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Updated: May 14, 2025
She was still the same modest, self-effacing, helpful roommate, but in Honora's eyes she had changed Honora could no longer separate her image from the vision of Silverdale. And, if the naked truth must be told, it was due to Silverdale that Susan owes the honour of her first mention in those descriptive letters from Sutcliffe, which Aunt Mary has kept to this day.
"If it wasn't just friendship? Supposing it was Mrs. Sutcliffe?" "I shouldn't like my wife to cut her hair off. It wouldn't be at all becoming to her." "No. But when she was young?" "Ah when she was young " "Would it have made any difference?" "No. No. It wouldn't have made any difference at all." "You'd have married her just the same?" "Just the same, Mary. Why?" "Oh, nothing.
You might take back Maudsley and Ribot and ask him if he knew anything about heredity, and what he thought of it. She went to him one Wednesday afternoon. He was always at home on Wednesday afternoons. She knew how it would be. Mrs. Sutcliffe would be shut up in the dining-room with the sewing-party. You would go in. You would knock at the library door.
The English language, it is to be feared, is not quite flexible enough to mention this secret with delicacy. Did Honora know it? Who can say? Self-respecting young ladies do not talk about such things, and Honora was nothing if not self-respecting. "SUTCLIFFE MANORS, October 15th.
But it seems to me that a winter at Sutcliffe, with my girls, would do her a world of good just now. I need not point out to you that Honora is, to say the least, remarkably good looking, and that she has developed very rapidly.
"Why, you look radiant. You are more beautiful than you were at Sutcliffe. Is it marriage?" Honora laughed happily, and they sat down side by side on the lounge behind the tea table. "I heard you'd married," said Ethel, "but I didn't know what had become of you until the other day. Jim never tells me anything. It appears that he's seen something of you.
Waugh, and Miss Frewin in the drawing-room with Mamma. They had brought her the news. The Sutcliffes were going. They were trying to let Greffington Hall. The agent, Mr. Oldshaw, had told Mr. Horn. Mr. Frank, the Major, would be back from India in April. He was going to be married. He would live in the London house and Mr. and Mrs. Sutcliffe would live abroad.
But not quite so well as Mrs. Sutcliffe. She gave you a long look, sighed, and smiled. Almost you would have thought she was glad. He didn't look at you. He looked down at his own lean fine hands hanging in front of him. You could see them trembling slightly. And when you were going he took you into the library and shut the door. "Is this necessary, Mary?" he said. "Yes.
Sutcliffe would have hated her. They would have been miserable, all three. All three damned for ever and ever. She was not sure she wanted Richard Nicholson to come back. She was not sure he wasn't spoiling it by writing. She hadn't thought he would do that. A correspondence? Prolonging the beautiful moment, stretching it thin; thinner and thinner; stretching it so thin that it would snap?
"And what am I to say to Mrs. Sutcliffe?" "Oh, anything you like that wouldn't sound too rude." "Shall I say that you're a very independent young lady, and that she had better not ask you to join her sewing-class? Would that sound too rude?" "Not a bit. If you put it nicely. But you would, wouldn't you?" He looked down at her again. His thick eyes had thawed slightly; they let out a twinkle.
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