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Updated: August 19, 2024
She'll never be afraid he'll get cholera." For a minute their souls met and burned together in the joy they shared. Then broke apart. "Aren't you going to show me Mr. Sutcliffe's letter?" "Why should I?" "You don't mean to say there's anything in it I can't see?" "You can see it if you like. There's nothing in it." That was why she hadn't wanted her to see it.
Mr Sutcliffe, the chief mate, had been favourably impressed by Dick from the moment when the two had encountered each other at the shipping office, and Mr Sutcliffe's method of showing his favour was to provide his favourites with an ample sufficiency of work to do.
And she would work in the garden every morning, digging in leaf mould and carrying the big stones for the rockery; she would go to Mrs. Sutcliffe's sewing parties; she would sit for hours with Maggie's sister, trying not to look as if she minded the smell of the cancer. You were no good unless you could do little things like that. You were no good unless you could keep on doing them.
As he came out the five or six small boys standing round raised a tremendous shout of "Litter's coming." A shout so loud that it was heard not only in College and the boarding-houses in Little Dean's Yard, but at Carr's across by the archway, and even at Sutcliffe's shop outside the Yard, where some of the boys were purchasing sweets for consumption in school.
Norman Waugh was dragging her round the room. Once. Twice. She hated the feeling of his short, thick body moving a little way in front of her. She hated his sullen bull's face, his mouth close to hers, half open, puffing. From the walls Mr. Sutcliffe's ancestors looked at you as you shambled round, tied tight in your Indian scarf, like a funny lady in the bazaars. Raised eyebrows.
They couldn't go; for if they went, the quiet, gentle life of these things would be gone. The room had no soul apart from the two utterly beloved figures that sat there, each in its own chintz-covered chair. "It isn't true," she said, "that you're going?" She was sitting on the polar bear hearthrug at Mrs. Sutcliffe's feet. "Yes, Mary."
He wouldn't lower them to look at you. "It was Mrs. Sutcliffe's." "How funny of Mrs. Sutcliffe. She doesn't know me, either." "My dear young lady, you were at school when your father and mother dined at Greffington Hall." He was looking down at her now, and she could feel herself blushing; hot, red waves of shame, rushing up, tingling in the roots of her hair. "Mrs.
You could tell that by his face and by Mamma's ... Was that what you really looked like? Or was he teasing? Perhaps you would tell by Mrs. Sutcliffe's face. Or by Mr. Sutcliffe's. Their faces were nicer than ever. You couldn't tell. They would never let you know if anything was wrong. Mrs. Sutcliffe said, "What a beautiful scarf you've got on, my dear." "It's Mamma's. She gave it me."
The delicate, wrinkled hand came out from under the cashmere shawl to stroke her arm. It kept on stroking, a long, loving, slow caress. It made her queerly aware of her arm white and slender under the big puff of the sleeve lying across Mrs. Sutcliffe's lap. "He'll be happier in his garden at Agaye." She heard herself assenting. "He'll be happier." And breaking out.
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.
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