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Then, with one of those turns that convinced her aunt that she was not mad really and convinced observers of another type that she was not a barren theorist, she added: "Though in the case of Carter Paterson I should want it to be a very long engagement indeed, I must say." "I should think so," said Mrs. Munt; "and, indeed, I can scarcely follow you.
Bedridden, I believe. Paralysis, I think." "Yes; Mrs. Saintsbury said something of the kind." "Well," said Munt, anxious to add to the store of knowledge which this remark let him understand he had not materially increased, "I think Mrs. Mavering was the origin of the wall-paper or her money. Mavering was poor; her father had started it, and Mavering turned in his talent." "How very interesting!
She does mind." "Oh, hush!" breathed Margaret. "Frieda'll hear you, and she can be so tiresome." "She minds," persisted Mrs. Munt, moving thoughtfully about the room, and pulling the dead chrysanthemums out of the vases. "I knew she'd mind and I'm sure a girl ought to! Such an experience! Such awful coarse-grained people!
I wish you would let me help you in more important things." "Well, would you be very kind? Would you come round with me to the registry office? There's a housemaid who won't say yes but doesn't say no." On their way thither they too looked up at the Wilcoxes' flat. Evie was in the balcony, "staring most rudely," according to Mrs. Munt. Oh yes, it was a nuisance, there was no doubt of it.
Brinkley was indolent and good-natured, and Munt was active and good-natured, and they were well fitted to get on for ten or fifteen minutes. While they talked she kept an eye out for other acquaintance, and he stood alert to escape at the first chance. "How is it we are here so early or rather you are?" she pursued irrelevantly.
It would seem as if he were more alive to the great difference that there is between Alice Pasmer and other girls." Munt laughed a man's laugh. "I guess he's pretty well alive to that, if he's in love with her." "Oh, in a certain way, of course, but not in the highest way.
Mavering; but Munt himself, when she saw him last, had only just begun to commend himself to society, which had since so fully accepted him, and she had so suddenly, the moment before, found her self hand in glove with him that she might well have appealed to a third person for some explanation of Munt.
Munt was telling me about them as you came up." "Why, was that John Munt?" "Yes; didn't you know him?" "No," said Corey sadly. "I don't know anybody nowadays. I seem to be going to pieces every way. I don't call sixty-nine such a very great age." "Not at all!" cried Mrs. Brinkley. "I'm fifty-four myself, and Brinkley's sixty." "But I feel a thousand years old.
"Yes, dear?" "Can he spare you?" Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind. Yet again Margaret said so. Mrs. Munt did not die. Quite outside her will, a more dignified power took hold of her and checked her on the downward slope. She returned, without emotion, as fidgety as ever. On the fourth day she was out of danger.
"I do understand," retorted Mrs. Munt, with immense confidence. "I go down in no spirit of interference, but to make inquiries. Inquiries are necessary. Now, I am going to be rude. You would say the wrong thing; to a certainty you would. In your anxiety for Helen's happiness you would offend the whole of these Wilcoxes by asking one of your impetuous questions not that one minds offending them."
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