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Updated: June 2, 2025
The little maid was on her knees, polishing the floor; Miss Prunty was scolding, dusting, ordering dinner, arranging vases, all at once; strangest of all, Madame Petrucci had taken the oil-cloth cover from her grand piano, and, seated before it, was practising her sweet and faded notes, unheedful of the surrounding din and business. "What's the matter!" cried Goneril.
She spoke with a languid foreign accent, and with an emphatic and bountiful use of adjectives, that gave to our severer generation an impression of insincerity. Yet it was said with truth that Giulia Petrucci had never forgotten a friend nor an enemy. "Goneril is outside" said Miss Hamelyn. "How is Miss Prunty?" "Brigida? Oh, you must come inside and see my invaluable Brigida.
It was now seven weeks since Goneril had blushed with excitement when first she heard that ring, and now she did not blush. The signorino entered. He walked very straight and his lips were set. He came in with the air of one prepared to encounter opposition. "Mees Goneril," he said, "will you come out on the terrace? before it is too late," he added, with a savage glance at Miss Prunty.
Now, while we could believe anything sombre and stern of one sporting that deep, nasal and majestic appellative, we find it impossible to associate thoughts of unearthly gloom with the airy Milesian cognomen of Pat Prunty, even though weighted with the solemn prefix of "Reverend."
She received the signorino's gay effusions in ominous silence, and would frown darkly while Madame Petrucci petted her "little bird," as she called Goneril. Once indeed Miss Prunty was heard to remark it was tempting Providence to have dealings with a creature whose very name was a synonym for ingratitude.
"Signor Graziano, Miss Goneril Hamelyn," said Miss Prunty, rather severely. Goneril felt that the time had come for silence and good manners. She sat quite quiet over her embroidery, listening to the talk of Sontag, of Clementi, of musicians and singers dead and gone.
The little maid was on her knees polishing the floor; Miss Prunty was scolding, dusting, ordering dinner, arranging vases, all at once; strangest of all, Madame Petrucci had taken the oil-cloth cover from her grand piano, and, seated before it, was practising her sweet and faded notes, unheedful of the surrounding din and business. "What's the matter?" cried Goneril.
She sat quite quiet over her embroidery, listening to the talk of Sontag, of Clementi, of musicians and singers dead and gone. She noticed that the ladies treated Signor Graziano with the utmost reverence; even the positive Miss Prunty furling her opinions in deference to his gayest hint.
She noticed that the ladies treated Signore Graziano with the utmost reverence, even the positive Miss Prunty furling her opinions in deference to his gayest hint. They talked too of Madame Lilli, and always as if she were still young and fair, as if she had died yesterday, leaving the echo of her triumph loud behind her. And yet all this had happened years before Goneril had ever seen the light.
"Go to bed, Goneril!" cried Miss Prunty, in a voice of thunder. A few mornings after these events the postman brought a letter for Goneril. This was such a rare occurrence that she blushed rose red at the very sight of it and had to walk up and down the terrace several times before she felt calm enough to read it. Then she went upstairs and knocked at the door of Madame Petrucci's room.
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