "didn't you let us know before, my good fellow?" Stephen's brow darkened. "Peter didn't wish it," he said. But Norah Monogue came forward and put her hand on his arm. "You must be the Mr. Brant about whom he has so often talked," she said. "I am so glad to meet you at last. Peter owes so much to you.
It's as though I were tossing more balls in the air than I could possibly manage. At one moment I think it's Clare that I've got especially to hang on to another time it's the book and then it's Stephen. Fact is I'm getting battered at by something or other and I never can get my breath. I oughtn't ever to have married I'm not up to it." Norah Monogue took his hand.
Something in Peter's steady gaze seemed suddenly to surprise her. She stopped the colour mounted into her cheeks she bent down over the boy. They were both of them supremely conscious of one another. There was a moment.... Then, as men feel, when some music that has held them ceases, they came, with a sense of breathlessness, back to Norah Monogue and her dim room.
Where that other Peter Westcott? Not here in this dear delicious little house, with Love and Home and great raging happiness in his heart. He wrote to Stephen, to Mr. Zanti, to Norah Monogue and told them. He received no answers no word from the outer world had come to him. That other life seemed cut off, separated closed. Perhaps it had left him for ever!
Brockett's boiled egg and hard crackling toast were impossible. Miss Monogue had things to tell him about the book it was wonderful, tremendous ... beyond everything that she had believed possible. But strangely enough, he was scarcely interested. He was pleased of course, but he was weighted with the sense of overhanging catastrophe. The green bulging curtains, the row of black beads about Mrs.
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