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Updated: May 6, 2025
Tom would be a smart boy if he had a chance, I think. But just think what it must be like to live with two people like the Motherwells. You do not realise it, Fred, because you have had the superior advantages of living with clever people like your brother Peter and your sister Eleanor Mary; isn't that so, Peter?"
"I can't lave it all to the Lord to do," she said, as she rubbed the soap on her little wash-rag. "It doesn't do to impose on good nature." When Tom, the only son of the Motherwells, came down to light the fire, he found Pearl setting the table, the kitchen swept and the kettle boiling. Pearl looked at him with her friendly Irish smile, which he returned awkwardly.
Sam Motherwell referred to his quite often as "that blamed Englishman" and often said, unjustly, that he was losing money on him every day. Arthur the Motherwells could not have told his other name had learned something since he came.
Pearl went up the ladder into the kitchen loft, and found herself in a low, long room, close and stifling, one little window shone light against the western sky and on it innumerable flies buzzed unceasingly. Old boxes, old bags, old baskets looked strange and shadowy in the gathering gloom. The Motherwells did not believe in giving away anything.
I'd like to see the clouds though. I'll bet they're a sight, just like what Camilla sings about: Dark is His path on the wings o' the storm. In the kitchen below the Motherwells gathered with pale faces. The windows shook and rattled in their casings. "Keep away from the stove, Tom," Mrs. Motherwell said, trembling. "That's where the lightnin' strikes." Tom's teeth were chattering.
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