Side by side with the cheese (its never-failing accompaniment, in all seasons, at the carpenter's board) came a tankard of swig, and a toast. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. “I haven’t seen the new Patience, dear,” she said. ’ ‘What?’ gasped Gerald, shocked. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. .
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