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Updated: May 25, 2025
A struggle was going on within her between these doubts of him he had stirred up again and other feelings aroused by his pleadings. Night fell, and when they reached the Silliston road the lights of Hampton shone below them in the darkness. "You'd better let me out here," she said. "You can't drive me home."
To find the proper nourishment, to give it a chance to grow in a native, congenial soil, such was her breathless task. And so she had selected "The Child's Garden of Verses." "I should like to rise and go Where the golden apples grow"... When she laid down her book it was to talk, perhaps, of Silliston.
To find the proper nourishment, to give it a chance to grow in a native, congenial soil, such was her breathless task. And so she had selected "The Child's Garden of Verses." "I should like to rise and go Where the golden apples grow"... When she laid down her book it was to talk, perhaps, of Silliston.
A creature of intuition, Janet had appealed to her from the beginning, arousing first her curiosity, and then the maternal instinct that craved a mind to mould, a soul to respond to her touch.... Mrs. Maturin often talked to Janet of Insall, who had, in a way, long been connected with Silliston. In his early wandering days, when tramping over New England, he used unexpectedly to turn up at Dr.
Was he not pleading for himself rather than for the human cause he professed? taking advantage of her ignorance and desperation, of her craving for new experience and knowledge? The suspicion sickened her. Were all men like that? Suddenly, without apparent premeditation or connection, the thought of the stranger from Silliston entered her mind.
And while she was pondering over this one of the ladies who had been waiting on the table came toward Insall. "The children have finished, Brooks," she informed him. "It's time to let in the others." Insall turned to Janet. "This is Miss Bumpus and this is Mrs. Maturin," he said. "Mrs. Maturin lives in Silliston." The greeting of this lady differed from that of Mrs. Brocklehurst.
It's extraordinary, but he sees her present situation, her future, with extraordinary optimism; he apparently regards her coming to Silliston, even in the condition in which we found her, as a piece of deserved fortune for which she has to thank some virtue inherited from her ancestors! Well, perhaps he's right. If she were not unique, I shouldn't want to keep her here. It's pure selfishness.
And while she was pondering over this one of the ladies who had been waiting on the table came toward Insall. "The children have finished, Brooks," she informed him. "It's time to let in the others." Insall turned to Janet. "This is Miss Bumpus and this is Mrs. Maturin," he said. "Mrs. Maturin lives in Silliston." The greeting of this lady differed from that of Mrs. Brocklehurst.
Presently, through the veil, she recognized Silliston a very different Silliston from that she had visited on the fragrant day in springtime, when the green on the common had been embroidered with dandelions, and the great elms whose bare branches were now fantastically traced against the flowing veil of white heavy with leaf.
And she spoke of Andrew Silliston, the sturdy colonial prototype of the American culture, who had fought against his King, who had spent his modest fortune to found this seat of learning, believing as he did that education is the cornerstone of republics; divining that lasting unity is possible alone by the transformation of the individual into the citizen through voluntary bestowal of service and the fruits of labour.
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