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Updated: May 7, 2025
It would have cost a thousand pounds to put the manor house in decent habitable order. To have restored it to its original dignity and comeliness would have cost at least five thousand. Miss Skipwith could afford to spend nothing upon the house she lived in; indeed she could barely afford the necessaries of life.
"I was positively alarmed about you last night, my dear," she said; "you were so feverish and excited. You read too much, for the first day." "I'm afraid I did," assented Vixen, with a faint smile; "and the worst of it is, I believe I have forgotten every word I read." "Surely not!" cried Miss Skipwith, horrified at this admission. "You seemed so impressed so interested.
Self-culture is the highest form of improvement. My books are at your disposal." "Dear Miss Skipwith, your books are all theological," said Vixen wearily, "and I don't care for theology. As for my education, I am not utterly neglecting it. I read Schiller till my eyes ache." "One shallow German poet is not the beginning and end of education," replied Miss Skipwith.
Miss Skipwith was reading in her parlour, a white Persian cat dozing on a cushioned arm-chair beside her, some cups and saucers and a black teapot on a tray before her, and the rest of the table piled with books. There was no sign of Captain Winstanley. "I'm afraid I'm rather late," Vixen said apologetically. She felt a kind of half-pitying respect for Miss Skipwith, as a harmless lunatic.
"My chances of distinction were so small, dear Miss Skipwith," faltered Vixen. "If I had possessed your talents!" "True," sighed the reformer of all the theologies. "We have not all the same gifts. There was a day when I thought it would be my lot to marry and subside into the dead level of domesticity; but I am thankful to think I escaped the snare."
He tells me that the old Jersey manor house Les Tourelles it is called is a delightful place, one of the oldest seats in Jersey, and Miss Skipwith, to whom it belongs, is a well-informed conscientious old lady, very religious, I believe, so you will have to guard against your sad habit of speaking lightly about sacred things, my dear Violet." "Do you intend me to live there for ever, mamma?"
They found Miss Skipwith pacing the weedy gravel walk in front of her parlour window, with a disturbed air, and a yellow envelope in her hand. "My dear, this has been an eventful day," she exclaimed. "I have been very anxious for your return. Here is a telegram for you; and as it is the first you have had since you have been staying here, I conclude it is of some importance."
If we want the beginning of things, we must revert to Egypt, that cradle of learning and civilisation." "Then let me begin with Egypt!" cried Vixen impatiently. "I don't care a bit how I begin. I want occupation for my mind." "Did I not say so?" exclaimed Miss Skipwith, full of ardent welcome for the neophyte whose steps had been so tardy in approaching the shrine.
She turned her back upon Miss Skipwith, and lay so still that the excellent lady supposed she was dropping off to sleep. "A good night's rest will restore her, and she will awake with renewed appetite for knowledge," she murmured benevolently as she went back to her Swedenborgian studies. The nearest Way to Norway.
He removed the cover of a modest dish of fish with a grand air, and performed all the services of the table with as much dignity as if he had never been anything less than a butler. He poured out a glass of ale for the Captain and a glass of water for his mistress. Miss Skipwith seemed relieved when Violet said she preferred water to ale, and did not particularly care about wine.
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