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Updated: June 7, 2025
At last Charlie's clear, gay voice said: "It's all very well, and Victor Hugo is Victor Hugo; but you can say what you like there's a lot of this that'll bear skipping, your worships." Already she was at the doorway. In the dusk of the unlighted chamber the faces of the four Orgreaves and Clayhanger showed like pale patches on the gloom.
He was somewhat pleased with himself, and especially with his seriousness. The memory of school was slipping away from him in the most extraordinary manner. His only school-friend, Charlie Orgreave, had departed, with all the multitudinous Orgreaves, for a month in Wales.
From the bay-window Edwin could see over the hedge, and also through it, on to the croquet lawn of the Orgreaves. Croquet was then in its first avatar; nothing was more dashing than croquet. With rag-balls and home-made mallets the Clayhanger children had imitated croquet in their yard in the seventies. The Orgreaves played real croquet; one of them had shone in a tournament at Buxton.
And Darius from prudence did not insist, for he had arrived at chapel unthinkably late during the second chant and Clara was capable of audacious remarks upon occasions. The silence grew stolid. And Edwin wondered what the dinner-table of the Orgreaves was like. And he could smell fresh mortar.
He, Edwin Clayhanger, a subject of conversation in the household of the Orgreaves, that mysterious household which he had never entered but which he had always pictured to himself as being so finely superior!
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