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His mother looked at him shrewdly and said nothing. But she sat down and wrote a letter to Winny Dymond, asking her to come and spend Christmas Day with them, if, said Mrs. Ransome, she hadn't anywhere better to go to and didn't mind a sad house. And Winny came. She hadn't anywhere better to go to, and she didn't mind a sad house in the least.
Nothing could be more conventional and more unspeakably correct. Only when Winny Dymond did it there was a difference, or it seemed so to young Ransome. Winny approached the bars with shyness and a certain earnestness and gravity of intent. She hesitated; for a moment she was adorable in vacillation.
In her proud beauty and in her affianced state she could afford to be exuberantly kind. And Booty in his vision of nearness had been counting on the long journey by night from Regent Street to Wandsworth High Street alone with Maudie; and, though Miss Dymond practically effaced herself, it wasn't with a girl of Maudie's temperament the same thing at all.
Might not that have been due to the disappearance of his sweetheart?" "No, he'd more likely be glad to get rid of her." "Then he wouldn't be jealous if Mr. Constant took her off his hands?" "Men are dog-in-the-mangers." "Never mind about men, Mrs. Drabdump. Had the prisoner ceased to care for Miss Dymond?" "He didn't seem to think of her, my lud.
She was able to think of Ranny's first wife as poor Violet, though Violet had made him miserable and destroyed his home and had left him and his children. And the thought of his marrying Winny Dymond was intolerable to Mrs.
If he found something tender and absurd in the movements of all those long black stockings, it was for the sake and on account of the long black stockings worn by little Winny Dymond. Winny Dymond was not proud, neither was she what he supposed you would call beautiful. She was not one of those conspicuous by their flaming and elaborate hair.
He was prepared to kick, personally, any fellow he found making Winny Dymond or Violet Usher cheap. Not that Winny lent herself to cheapness, but about Violet he was not quite sure. And if you had asked why not, he would have told you it was because she was so different. By which he meant so dangerously, so disastrously feminine and innocent and pretty.
Queer things, girls, for they seemed, incomprehensibly, to like it. But that was before the Grand Display of the autumn of last year, when Winny Dymond appeared in the March Past of Section I of the Women's Gymnasium; before he had followed Winny as she ran at top speed through all the turnings and windings of the Combined Maze.
"Yes; how did you get it? It's the key of my first-floor front. I am sure I left it sticking in the door." "Did you know a Miss Dymond?" "Yes, Mr. Mortlake's sweetheart. But I knew he would never marry her, poor thing." "Why not?" "He was getting too grand for her." "You don't mean anything more than that?" "I don't know; she only came to my place once or twice.
Blavatsky, or he had been murdered by his Mahatma or victimised by Hypnotism, Mesmerism, Somnambulism, and other weird abstractions. Grodman's great point was Jessie Dymond must be produced, dead or alive. The electric current scoured the civilised world in search of her. What wonder if the shrewder sort divined that the indomitable detective had fixed his last hope on the girl's guilt?
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