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Updated: May 23, 2025
And redemption meant simply thousands and millions of men in troop-ships and troop-trains coming from the ends of the world to buy the freedom of the world with their bodies. It meant that the very fields he was looking over, and this beauty of the hills, those unused ramparts where no batteries were hid, and the small, silent villages, Morfe and Renton, were bought now with their bodies.
She was proud of Richard Nicholson because of what he had done. The Morfe people didn't know anything about what he had done; but they knew he was something wonderful and important; they knew it was wonderful and important that you should be his secretary. They were proud of you, glad that they had provided him with you, proud that he should have found what he was looking for in Morfe. Mr.
And he, too, glanced at the clock: "You've still nearly ten minutes." And proceeded with his critical and explanatory comments on the Vision of Cleopatra. He was capable of becoming almost delirious about music. Mary Morfe had seated herself in silence. At last Eva and Mr Morfe approached the fire and the mantelpiece again.
She walked the four miles, going across the moor under Karva and loitering by the way, and it was past six before she reached Morfe. She was shown into the room that was once Rowcliffe's study. It had been Mary's drawing-room ever since last year when the second child was born and they turned the big room over the dining-room into a day nursery.
His eyes were fixed, fixed on the white, slender arm that lay across his wife's lap. And Mrs. Sutcliffe's eyes were fixed on the queer, strained face. Uncle Victor's letter was almost a relief. She had not yet allowed herself to imagine what Morfe would be like without the Sutcliffes. And, after all, they wouldn't have to live in it.
Garthdale in front of it, Rathdale at its side, meeting in the fields below its bridge. Morfe was beautiful. She loved it with love at first sight, faithless to Ilford. Straight, naked houses. Grey walls of houses, enclosing the wide oblong Green. Dark grey stone roofs, close-clipped lest the wind should lift them.
Gwenda in Peacock's trap had left the town before she heard behind her the clanking hoofs of Rowcliffe's little brown horse. She thought, "He will pass in another minute. I shall see him." But she did not see him. All the way up Rathdale to Morfe the sound of the wheels and of the clanking hoofs pursued her, and Rowcliffe still hung back. He did not want to pass her.
She said to herself, "I've half a mind to tell him; only Gwenda would hate me." And she called over her shoulder as she strolled away, "You'd better not stay out too long, you two. It's going to rain." Morfe High Moor hangs over Garth and a hot and swollen cloud was hanging over Morfe High Moor. Above the gray ramparts the very east was sultry.
As for not getting used to it, that was precisely the effect she wanted: rooms that wouldn't look like anything in the house at Morfe, things that she would always come on with a faint, exquisite surprise: the worn magentaish rug on the dark polished floor, the oak table, the gentian blue chair, the thin magenta curtains letting the light through: the things Richard had given her because in their beginning they had been meant for her.
Hurled against each other, flung rhythmically from side to side, they shared the blind trouble of the man and the torment of the mare. For the first two miles out of Morfe the trap charged, scattering men and beasts before it and taking the curves of the road at a tangent. With the third mile the pace slackened.
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