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Updated: June 20, 2025
At long intervals he would prove, thus, that he was a mighty soul, capable of sublime deeds. The watch was the unique flowering of Mr. Povey's profound but harsh affection. It lay on the table like a miracle. This day was a great day, a supremely exciting day in Cyril's history, and not less so in the history of his parents. The watch killed its owner's appetite dead.
On the Sunday morning after the day on which the Signal had printed the menu of Daniel Povey's supreme breakfast, and the exact length of the 'drop' which the executioner had administered to him, Constance and Cyril stood together at the window of the large bedroom. The boy was in his best clothes; but Constance's garments gave no sign of the Sabbath.
"It's nearly all nerves. I know something about Mrs. Povey's constitution now, and I was hoping that your visit would do her good." "She's been quite well I mean what you may call quite well until the day before yesterday, when she sat in that draught. She was better last night, and then this morning I find her ever so much worse." "No worries?" The doctor looked at her confidentially.
For years, in childhood, she had passed that sign without knowing what sort of things 'Bros, and 'Facia' were, and what was the mysterious similarity between a plumber and a version of the Bible. So she went sedately up the showroom stairs and thus to the bedroom floors of the house her house! Mrs. Povey's house!
Huntbach is waiting for you in the parlour," said Constance. "Mr. Huntbach?" "Yes, from Longshaw." She whispered, "It's Mrs. Povey's cousin. He's come to see about the funeral and so on, the the inquest, I suppose." Samuel paused. "Oh, has he!" said he defiantly. "Well, I'll see him. If he WANTS to see me, I'll see him."
They had hot bricks under their feet, and fine-knitted wraps on their shoulders. They would have been more comfortable near the stove, but greatness has its penalties. The weather was exceptionally severe. The windows were thickly frosted over, so that Mr. Povey's art in dressing them was quite wasted. And rare phenomenon! the doors of the shop were shut.
Povey's toothache, which became more and more manifest, had already wiped out the ludicrous memory of the encounter in the showroom.
"We can't keep our servants. They won't stay. YOU know that." He did. Mrs. Daniel Povey's domestic methods and idiosyncrasies could at any rate be freely discussed, and they were. "And what have you done?" "Done? Why, I picked him up in my arms and carried him upstairs again. And a fine job I had too! Here! Come here!"
"When I was in the parlour just now I saw a man running along Wedgwood Street, and I said to myself, what's amiss?" Dick and Lily joined her at the window. Several people were hurrying down the Square, and then a man came running with a doctor from the market-place. All these persons disappeared from view under the window of Mrs. Povey's drawing- room, which was over part of Mrs. Critchlow's shop.
And somehow she privately blamed Constance for his behaviour. So the matter hung, as it were, suspended in the ether between the opposing forces of pride and passion. Shortly afterwards events occurred compared to which the vicissitudes of Mr. Povey's heart were of no more account than a shower of rain in April. And fate gave no warning of them; it rather indicated a complete absence of events.
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