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Updated: June 4, 2025
As it was, nothing could have been more devious, more mysterious and serpentine than the discourse that turned and wound and wormed its way into the last obscurities and secrecies of Ranny's being. In the Mission Church of St. Matthias's Ranny underwent illumination. It was as if all that was dark and passionate in him had been interpreted for him by the preacher.
By a tender and most pardonable confusion between the symptoms and its cause Ranny's mother had hit upon a phrase that made it possible for them to discuss his father's affliction without the smallest, most shadowy reference to its essential nature.
But whether it was clean or whether it was dirty, Ranny loved it, and became more and more absorbed in it. And with Ranny's absorption Violet's irritability returned and increased, and sullenness set in for days at a time without intermission. "This," said Ranny, "is the joie de veeve." Three more months passed.
She was able to think of Ranny's first wife as poor Violet, though Violet had made him miserable and destroyed his home and had left him and his children. And the thought of his marrying Winny Dymond was intolerable to Mrs.
"Look here, Uncle, what d'you want to get at?" "The facts, my boy." "You've got all there are." "How about that young woman up at your place?" "What young woman?" "That Miss " Ranny's mother supplied his loss. "Miss Dymond." "What's she got to do with it?" said Ranny. "I'm asking you. What has she?" "Nothing. You can keep her out of it." "That's what I should advise you to do, my boy."
And when by struggles and by prodigies of strength on Ranny's part, and on the part of Woolridge's men, by every kind of physical persuasion, and by coaxing, by strategy and guile, all that furniture from seven distinct departments was at last squeezed into Granville well, there was hardly room to turn round.
To touch him in those rare accidental contacts the adventure brought them, to feel the firm muscles of his arm under his coat sleeve, stopped her breath with a kind of awe and wonder, as if in Ranny's body thus discerned she came unaware upon some transcendent mystery. Yet Winny knew now why, in what way, and with what terrible strength she loved him and he her.
At the worst, if they didn't like it, rich people, driven to flight, depart from the scene of their disaster with dignity, in cabs. But Ranny's departure, with all its ignominy, was not by any means the worst. The worst, incomparably, was the going back on Monday evening to settle up.
The weather was favorable to her idea, which was not to be in Ranny's house more than she could help, but to be seen, if seen she must be, out of doors with the children, in a public innocence, affording the presumption that Violet was still there. Above all, she was not going to be seen with Ranny, or to be seen by him too much, if she could help it.
He would find excuses to go up to the storeroom, where he would pretend to be looking for things while he was really playing with Dossie. He would sit on Ranny's bed while Ranny was undressing, and together they would consider, piously, the grave case of the Humming-bird, and how, between them, they could best "keep him off it." "It's the dispensary spirits that he gets at," Mr. Ponting said.
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