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Updated: May 15, 2025
Whoever the other guest might be, it was always Brandon who took the lead, and although he might be a little ponderous and slow in movement, he supplied the Bishop's conversational needs quite adequately. And to-day it was Ronder; from the first, without any ostentation or presumption, with the utmost naturalness, he led the field.
She put her arm through his, and together they went down the little stairs. Sunday, June 20: In the Bedroom Brandon had been talking to the Precentor at the far end of the ballroom, when suddenly Ronder had appeared in their midst. Appeared the only word! And Brandon, armoured, he had thought, for every terror that that night might bring to him, had been suddenly seized with the lust of murder.
She gossiped without cessation, and always, as it were, to restore the proper balance of the world, to pull down the mighty from their high places, to lift the humble only that they in their turn might be pulled down. She played fluently and execrably on the piano. She spent her day in running from house to house. She had met Alice Ronder in London and attached herself to her.
The house was dead; the town was dead; had the world itself suddenly died, like a candle whose light is put out, Foster would not have cared. Ronder knocked three times with the knob of his walking-stick. The man must be out.
"There can be only one possible choice," said Brandon, planting his hands flat on his knees. "Really!" said Ronder, looking at the Archdeacon with an air of innocent interest. "Do tell me, if it isn't a secret, who that is." "It's no secret," said Brandon in a voice of level defiance. "Rex Forsyth is the obvious man." "Really!" said Ronder. "That is interesting. I haven't heard him mentioned.
"I'm going up Orange Street too. It's the High School Governors' meeting, you know." "Oh, yes, of course." The two men started up the hill together. Ronder surveyed the scene around him with pleasure. Orange Street always satisfied his aesthetic sense. It was the street of the doctors, the solicitors, the dentists, the bankers, and the wealthier old maids of Polchester.
His eyes burnt with a splendid flame; in them there was the light of eternal life. "Well?" said Ronder again, as Foster did not answer his first question. "He's coming," Foster cried, striding about the room, his shabby slippers giving a ghostly tip-tap behind him. "He's coming! Of course I had never doubted it, but I hadn't expected that he would be so eager as he is.
"I daresay I've done wrong in this matter," she began "many would think so. But I haven't come here to excuse myself. If I've done wrong, there are others who have done more wrong yes, indeed." "Please come to the point," said Ronder impatiently. "I will, sir. That is my desire. Well, you must know, sir, that after my most unjust dismissal from the Library I took a couple of rooms with Mrs.
"Is the Canon in?" Ronder asked of a small and gaping page-boy. He was in, it appeared. Would he see Canon Ronder? The page-boy disappeared and Ronder was able to observe three family trees framed in oak, a large china bowl with visiting-cards, and a huge round-faced clock that, even as he waited there, pompously announced that half-hour.
"Ask as many questions as you like and I'll do my best to answer them." Ronder did then, during the next half-hour, ask a great many questions, and he received a great many answers. The answers may not have told him overmuch about the things that he wanted to know, but they did tell him a great deal about Bentinck-Major. The clock struck four. Ronder got up.
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