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Updated: June 8, 2025
Listless is the air in an empty room, just swelling the curtain; the flowers in the jar shift. One fibre in the wicker arm-chair creaks, though no one sits there. Bonamy crossed to the window. Pickford's van swung down the street. The omnibuses were locked together at Mudie's corner. Engines throbbed, and carters, jamming the brakes down, pulled their horses sharp up.
He had always a book in his hand, not a club book, nor a novel from Mudie's, nor a magazine, but some ancient and hard-bound volume from his own library, which he had brought in his pocket, and to which his undivided attention would be given.
Furnival said to herself; but in her presence his face had been compelled to speak the truth. "Oh dear, no; I shall say nothing of course," she said. "I am quite sorry that I intruded. Mr. Furnival, as I happened to be in Holborn at Mudie's for some books I thought I would come down and ask whether you intend to dine at home to-day.
Jock had it on his lips to say something derogatory of the books from Mudie's; but he checked himself, for he remembered to have seen MTutor with one of those frivolous volumes, and he refrained from snubbing Lucy. "I believe she can't read," he said. "She can do nothing but laugh at one.
She is a little flighty in some ways, but she has some sense too, some notion of the value of money; she does not lose her dead about dress, nor does she buy costly baubles at the jewellers'. She, certainly wastes a good many pounds on books, when a three-guinea subscription to Mudie's would answer the purpose quite as well.
He says all the Smart Set are talking of it, and it seems the police have to regulate the crowd at Mudie's. You know I read everything Mrs. Runnymede writes, so I set out Miggs directly to beg, borrow or steal a copy, and I confess I burnt the midnight oil before I laid it down. Now, mind you get it, you will find it so awfully chic."
It possesses an imposing main street wherein are several shops, among them a stationer's with a lending library in connection with Mudie's; a really beautiful old inn with a courtyard; and grave-looking, dignified houses occupied by the doctor, a solicitor, and several other persons of acknowledged gentility.
A man with a watch before his eyes, penning exactly so many words every quarter of an hour one imagines that this picture might haunt disagreeably the thoughts even of Mudie's steadiest subscriber, that it might come between him or her and any Trollopean work that lay upon the counter. The surprise was so cynically sprung upon a yet innocent public.
The one thought that possessed me was how was I to get out of the scrape I was in. "We crawled past Mudie's, and there a tall woman with five or six yellow-labelled books hailed my cab, and I sprang out just in time to escape her, shaving a railway van narrowly in my flight.
He replied evasively that he had very little acquaintance with Miss Madeley's affairs, and added: "May she not simply have changed her lodgings?" "Why should she go so suddenly, and without letting me know?" "What had the landlady to say?" "She heard her tell the cab to drive to Mudie's the library, you know."
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