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He listened with his eyes fixed on hers, accepting from her his destiny. She reddened. "It was good of you to offer to release me " He spared her. "Are you not going to hold me to it, then?" "I am not." She paused, and then forced herself to it. "I will try to be a good wife to you." "Thank you." It was impossible for them to stay any longer at Scarby.
We're going to have another one, some day, in a nicer place." "Anne didn't like Scarby, after all?" "No, I knew she wouldn't. And she lived to own that I was right." "That," said Edith, laughing, "was a bad beginning. If I'd been you, Anne, whether I was right or not, I'd never have owned that he was." "Anne," said Majendie, "is never anything but just. And this time she was generous."
Why didn't we choose this place instead of Scarby?" "I wish we had. I say are you never going to forget that?" "I've forgiven it. I might forget it if I could only understand." "Understand what?" "How you could be capable of caring for me like that and yet " "But the two things are so entirely different. It's impossible to explain to you how different.
Dick, outside in the morning light, looked paler and puffier than ever, but his eyes were kind. He had an idea. Dick's idea was that Majendie should run up with him and Mrs. Ransome to Scarby for the week-end. Hannay looked troubled as Dick unfolded his idea. "I wouldn't go, old man," said he, "with that head of yours." Dick stared. "Head? Just the thing for his head," said Dick.
He looked up at her as she descended, and his eyes brightened with pleasure at the sight. Edith was charmed with their plan. It might have been conceived as an exquisite favour to herself, by the fine style in which she handled it. They set out, Majendie carrying the luncheon basket and Anne's coat. He had changed, and appeared in the Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers, and cap he had worn at Scarby.
Majendie was in Scarby, in the hotel on the little grey parade, where he and Anne had stayed on their honeymoon. Lady Cayley was with him. She was with him in the sitting-room which had been his and Anne's. They were by themselves. The Ransomes were dining with friends in another quarter of the town. He had accepted Sarah's invitation to dine with her alone.
Frequently, too, in the course of the year, Sylvia would accompany one or other of her parents to Scarby Moorside afternoon service, when the hay was got in, and the corn not ready for cutting, or the cows were dry and there was no afternoon milking.
"Lady Cayley is at Scarby." "Do you mean to say " "I mean," said the Canon, rising, "to say nothing." Mrs. Eliott detained him with her eyes of anguish. "Canon Wharton do you think she knows?" "I cannot tell you." The Canon never told. He was far too clever. Mrs. Eliott wandered to Miss Proctor. "Do you know," said Miss Proctor, searching Mrs.
Besides, he had said, she wouldn't like it. But whether she would like it or not, Anne, who had her bridal dignity to maintain, considered that in the matter of her honeymoon his wishes should give way to hers. She was inclined to measure the extent of his devotion by that test. Scarby, she said, was not full of people who knew her.
She wanted to pray, as she had prayed in that room at Scarby on the morning of her discovery. Not that she felt in the least as she had felt then. She was more profoundly wounded wounded beyond passion and beyond tears, calm and self-contained in her vision of the inevitable, the fore-ordained reality.
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