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Updated: June 22, 2025
I assure you I will be very unobtrusive." "I don't understand all this," replied Colville. "Who has proposed to exclude you? Why did you tell me anything about Mrs. Bowen if you didn't want me to say or do something? I supposed you did; but I'll withdraw the offensive proposition, whatever it was." "There was nothing offensive. But if you pity her so much, why can't you pity me a little?"
Theoretically, the rector was at the call of any of his parishioners at all moments; but in practice the people of Farlingford never sought his help. "A gentleman," said Marvin, vaguely; "well, let him come in, Sarah." Miriam and Barebone sat silently looking at the door. But the man who appeared there was not Dormer Colville. It was John Turner.
Turner closed the cupboard and locked it, without ceasing to watch Colville, who was struggling with the stiff fastening of the outer sash. "Anything the matter?" inquired the banker, placidly. "Lost a dog?" But Colville had at length wrenched open the window and was leaning out. The roar of the traffic drowned any answer he may have made.
Dormer Colville, who was discovered sitting as far from her as the size of the room allowed, was less eager, but he brought forward a chair for the banker and glanced sharply at his face as he sat down. "So glad to see you," the hostess explained. "It is really kind of you to come and cheer one up on such a dull afternoon. Dormer and I won't you take off your coat? No, let ME put it aside for you.
Do you think, if a great and honoured statesman dies, sub-editors care two pins about his public services? Not they. All they worry about is whether he is worth double-column headings, a long primer intro., and a line across the page. 'I didn't know Courtenay Colville was so ill, I commented mildly.
At forty-one the question is still important to every man with regard to every woman. "Mr. Colville!" The gentle surprise conveyed in the exclamation, without time for recognition, convinced Colville, upon a cool review of the facts, that the lady had known him before their eyes met. "Why, Mrs. Bowen!" he said. She put out her round, slender arm, and gave him a frank clasp of her gloved hand.
Colville, indeed, began to be more tolerant of him; he succeeded in praising the sermon he had heard him preach. "Oh, he has talent," said Mrs. Bowen. They fell into the old, almost domestic strain, from which she broke at times with an effort, but returning as if helplessly to it.
There is evidence, which Monsieur Colville is now patiently gathering from these slow-speaking people, that the woman who was rescued with this child was not his mother.
Colville had turned away and was looking northward toward the creek, known as Maiden's Grave, running through the marshes to the river. A large lug-sail broke the flat line of the horizon, though the boat to which it belonged was hidden by the raised dyke. "Would she?" inquired Colville, absent-mindedly, without taking his eyes from the sail which was creeping slowly toward them.
She has money. All the influence is hers. It is she who has had the last word in all our affairs since the death of the Due de Berri. But she is old she is broken. I think she is dying, my friend." It was the time of the vintage again. Barebone remembered the last vintage, and his journey through those provinces that supply all the world with wine, with Dormer Colville for a companion.
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