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Nash that he had felt that absolute rest continued necessary, and that he had not been able to sanction any attempt to get Mrs. Prichard up for any length of time. Gwen turned for consolation to Widow Thrale's letter. It was a model of reserve would not say too much.
"She said a good deal, because I encouraged her to talk, to convince myself of her delusion.... Could I recollect some of it? I think so. Or stay I have my notes of the case." He produced a book. "Here we are. 'Mrs. Maisie Prichard, eighty-one. Has delusions. Thinks mill was her father's. It was Widow Thrale's grandfather's. Knows horses Pitt and Fox. Knows Muggeridge waggoner. Has names correct.
So I was a-lyin', missis, you see, by a sort o' chance like, when I said he said no names. 'Cos he did. He said his own. Not but what he goes by the name of Wix." "What does he want of old Mrs. Prichard now?" "A screw. Sov'rings, if he can get 'em. Otherwise bobs, if he can't do no better." "Mrs. Prichard has no money." "He says she has and he giv' it her.
Treadwell, she said, 'only just afore we come upstairs, ma'am, she said, 'that you was one of twins, ma'am, she said. And then old Mrs. Prichard she says, 'Ay, to be sure, she says, 'twins we were Maisie and Phoebe. Forty-five years ago she died, Phoebe did, she says. 'And I've never forgotten Phoebe, she says. 'Nor yet I shan't forget Phoebe not if I live to be a hundred!"
"I remember there was something else I wanted to ask you, Aunt Maria. Did Mrs. Prichard ever talk to you about her son?" Was it wonderful that Aunt M'riar should start and flinch from speech, and that Uncle Mo should look preoccupied about everything outside the conversation? Can you imagine the sort of feeling an intensely truthful person like Aunt M'riar would have under such circumstances?
"There now! if she had told me that, instead of running away with ideas! We would have found it all out, by now." Gwen felt quite despairing. She had actually lost ground. Was it conceivable that the whole tale should become known to Mrs. Prichard or to both sisters, for that matter and be discredited on its merits, with applause for its achievements in coincidence? It looked like it!
Jack Tibbets is not a scholar, a genius, a wond " "Stop!" cried my father. "After all," said Mr. Squills, "though I am no flatterer, Mr. Tibbets is not so far out. That part of your book which compares the crania or skulls of the different races is superb. Lawrence or Dr. Prichard could not have done the thing more neatly. Such a book must not be lost to the world; and I agree with Mr.
Prichard being mentioned, he said, 'Her playing was quite mechanical. It is wonderful how little mind she had. Sir, she had never read the tragedy of Macbeth all through. She no more thought of the play out of which her part was taken, than a shoemaker thinks of the skin, out of which the piece of leather, of which he is making a pair of shoes, is cut.
Some months before the first date of the story, a variation came about in the occupancy upstairs, Mrs. Prichard and Mrs. Burr taking the place of some parties who, if the truth was told, were rather a riddance. The fact is merely recorded as received; nothing further has transpired regarding these persons. Mrs.
But it ain't for me to say." She seemed to have a sudden inspiration towards decision of opinion, a thing rare with her. It was due, no doubt, to her own recent experience of an unwelcome resurrection from the Past. "'Tain't any consarn of ours to choose, M'riar. Just you go over to their side o' the hedge for a minute. Suppose you was Goody Prichard, and Goody Prichard was you!" "Well! Suppose!"
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