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Updated: June 16, 2025
The wifehood she looked on as a means to something else, to what she could hardly say; in itself she did not desire it. Lady Richard's prayer was answered no thanks to herself or her hints, no thanks either to Mrs. Baxter's motherly remonstrance or to Morewood's blunt speech. It was May herself who sent Quisanté away.
"Yes, there's a picture to be seen Morewood's latest." "Good!" "I don't know that I shall show it to Lane." "Oh, get out!" said Eugene. "I shall summon the servants to my aid. Who's it of?" "Stafford," said Ayre. "The Pope in full canonicals?" "All right, Lane. But you're a friend of his, and you mayn't like it."
Baxter, entrenched in placidity and petticoats, quite escaped its influence; even Morewood's cynical humour hesitated to play on a situation so unexpected, possibly so serious. Lady Richard's alarm was the most outspoken, and her dismay the most clamorous; yet perhaps in Dick Benyon himself was the strongest fear.
Baxter; and she added with a pensive smile, "And I've lived in a Cathedral town for thirty years." The red-ribbon became intelligible; it fell into line with Morewood's ill-disciplined wish. Both signified an absence of love, such a departing without being desired as serves for the epitaph of a Jewish king.
"Here you are!" he said. "Thought I should find you. You can't keep away from this dirty old town." "Where do you spring from?" asked Ayre. "Liverpool. I found the Continent slow, so I went to America. Nothing moving there, so I came back here. Can you give me breakfast?" Ayre rang the bell, and ordered a new breakfast; as he did so he took up Morewood's letter and put it in his pocket.
He's always doing things that you can't be quite sure about whether they're straight or not, you know. He was just the same as a boy." May had a sense of treachery in listening, but how should she not listen? Morewood's opinion came into her memory. Miss Quisanté was confirming it out of her full acquaintance with its subject.
Then in a moment, recollecting himself, he looked at the two men, and saw what he had done. They tried to look as if they noticed nothing. "You must destroy that thing, Morewood," said he. Morewood's face was a study. "I would as soon," he said deliberately, "cut off my right hand." "I'll give you a thousand pounds for it," said Eugene. "What would you do with it?" "Burn it."
"Oh, say you won't be friends, if you don't want to! Be simple. There, I say it again. Be simple." Lady Richard's merry laugh rang through the garden, and a brusque "Damn it!" of Morewood's floated out from the open window of the billiard-room. There was an odd contrast to this cheerful levity in the man's pale drawn face as he looked into May Gaston's eyes.
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