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Updated: April 30, 2025
It is impossible to say here what a flood of undesirable memories their presence evoked. "Kitty," I cried, "there are poor Mrs. Wessington's jhampanies turned up again! I wonder who has them now?" Kitty had known Mrs. Wessington slightly last season, and had always been interested in the sickly woman. "What? Where?" she asked. "I can't see them anywhere."
Some malignant devil stronger than I must have entered into me that evening, for I have a dim recollection of talking the commonplaces of the day for five minutes to the Thing in front of me. "Mad as a hatter, poor devil or drunk. Max, try and get him to come home." Surely that was not Mrs. Wessington's voice!
Some malignant devil stronger than I must have entered into me that evening, for I have a dim recollection of talking the commonplaces of the day for five minutes to the thing in front of me. "Mad as a hatter, poor devil or drunk. Max, try and get him to come home." Surely that was not Mrs. Wessington's voice!
Wessington's gloved hand; and, when she met me alone, which was but seldom, the irksome monotony of her appeal. I loved Kitty Mannering; honestly, heartily loved her, and with my love for her grew my hatred for Agnes. In August Kitty and I were engaged. The next day I met those accursed "magpie" jhampanies at the back of Jakko, and, moved by some passing sentiment of pity, stopped to tell Mrs.
It is impossible to say here what a flood of undesirable memories their presence evoked. "Kitty," I cried, "there are poor Mrs. Wessington's jhampanies turned up again! I wonder who has them now?" Kitty had known Mrs. Wessington slightly last season, and had always been interested in the sickly woman. "What? Where?" she asked. "I can't see them anywhere."
The scene and its surroundings were photographed on my memory. Wessington's down-bowed golden head stood out clearly. She was holding her handkerchief in her left hand and was leaning hack exhausted against the 'rickshaw cushions. I turned my horse up a bypath near the Sanjowlie Reservoir and literally ran away. Once I fancied I heard a faint call of "Jack!" This may have been imagination.
Some malignant devil stronger than I must have entered into me that evening, for I have a dim recollection of talking the commonplaces of the day for five minutes to the Thing in front of me. "Mad as a hatter, poor devil or drunk. Max, try and get him to come home." Surely that was not Mrs. Wessington's voice!
There had been a garden-party at the Commander-in-Chief's, and we two joined the crowd of homeward-bound folk. As I saw them then it seemed that they were the shadows impalpable, fantastic shadows that divided for Mrs. Wessington's 'rickshaw to pass through. What we said during the course of that weird interview I cannot indeed, I dare not tell.
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