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Updated: June 29, 2025
Then Richard asking you to be kind for one minute to the poor old thing. It hurt you to see him shy and humble and out of it. And when you thought of his arrogance at Durlingham. It was the women's voices that tired you so, and their nervous, snapping eyes. The best of all was going away from them quietly with Richard into Kensington Gardens. "Did you like it, Mary?" "Frightfully.
And all the time her youth had been waiting for her at the other end, at the turn of the unknown road, at thirty-nine. All through the autumn and winter Richard Nicholson had kept on writing. Her poems would be out on the tenth of April. On the third the note came. "Shall I still find you at Morfe if I come down this week-end? "You will never find me anywhere else. "I shall bike from Durlingham.
It was a sort of happiness to lie there, holding her, hiding her from the dreadful funeral dawn. Five o'clock. The funeral would last till three, going along the road to Reyburn Station, going in the train from Reyburn to Durlingham, from Durlingham to King's Cross. She wondered whether Dan and Roddy would keep on feeling the funeral all the time. The train was part of it. Not the worst part.
She had felt angry with her mother for making her live in it, for expecting her to be content, for thinking that Dorsy and Miss Louisa and Miss Kendal were enough. She had been angry with Aunt Lavvy for talking about her to Miss Kendal. Yet if it weren't for Miss Kendal she wouldn't be going into Durlingham to see Professor Lee Ramsden.
Dan was alone in the dining-room. He said, "What have you come down for?" "To give you your breakfasts." "Don't be a little fool. Go back to your room." Mr. Vickers had come in. He stood by the doorway, looking at her and smiling. "Why this harsh treatment?" he said. He had heard Dan. Now and then he smiled again at Dan, who sat sulking over his breakfast. Dan went with him to Durlingham.
"How can it be my glasses? They never hurt me before." But the oculist in Durlingham said it was her glasses. She wasn't going blind. It wasn't likely that she ever would go blind. For a week before the new glasses came Mamma sat, patient and gentle, in her chair, with her eyes shut and her hands folded in her lap.
Sutcliffe had wanted the last dance, the polka; but she couldn't give it him. She didn't want to dance with anybody after Mark. The big, long dining-room was cleared; the floor waxed. People had come from Reyburn and Durlingham. A hollow square of faces. Faces round the walls. Painted faces hanging above them: Mr. Sutcliffe's ancestors looking at you.
While she contemplated these things the long hand of the white marble tombstone clock moved from the hour to the quarter. She was reading the inscription, in black letters, on the golden plinth: "Presented to Thomas Smythe-Caulfield, Esqr., M.P., by the Council and Teachers of St. Paul's Schools, Durlingham" "Presented" when Mrs. Smythe-Caulfield came in. A foolish, overblown, conceited face.
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