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Updated: June 23, 2025
"But you must! You must!" said Bentinck-Major, catching hold of one of the buttons on Ronder's waistcoat, a habit that Ronder most especially disliked. "More culture is what our town needs several of us have been thinking so. It is really time, I think, to start a little Shakespeare reading amongst ourselves strictly amongst ourselves, of course.
Brandon, the quietest, dullest woman for years and years, throws her cap over the mill and behaves like a madwoman; and Johnny St. Leath, they say, is in love with the daughter, and his old mother is furious; and Brandon, they say, wants to cut Ronder's throat. Ronder! Mrs.
As his knees, place them where he would, bumped against Ronder's, wrath bubbled in his heart like boiling water in a kettle. The very immobility of Bassett's broad back added to the irritation. "It's remarkably small for a wagonette," said Ronder at last, when some minutes had passed in silence.
Oh, dear!" he cried at the anecdote of the two American ladies in Siena. "That's good, indeed...that's very good. Did you get that, Pouting? Dear me, that's perfectly delightful!" A little tear of shining pleasure trickled down his cheek. "Really, Canon, I've never heard anything better." Brandon thought Ronder's manners outrageous. Poor Bishop!
He licked his purple protruding lips greedily as he saw the generous man. Yes, kindly and generous he looked.... They got into the musty cab and rattled away over the cobbles. "I hope Mrs. Clay got the telegram all right." Miss Ronder's thin bosom was a little agitated beneath its white waistcoat. "You'll never forgive me if things aren't looking as though we'd lived in the place for months."
"Yes," he said, "I think it's better for you to go." "And about God and Beauty?" Falk said, staring for a moment into Ronder's eyes, smiling shyly, and then turning away. "It's a long search, isn't it? But as long as there's something there, beyond life, and I know there is, the search is worth it." He looked rather wistfully at Ronder as though he expected him to confirm him again.
He bent forward, staring into Foster's face. "God is love, though," he said. "You betray Him again and again, but He comes back." He gripped Foster's shoulder more tightly. "Don't do this thing, man," he said. "Don't do it. Because Ronder's beaten me is no reason for you to betray your God.... Give me a chair. I'm ill." He fell upon his knees. "This...Death," he whispered.
However that may be, he did from the first pay an almost exaggerated deference to Ronder's opinion, drew him into the conversation at every possible opportunity, with such, interjections as "How true! How very true!
Ronder's position was important because he was Treasurer to the Cathedral. His predecessor, Hart-Smith, now promoted to the Deanery of Norwich, had been an able man, but one of the old school, a great friend of Brandon's, seeing eye to eye with him in everything. The Archdeacon then had had his finger very closely upon the Cathedral purse, and Hart-Smith's departure had been a very serious blow.
Had it not been a duel between them from the moment that Ronder first set his foot in that place? And had not Ronder deliberately willed it so? What had Ronder said to Brandon's son and to the woman who would ruin Brandon's wife? All this passed in the flash of a dfeam through Ronder's brain, perhaps never entirely to leave him again. In that long duel there had been perhaps more than one defeat.
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