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Thornbury went with them to the gate, trailing very slowly and gracefully across the grass and the gravel, and talking all the time about flowers and birds.
"Then I'll have 'em burnt, or I'll put it in my will," said Mrs. Flushing. "And Mrs. Flushing lived in one of the most beautiful old houses in England Chillingley," Mrs. Thornbury explained to the rest of them. "If I'd my way I'd burn that to-morrow," Mrs. Flushing laughed. She had a laugh like the cry of a jay, at once startling and joyless.
"Oh, it is a hard life," said Mrs. Thornbury. "Unmarried women earning their livings it's the hardest life of all." "Yet she seems pretty cheerful," said Mrs. Elliot. "It must be very interesting," said Mrs. Thornbury. "I envy her her knowledge." "But that isn't what women want," said Mrs. Elliot. "I'm afraid it's all a great many can hope to have," sighed Mrs. Thornbury.
He had often revolved these questions in his mind, as he watched Susan and Arthur, or Mr. and Mrs. Thornbury, or Mr. and Mrs. Elliot. He had observed how the shy happiness and surprise of the engaged couple had gradually been replaced by a comfortable, tolerant state of mind, as if they had already done with the adventure of intimacy and were taking up their parts.
Flushing. She jerked her head at the Villa. "A little house in a garden. I had one once in Ireland. One could lie in bed in the mornin' and pick roses outside the window with one's toes." "And the gardeners, weren't they surprised?" Mrs. Thornbury enquired. "There were no gardeners," Mrs. Flushing chuckled. "Nobody but me and an old woman without any teeth.
The centre was at first a shrubbery or wilderness, and here the Turkish Ambassador placed a summer-house or kiosk, where he used to sit when the Turkish Embassy was in this Square. Thornbury says he was then occupying Montagu House, but Smith says the Embassy was in No. 78, and Montagu House is now numbered 22. However, it is possible that the numbers have been altered.
He was clearly oblivious of his surroundings; whereupon Hirst, perceiving that Hewet's mind was a complete blank, fixed his attention more closely upon his fellow-creatures. He was too far from them, however, to hear what they were saying, but it pleased him to construct little theories about them from their gestures and appearance. Mrs. Thornbury had received a great many letters.
But the kindness of the smile in her rather worn and courageous face made them feel that although she would scarcely remember them as individuals, she had laid upon them the burden of the new generation. "And in that I quite agree with her," said a voice behind; Mrs. Thornbury had overheard the last few words about not liking ginger.
"What's the use of talking? What's the use ?" She ceased. "I was coming to ask you," said Mrs. Thornbury, addressing Wilfrid, for it was useless to speak to his wife. "Is there anything you think that one could do? Has the father arrived? Could one go and see?"
"The worst of coming from the upper classes," he continued, "is that one's friends are never killed in railway accidents." Mr. Thornbury threw down the paper, and emphatically dropped his eyeglasses. The sheets fell in the middle of the group, and were eyed by them all. "It's not gone well?" asked his wife solicitously.
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