"Was that your aunt, Seaton?" I enquired; but not till then.
He nodded.
"Why didn't she take any notice of us, then?"
"She never does."
"Why not?"
"Oh, she knows all right, without; that's the dam awful part of it."
Seaton was about the only fellow at Gummidge's who ever had the
ostentation to use bad language. He had suffered for it, too. But it
wasn't, I think, bravado. I believe he really felt certain things more
intensely than most of the other fellows, and they were generally
things that fortunate and average people do not feel at all--the
peculiar quality, for instance, of the British schoolboy's imagination.
"I tell you, Withers," he went on moodily, slinking across the meadow
with his hands covered up in his pockets, "she sees everything. And
what she doesn't see she knows without."
"But how?" I said, not because I was much interested, but because the
afternoon was so hot and tiresome and purposeless, and it seemed more
of a bore to remain silent. Seaton turned gloomily and spoke in a very
low voice.
"Don't appear to be talking of her, if you wouldn't mind.
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