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Updated: June 12, 2025
Rendle always had to have a certain seat at the dinner-table, away from the draught and not too near the fire, and a box of cigars that no one else was allowed to touch, and a writing-table of his own in Mary's sitting-room and Anerton was always telling one of the great man's idiosyncrasies: how he never would cut the ends of his cigars, though Anerton himself had given him a gold cutter set with a star-sapphire, and how untidy his writing-table was, and how the house- maid had orders always to bring the waste-paper basket to her mistress before emptying it, lest some immortal verse should be thrown into the dust-bin."
I care for you, or at least for your love, enough to owe you that. You thought it was because Vincent Rendle had loved me that there was so little hope for you. I had had what I wanted to the full; wasn't that what you said? It is just when a man begins to think he understands a woman that he may be sure he doesn't! It is because Vincent Rendle didn't love me that there is no hope for you.
"I am sorry about the burial, Mrs. Rendle, I have tried to argue the matter out with the vicar." "Oh, that is not to be helped," she answered. "God will rest her soul wherever she be. Miss Rutherford sent those flowers," she added, "she was rare set agin Bridget to begin with, but she be softened down." That brought the other tragedy which he had witnessed this morning back to his mind.
"Why not, pray? She's a young woman still what many people would call young," Mrs. Memorall interjected, with a parenthetic glance at the mirror. "Why not accept the inevitable and begin over again? All the King's horses and all the King's men won't bring Rendle to life-and besides, she didn't marry him when she had the chance." Danyers winced slightly at this rude fingering of his idol.
The fact is, she cared only about his friends she separated herself gradually from all her own people. Now, of course, it's different; she's desperately lonely; she's taken to writing to me now and then; and last year, when she heard I was going abroad, she asked me to meet her in Venice, and I spent a week with her there." "And Rendle?" Mrs. Memorall smiled and shook her head.
He felt himself completely forgotten in this crisis. The two women stared at each other. Twice Aunt Janet moistened her lips and tried to speak, but the words died in her throat. When she succeeded at last her voice was scarce recognizable. "You said like Bridget Rendle," she whispered; "did you mean what you said?" "Yes," answered Joan. The older woman turned towards the door.
How such a reparation would have vulgarized their past it would have been like "restoring" a masterpiece; and how exquisite must have been the perceptions of the woman who, in defiance of appearances, and perhaps of her own secret inclination, chose to go down to posterity as Silvia rather than as Mrs. Vincent Rendle! Mrs. Memorall, from this day forth, acquired an interest in Danyers's eyes.
"That day when I was called in to see her, do you remember, she spoke out before her aunt and myself. She told us she was like Bridget Rendle. 'I am going to have a baby, she said, 'but I am not ashamed or afraid. I have done nothing to be ashamed of. Do you know how sometimes," he went on slowly, "you can see straight into a person's soul through their eyes.
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