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Updated: June 19, 2025
John doesn't know about things. Let's pack." And while Mildred Caniper lay on one side of the landing where the Pinderwells were playing quietly, Helen and Miriam, on the other, laughed at the prospect before them and made foolish jokes as they filled the trunk.
She wanted to be allowed to care for people practically and she wished her brothers and sister were small enough to be held in the arms which had to be contented with herself. She had, she complained silently to the Pinderwells, to pretend not to care for the others very much, lest she should weary them.
There was nothing to do but to go back to bed, and she did not want to do that. She could not sleep, and she would rather stay on the landing with the Pinderwells, so she leaned against the wall and folded her arms across her breast.
She thought she heard the shouting of the Pinderwells, but she knew their agony would be short, and already they were silent. The poplars were still in pain, and she ran to the front of the house that she might not see them. There was a figure coming up the track. It was John, with his trousers pulled over his night things. "God! What's up?" he cried. "It's the house only the house burning.
There were dark clouds floating against the sky, and the larches looked like another cloud dropped down until she saw their crests, spear-like and piercing: they hid the moor in its livery of night. She turned her head and listened to the sleeper, who did not stir except to breathe. She wanted to see her moor and the house where the Pinderwells were walking and wondering at its emptiness.
You're such a friend you and the Pinderwells. I don't know how I should live without you." "Do you know what you're saying to me?" "I'm telling you I like you, and it's true. And you like me. It's so comfortable to know that." "Comfortable!" "Isn't it?" "Comfortable?" he said again. "Oh, my love " He broke off, and looking at each other, both fell dumb.
"I don't think you need ever be sorry that any one is dead," she said, and before she could hear what her words told him, he spoke quickly. "Well, what about this house?" "I shan't let it." "Will you live here?" "No. I'm going to George, but no one else shall have it. I don't think the Pinderwells would be happy. Is there any furniture you want?
She folded her work and put out the light, told Jim to follow her up the stairs, and trod them quietly. It was comforting to see the Pinderwells on the landing, but she had no time for speech with them. She was wondering if death had come and filled the house with this sense of presences, but when she bent over Mildred Caniper's bed she found her sleeping steadily.
She flourished the knife. "Can't we be merry when we have the chance? Now that she's gone, why should the house still feel full of her? It isn't fair!" "You're dripping butter on the floor," Helen said. "Make your old toast yourself, then!" "It's not only Notya," Helen went on, as she picked up the knife. "It's the Pinderwells and their thoughts, and the people who lived here before them.
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