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Dolly junior appeared to calm down under Aunt M'riar's auspices, though every now and then her natural indignation got the better of her self-restraint. Dave junior was disgusted with his sister at first, but softened gradually towards her as she matured. His father did not long survive the death of his young wife.
I saw to that. Only you needn't fret your kidneys about it, that I see. You're an immoral woman, you are! Poor Polly! Feel any different?" Anyone who knows the superstitious reverence for the "sacred" marriage tie that obtains among women of M'riar's class and type will understand her horror and indignation.
He, however, looking back on his own antecedents to determine from them how straitlaced a morality conscience called for, decided, in view of the possibility of a collision between his friend and this ex-convict, that he would be quite justified in treating Aunt M'riar's feelings as negligible, set against the risk incurred by deferring to them as his friend had done.
She drew the line of encouraging drunkenness at integers halves not counting as fractions, by tacit consent. They are not hard enough. Miss Hawkins had placed herself in a difficulty by that indiscreet tampering with Aunt M'riar's letter.
The delicacy and tact with which this suggestion was offered was a little impaired by Aunt M'riar's: "Yes, now you be a good boy, Dave, and ..." and so forth. Many little boys would not have been so magnanimous as Dave, and would have demurred or offered passive resistance.
If he don't go, and comes along, just you say to him Mr. Wardle he'll be back in a minute. He'll be only a short time at The Sun." "I'll say wotsumever you please, Missis Wardle. Only that won't carry no weight, not if I says it ever so. He's a sly customer. Here he is a-coming. Jist past the post!" That is, the one Dave broke his head off. Aunt M'riar's heart thumped, and she felt sick.
Hence the decision and even that was coming on to November that the children should stop with their granny at Ealing while their aunt come up to get things a little in order, and the place well aired. Aunt M'riar's return for this purpose drags the story on two or three weeks, but may just as well be told now as later. When she made this second journey up to London, she found Mr.
"Didn't he say who her son was?" Aunt M'riar persisted, with unflinching simplicity. Micky, instantly illuminated, replied: "Not he! He never so much as said he wasn't her son, hisself." This did not mean that affirmation was usually approached by denial of every possible negation. It was only the involuntary echo of a notion Aunt M'riar's manner had clothed her words with.
Such an instinct was stirring in Aunt M'riar's chaos of thought and feeling, even through her terror and her consciousness of the vileness of the man and the vileness of his claim over her. The idea of using the power that her knowledge of his position gave her never crossed her mind.
All the more when the cellar is full of garbage, and he knows it. There was no garbage in Aunt M'riar's cellar that she was guilty of, but for all that she would have jumped at any excuse to leave that door tight shut. The difficulty was not so much in what she had to tell for her conscience was clear as in rousing an unprepared mind to the hearing of it.
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