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Updated: June 3, 2025
Grace herself had no idea of the irritating nature of this exclamation, she would have been entirely amazed did you explain to her that it had more to do with her unpopularity in Skeaton than any other thing. She had even said "Chut, chut," to Mrs. Constantine. But she said it to Maggie more than to any other person.
She laid her head back on the sofa; she was half asleep. She was dreaming Paul was there and Grace the Skeaton sands the Revival procession with the lanterns the swish of the sea... Suddenly she was wide awake. The lamp had burnt down to a low rim of light. Martin was coughing in the other room. Coughing! She had never heard such a cough, something inhuman and strange.
Centuries ago, when Skeaton had been the merest hamlet clustered behind the beach, the Church had been there-not the present building, looking, poor thing, as though it were in a perpetual state of scarlet fever, but a shabby humble little chapel close to the sea sheltered by the sandy hill. The present temple had been built about 1870 and was considered very satisfactory.
"And then come back?" she asked. "For a time yes certainly," he answered. "I don't think I can ever come back to Skeaton," she said in a whisper, as though speaking to herself. He could see that she was controlling herself and steadying her voice with the greatest difficulty. "Of course I must come, Paul, if you want me to. It's been all my fault from the very beginning "
When Maggie had first arrived in Skeaton her duties with regard to the Church were made quite plain to her.
She turned at the very edge of the wood and set her face back towards Skeaton. The day had been wild and windy with recurrent showers of rain, but now there was a break, the chilly April sun broke through the clouds and scattered the hedges and fields with primrose light.
That winter was warm and muggy, with continuous showers of warm rain that seamed to change into mud in the air as it fell. The Church was filled with the clammy mist of its central heating. Maggie, as she sat through service after service, watched one headache race after another. The air was full of headache; she asked once that a window might be kept open. "That would mean Death in Skeaton.
Yes, they were terrible-swallowed up the sands, eggshells, niggers, pierrots, bathing-machines, vulgarity, moonlight embracing, noise, sand, and dust. If you were any one at all you did not stay in Skeaton during the summer months-unless, as I have said, you were so grand that you could disregard it altogether.
"You know, Maggie, I can't make up my mind. I've had an offer of marriage." "I'm so glad, Caroline," said Maggie. "Yes, but I don't know what to do. It's a man Mr. Purdie. His father's ever so rich and they've got a big place down at Skeaton." "Where's that?" asked Maggie. "Oh, don't you know? Skeaton-on-Sea. It's a seaside resort. I've known William for a long time. His father knows father.
She had now something that intensely preoccupied her. Grace could see that she was always thinking about something that had nothing to do with Skeaton or Paul or the house. She was more absent-minded than ever, forgot everything, liked best to sit in her bedroom all alone. "Oh, she's mad!" said Grace. "She's really mad! Just fancy if she should go right off her head!"
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