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Updated: June 29, 2025
Trussit and his aunt were furtively watching him. He never caught them in anything tangible but he knew that, when his back was turned, their eyes followed him questioning, wondering. Something must be done or he could not answer for his control. If he were not to return to Dawson's, what then?
"Oh!" A pause then "Did the Earl of Twinkerton have hot or cold baths?" "Cold in the morning, I believe, with the chill off and hot at night before dressing for dinner. He was a very cleanly gentleman." "Mrs. Trussit, where is Patagonia? It came in the history this morning." "North of the Caribbean Sea, I believe, my dear." And so on, and Peter never forgot any of her answers.
"I say, you didn't ever have a housekeeper called Mrs. Trussit?" "Trussit? Yes, rather, of course I remember, when I was awfully small." "Why, she's ours now! Then it must be your father who writes books!" "Yes, rather. He's most awfully famous!" Peter stopped still, his mouth open with excitement. Of all the amazing things! What doesn't life give you if you trust it!
It was a clear Autumn afternoon with a scent of burning leaves in the air and heavy massive white clouds were piled in ramparts beyond the brown hills. It was so still a day that the sea seemed to be murmuring just beyond the garden-wall. The house was very silent; Mrs. Trussit was in the housekeeper's room, his grandfather was sleeping in the dining-room.
Trussit, not in the least like," and grimly said in addition, the changes, alterations and general growing-up Development may be said to be inside him rather than out, and there they are vital enough.
Trussit, silent before the fire in her room, his aunt not seeing the cards that she laid upon the table, his father not reading his paper for what were they all listening? It was a fierce night and the wind rushed up the high road as though it would tear Peter off his feet and fling him into the sea, but he walked sturdily, no cap on his head and the wind streaming through his hair.
Trussit, the housekeeper, old Curtis the gardener, Aunt Jessie, and all the servants, shook under his tongue and the cold glitter of his eyes, and certainly the maids would long ago have given notice and departed were it not that they were all afraid to face him. Peter knew that that was true, because Mrs. Trussit had told him so.
About the carol-singers she was a little irritable. They had woken her it seemed from a very delightful sleep, and she considered the whole affair "savoured of Paganism." And then Peter found suddenly that he didn't wish to talk about the carol-singers at all because the things that he felt about them were, in some curious way, not the things that he could say to Mrs. Trussit.
It's time for me to be looking after your mother's supper," &c. &c. Mrs. Trussit obviously knew nothing whatever about it, although Peter heard her once murmuring "Poor lamb" as she gave him mixed biscuits out of her tin. Stephen also was of little use, and he didn't seem especially glad when he heard about it. "And it's a good school, do you think?" he said.
Nor did the fleeting swiftness of the new country please him. Suddenly one was leaving behind all those known paths and views, so dimly commonplace in the having of them, so rosily romantic in the tragic wanting of them! How curious that Mrs. Trussit, his aunt, and his father should appear now pathetically affectionate in their farewells of him!
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