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Updated: May 10, 2025
In voice, husky and low. In face, watchful behind a blind; habitually not uncensorious and contemptuous perhaps. The peerage may have warmer worshippers and faithfuller believers than Mr. Tulkinghorn, after all, if everything were known. "Good morning, Mr. Smallweed, good morning!" he says as he comes in. "You have brought the sergeant, I see. Sit down, sergeant." As Mr.
George sits squared in exactly the same attitude, looks at the painted ceiling, and says never a word. The irascible Mr. Smallweed scratches the air. "The question is," says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his methodical, subdued, uninterested way, "first, whether you have any of Captain Hawdon's writing?" "First, whether I have any of Captain Hawdon's writing, sir," repeats Mr. George.
There is nothing in her manner to express weakness or excite compassion. It is thoughtful, gloomy, concentrated. "This woman," thinks Mr. Tulkinghorn, standing on the hearth, again a dark object closing up her view, "is a study." He studies her at his leisure, not speaking for a time. She too studies something at her leisure.
Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly and uncomfortably drawn a little way from it, sits a bald, mild, shining man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids him fill his glass. "Now, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "to go over this odd story again." "If you please, sir." "You told me when you were so good as to step round here last night "
He addresses this to the astounded Tony, who admits the soft impeachment. "A virtue in which few Englishmen are deficient," observes Mr. Tulkinghorn. He has been standing on the hearthstone with his back to the smoked chimney-piece, and now turns round with his glasses to his eyes. "Who is this? 'Lady Dedlock. Ha! A very good likeness in its way, but it wants force of character.
Every day at dinner, my Lady glances down the table for the vacant place that would be waiting to receive him if he had just arrived, but there is no vacant place. Every night my Lady casually asks her maid, "Is Mr. Tulkinghorn come?" Every night the answer is, "No, my Lady, not yet."
"Oh, no, my Lady; I would have paid any debt, and joyful." "For what is he in prison then?" "Charged with a murder, my Lady, of which he is as innocent as as I am. Accused of the murder of Mr. Tulkinghorn." What does she mean by this look and this imploring gesture? Why does she come so close? What is the letter that she holds? "Lady Dedlock, my dear Lady, my good Lady, my kind Lady!
Mademoiselle goes out with an air of native gentility; and Mr. Bucket, to whom it is, on an emergency, as natural to be groom of the ceremonies as it is to be anything else, shows her downstairs, not without gallantry. "Well, Bucket?" quoth Mr. Tulkinghorn on his return. "It's all squared, you see, as I squared it myself, sir. There an't a doubt that it was the other one with this one's dress on.
"You are taken charge of, you see," says my Lady in her weary manner, "and are going away well protected. I have mentioned that you are a very good girl, and you have nothing to cry for." "She seems after all," observes Mr. Tulkinghorn, loitering a little forward with his hands behind him, "as if she were crying at going away." "Why, she is not well-bred, you see," returns Mr.
"Can I save the poor girl from injury before they know it?" "Really, Lady Dedlock," Mr. Tulkinghorn replies, "I cannot give a satisfactory opinion on that point." And he thinks, with the interest of attentive curiosity, as he watches the struggle in her breast, "The power and force of this woman are astonishing!"
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