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Updated: June 1, 2025
She sat silent in one corner of the darkened room. It was the bedroom that Frederick R. Woods formerly occupied on the ground floor of Selwoode, opening into the living-hall to which they had carried Billy. Jukesbury had done what he could. In the bed lay Billy Woods, swathed in hot blankets, with bottles of hot water set to his feet.
Jukesbury insisted, and waved a pudgy hand in the moonlight. "No, really, I cannot permit it. We will throw it away, if you please, and say no more about it," and his glance followed the glowing flight of his cigar-end somewhat wistfully.
Surely he must be very, very near death. Suddenly, as Jukesbury wrapped new bandages about his forehead, Billy opened his eyes and, without further movement, smiled placidly up at him. "Hello, Jukesbury," said Billy Woods, "where's my armour?" Jukesbury, too, smiled. "The man is bringing it downstairs now," he answered, quietly.
Jukesbury observed, raising his eyes not toward heaven, but toward the Eagle, "that its conduct, as the poet says, creates considerable distress among the angels. I don't know. I am not acquainted with many angels. My wife was an angel, but she is now a lifeless form. She has been for five years.
Ah, youth, youth! as the poet admirably says, Miss Hugonin, the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts, but its visions of existence are rose-tinged and free from care, and its conception of the responsibilities of manhood such as taxes and the water-rate I may safely characterise as extremely sketchy. But pray be seated, Miss Hugonin," Petheridge Jukesbury blandly urged.
Then her eyelids flickered in a parody of Kathleen's glance that Billy noted with a queer tenderness. "Come and talk to me, Billy," she commanded. "I'm an early bird this morning, and entitled to the very biggest and best-looking worm I can find. You're only a worm, you know we're all worms. Mr. Jukesbury told me so last night, making an exception in my favour, for it appears I'm an angel.
Saumarez added, handsomely, and clinching her argument, "that Mr. Kennaston gives us much better sunsets in his poems than I have ever seen in the west." He acknowledged this with a bow. "Not sherry claret, if you please," said Mr. Jukesbury. "Art should be an expurgated edition of Nature," he repeated, with a suave chuckle. "Do you know, I consider that admirably put, Mrs.
Margaret wailed, and her great voice was shaken to its depths and its sobbing was the long, hopeless sobbing of a violin, as she flung back her tear-stained face, and clenched her little hands tight at her sides; "why can't you let me alone? You're all after my money you, and Mr. Kennaston, and Mr. Jukesbury, and all of you! Why can't you let me alone?
"Because," Billy went on, fretfully, "I don't propose to miss the Trojan war. The princes orgulous with high blood chafed, you know, are all going to be there, and I don't propose to miss it." Behind his fat back, Petheridge Jukesbury waved a cautioning hand at Margaret, who had risen from her chair.
Jukesbury, it appeared, were both lurid and unfriendly. "But why, attractive?" queried his daughter. "May they be qualified with such and such adjectives!" desired the Colonel, fervently. "They tried to lend me money wouldn't hear of my not taking it! In case of necessity. Bah!" said the Colonel, and shook his fist after the retreating carriages.
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