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Updated: June 4, 2025
Which meant that a joint and a loaf went twice as fast as Violet had calculated; so that she found herself driven to pan bread and tinned meat in self-defense. She had found that for some reason Ranny didn't eat so much of these. What with his walking and his "biking," and his sitting, Ranny's activities wore through his ordinary every-day clothes at a frightful rate.
On the whole, he observed a change for the better in his household. Things were kept straighter. There was less dust about, and Ranny's prize cups had never ceased to shine. His socks and vests were punctually mended, and Baby at his homecoming was always neat and clean. He knew that Winny had a hand in it.
And all the time, in secret, it was taking hold of him, the delicious thought of property, of possession, of Granville as a thing that in twenty years' time would be his own. Brooding over Granville, Ranny's brain became fertile in ideas. He was always calling out to Violet: "Vikes! I've got another idea! When he gets all dirty next year I'll paint him green.
"I'm sorry to hear this about your wife, Randall. It's a sad business, a sad business for you, my boy." From her seat on the sofa beside Ranny's mother, Aunt Randall murmured inarticulate corroboration of that view. Ranny had remained standing. It gave him an advantage in defiance. "I've never heard anything," his uncle continued, heavily, "that's shocked and grieved me more."
The young man Mr. Ponting had shown how kind his heart was by turning out of his nice room on the second floor into Ranny's old attic. The little back room, used for storage, served also as a day nursery for Ranny's children. Six days in the week a little girl came in to mind them. At night Ranny minded them where they lay in their cots by his bed.
For Violet persisted in her strange refusal, in spite of Ranny's remonstrances, his entreaties, his appeals. "It's been trouble enough," she said, "without that." She was sitting up in her chair before the bedroom fire. They were alone. The nurse was downstairs at her supper. The Baby lay between them in its cradle, wrapped in a white shawl. Ranny was watching it.
She knew it was her last look, in that room in that way that had been the way of innocence. "Well, I never!" said Ranny's mother, as he returned from seeing Winky home. "Did they ever cry like that for their Mammy?" He smiled grimly. His illumination was more than he could bear.
Hadn't it been enough for him to come to her party in that idiotic coat, with his shirt-front bulging and his face swollen? Now that he had got into the scrape, he would have to get out of it as best he could. She was resolved not to lift a finger to help him. "Oh! I didn't understand" Mr. Ranny's voice could be heard from the hall, with a cordial emphasis evidently intended to cover a blunder.
Ranny's admiration implied that the Humming-bird was carrying it off, successfully, if you like, but still carrying it. Whereas what she desired him to see was that there was nothing to be carried off. Obviously there could not be, when Mr. Ransome was prepared to go to church. For the going to church of Mr. Ransome was itself a ritual, a high religious ceremony.
Beesley good or not would depend on the precise degree and kind of Ranny's father's Headache. "I've never known your father's Headache so bad as it is to-night," said Ranny's mother. "As for makin' up prescriptions, sufferin' as He is, He's not fit for it. He's not fit for it, Ranny." That was as near as she could go. "Of course he isn't." But Ranny's mother felt that she had gone too far.
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