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Thackeray, William Makepeace, 1811-1863

"The Best British Short Stories of 1922"


"This is the room, Withers, my brother William died in when a boy.
Admire the view!"
I looked out of the window across the tree-tops. It was a day hot with
sunshine over the green fields, and the cattle were standing swishing
their tails in the shallow water. But the view at the moment was only
exaggeratedly vivid because I was horribly dreading that she would
presently enquire after my luggage, and I had not brought even a
toothbrush. I need have had no fear. Hers was not that highly-civilised
type of mind that is stuffed with sharp material details. Nor could her
ample presence be described as in the least motherly.
"I would never consent to question a schoolfellow behind my nephew's
back," she said, standing in the middle of the room, "but tell me,
Smithers, why is Arthur so unpopular? You, I understand, are his only
close friend." She stood in a dazzle of sun, and out of it her eyes
regarded me with such leaden penetration beneath their thick lids that
I doubt if my face concealed the least thought from her. "But there,
there," she added very suavely, stooping her head a little, "don't
trouble to answer me.


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