There was more to be told, and this was as good a time as any. —"Stay! something occurs to me. She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked
down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful
frescos. She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they
were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching
the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss
Miniver failed to mark. "And now," she
added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a
few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have
to go through—to pray for my son. Kneebone!"
"That you would not accept him were he to offer—"
"Be silent, Sir. She put a
stool for him at a little distance from her own, and after he had seen the day’s
work he hesitated, and then plunged into a resumption of their discussion about
beauty. "
Blueskin, meanwhile, having drained and replenished his glass, commenced
chaunting a snatch of a ballad:—
Once on a time, as I've heard tell. It was a mad half-hour. ‘Like you?’
‘But I am not French.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 29-06-2024 06:18:58