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Updated: June 25, 2025
Paul tried with his fingers. It made little dents. "H'm!" he said. "Rotten, isn't it?" said Dawes. "Why? It's nothing much." "You're not much of a man with water in your legs." "I can't see as it makes any difference," said Morel. "I've got a weak chest." He returned to his own bed. "I suppose the rest of me's all right," said Dawes, and he put out the light. In the morning it was raining.
The little that I earned was indispensable to the family, since the illness of my mother; and the bad character which M. Ferrand threatened to give me would prevent my seeking or obtaining another place for a long time, perhaps." "Yes," said Morel, with great bitterness, "we had the cowardice, the selfishness, to let our child return there.
Water ran down the sides of the waggons, over the white "C.W. and Co.". Colliers, walking indifferent to the rain, were streaming down the line and up the field, a grey, dismal host. Morel put up his umbrella, and took pleasure from the peppering of the drops thereon. All along the road to Bestwood the miners tramped, wet and grey and dirty, but their red mouths talking with animation.
Morel lay listening, one Sunday morning, to the chatter of the father and child downstairs. Then she dozed off.
He walked with a stiff, brittle dignity, as if his head were on a wooden spring. His nature was cold and shrewd. Generous where he intended to be generous, he seemed to be very fond of Morel, and more or less to take charge of him. Mrs. Morel hated him.
Morel had had a few pounds left to her by her father, and she decided to buy her son out of the army. He was wild with joy. Now he was like a lad taking a holiday. He had always been fond of Beatrice Wyld, and during his furlough he picked up with her again. She was stronger and better in health. The two often went long walks together, Arthur taking her arm in soldier's fashion, rather stiffly.
Morel, his gray hair almost standing on end with despair and fright, remained motionless, holding his dead child in his arms, whom he contemplated with fixed, tearless eyes, bloodshot with agony. "Morel! Morel! give my Adele to me!" shrieked the unhappy mother, holding out her arms toward her husband; "it is not true that she is dead: you shall see I will warm her in my arms!"
Straight in front, on a dirty glass door at the top of a staircase, loomed the ominous words "Thomas Jordan and Son Surgical Appliances." Mrs. Morel went first, her son followed her. Charles I mounted his scaffold with a lighter heart than had Paul Morel as he followed his mother up the dirty steps to the dirty door. She pushed open the door, and stood in pleased surprise.
But soon she would have fifteen shillings, since she had passed her examination, and there would be financial peace in the house. Mrs. Morel clung now to Paul. He was quiet and not brilliant. But still he stuck to his painting, and still he stuck to his mother. Everything he did was for her.
August, 1917. "demain," September, 1917. The "Revue mensuelle" of Geneva asked R. R. what he thought of this affair, concerning which at that time little was known on the continent, for all the information hitherto published had been in the form of defamatory articles, attacks upon Morel manufactured in England and disseminated in various tongues. R. R. replied as follows:
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