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Updated: June 29, 2025
But he did not say that: he just urged her quietly to have her husband buried in Petershof; and she yielded. So they laid him to rest in the dreary cemetery. Bernardine went to the funeral, much against the Disagreeable Man's wish. "You are looking like a ghost yourself," he said to her. "Come out with me into the country instead." But she shook her head. "Another day," she said. "And Mrs.
The Petershof climate had got into her head; and it is a well-known fact that this glorious air has the effect on some people of banishing from their minds all inconvenient notions of duty and devotion, and all memory of the special object of their sojourn in Petershof.
"I am certainly less ill than I was when I first came," she said; "and I feel in a better frame of mind altogether. I am learning a good deal in sad Petershof." "That is more than I have done," he answered. "Well, perhaps you teach instead," she said. "You have taught me several things. Now, go on telling me about the country people. You like them?" "I love them," he said simply.
Pretty Fräulein Müller had gone, leaving her Spanish gentleman quite disconsolate for the time being. The French Marchioness had returned to the Parisian circles where she was celebrated for all the domestic virtues, from which she had been taking such a prolonged holiday in Petershof. The little French danseuse and her poodle had left for Monte Carlo.
Then, one day, when she was in the full swing of her many engrossing occupations: teaching, writing articles for newspapers, attending socialistic meetings, and taking part in political discussions she was essentially a modern product, this Bernardine one day she fell ill. She lingered in London for some time, and then she went to Petershof.
Others of a still higher order of understanding, attributed the eccentricities of the caretakers to one cause alone: the Petershof air. They know it had the invariable effect of getting into the head, and upsetting the balance of those who drank deep of it. Therefore no one was to blame, and no one need be bitter.
Still, they were "something" to each other, that unexplainable "something" which has to explain almost every kind of attachment. He had no friends in Petershof, and apparently had no friends anywhere. No one wrote to him, except his old mother; the papers which were sent to him came from a stationer's. He read all during meal-time.
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