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Updated: June 27, 2025
It's mended." "Hold on, Phrasie," said Austen, seizing her by the apron-strings, "how about the Judge?" It was by this title he usually designated his father. "What about him?" demanded Euphrasia, sharply. "Well, it's his house, for one thing," answered Austen, "and he may prefer to have that room empty." "Empty! Turn you out? I'd like to see him," cried Euphrasia.
"Why haven't you tried it, Phrasie?" he retorted. He was not prepared for what followed. Euphrasia did not answer at once, but presently her knitting dropped to her lap, and she sat staring at the old clock on the kitchen shelf. "He never asked me," she said, simply. Austen was silent.
"I don't know about that," said Euphrasia; "she hadn't put up with Hilary for forty years, as I had, and seen what he'd done to your mother and you. But that's what she said. And she went for you herself, when she found the doctor couldn't go. Austen, ain't you going to see her?" Austen shook his head gently, and smiled at her. "I'm afraid it's no use, Phrasie," he said.
This Phrasie or Marquise de Javelle, announces in one of her letters, that in February, 1853, she has given birth to a daughter, whom she has confided to some relatives of hers in the south, near Toulouse. It was doubtless that event which induced my father to acknowledge who he was.
I'd like to tell you, but I can't I can't. It was only because you guessed that I said anything about it." He disengaged his hand, and rose, and patted her on the cheek. "I suppose I had to tell somebody," he said, "and you seemed, somehow, to be the right person, Phrasie." Euphrasia rose abruptly and looked up intently into his face.
Grandpapa and Aunt Phrasie wanted her to pin me down into the native stodge; and Lucius, like a true man, went in for subjection: so there was nothing for it but to put my foot down. And though little mother might moan a little to me, I knew she would stand up stoutly for me to all the rest, and vindicate my liberty. B. To keep you down there.
I had already, and without result, examined the contents of several boxes, when in the package marked 1852, a year which my father spent in Paris, certain letters attracted my attention. They were written upon coarse paper, in a very primitive handwriting and wretchedly spelt. They were signed sometimes Phrasie, sometimes Marquise de Javelle.
He sprang through the window, and patted her on the back his usual salutation. Terms of endearment she had, characteristically, never used, she threw her soul into the sounding of his name. "Off to the hills, Austen? I saw you a-harnessing of Pepper." "Phrasie," he said, still patting her, "I'm going to the country for a while." "To the country?" she repeated.
"Was yours easily mended?" he asked. Euphrasia was silent a moment. "He never knew," she repeated, in a low voice. "Well, Phrasie, it looks very much as if we were in the same boat," he said. Euphrasia's heart gave a bound. "Then you haven't spoke!" she cried; "I knew you hadn't. I I was a woman but sometimes I've thought I'd ought to have given him some sign.
"Phrasie, one of your persistent fallacies is, that I'm still a boy." "You ain't yourself," said Euphrasia, ignoring this pleasantry, "and you ain't been yourself for some months. I've seen it. I haven't brought you up for nothing. If he's troubling you, don't you worry a mite. He ain't worth it. He eats better than you do." "I'm not worrying much about that," Austen answered, smiling.
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