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Updated: June 15, 2025
It would, however, I concluded, be repeated, and I resolved to keep my countenance turned towards the clergyman, that the whisperer might be tempted to renew his communication under the idea that the first had passed unobserved. My plan succeeded. I had not resumed the appearance of attention to the preacher for five minutes, when the same voice whispered, "Listen, but do not look back."
He had blindly struggled on to die near her, near where she was, she was so pitiful and good. He had accomplished his journey, and her voice was speaking above him. There were other voices, but it was only hers that he heard. "God help him oh, God help him!" she was saying. He drew a long quiet breath. "I will sleep now," he said clearly. He would hear the Whisperer no more. "What can I do, Dan?
To adopt the delightful mediaeval language of the Salvation Army, watch for the Devil at your elbow.... I wish I could get home, if only for a day, not because I funk the crash which is coming at any moment now but because I should like to see The Key before, it goes to press...." Paul read this strange letter many times. "The Whisperer ... would try to uprear a new creed his own."
His glance was so fierce that Mr. Stokes almost quailed. "I won't tell tales out of school," he said, nodding. "Not if I ask you to?" said Mrs. Henshaw, with a winning smile. "Ask 'im," said Mr. Stokes. "Last night," said the whisperer, hastily, "I went for a quiet walk round Victoria Park all by myself. Then I met Mr. Stokes, and we had one half-pint together at a public-house. That's all." Mrs.
Happiness evidently doesn't come from ordering whatever you want, for by the time somebody brings it to you you don't want it any longer. Happiness must be the going after something yourself and being anxious about it." If she had listened to that airy whisperer she might have had an inkling of a truth. But she dismissed philosophy as something stupid.
As the night wore on the Whisperer began again, as the cloud of weariness lifted a little from him, and the senses were released from the heavy sedative of unnatural exertion. The dusk deepened. The moon slowly rose. He cooked his scanty meal, and took a deep draught from a horn of whiskey from beneath a board in the flooring.
A voice whispered tremulously through the wall, "Are you asleep?" "No! What is it?" he answered briskly, and there was an abrupt movement outside, and then all was still, as if the whisperer had been startled. Extremely annoyed at this, Jim came out impetuously, and Cornelius with a faint shriek fled along the verandah as far as the steps, where he hung on to the broken banister.
His glance was so fierce that Mr. Stokes almost quailed. "I won't tell tales out of school," he said, nodding. "Not if I ask you to?" said Mrs. Henshaw, with a winning smile. "Ask 'im," said Mr. Stokes. "Last night," said the whisperer, hastily, "I went for a quiet walk round Victoria Park all by myself. Then I met Mr. Stokes, and we had one half-pint together at a public-house. That's all." Mrs.
Our fold on Elrigmore was in the centre of a flat meadowland that lies above Dhu Loch, where the river winds among rush and willow-tree, a constant whisperer of love and the distant hills and the salt inevitable sea. There we would be lying under moon and star, and beside us the cattle deeply breathing all night long.
This never happened but I would overhear somebody in front of me whisper to his or her companion "Take care, he's just behind you." I always felt so grateful to that whisperer. At a Bohemian Club, I was once drinking coffee with a Novelist, who happened to be a broad-shouldered, athletic man.
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