Jesse, F. Tennyson / 2008-09-24 00:00:00

But it was towards her, the respectable widow-woman, the owner,
but for Ishmael, of the biggest estate in all Penwith, that Tonkin's
current of consideration flowed, whereas hers, after her religion, was
perpetually set about Archelaus. He, the beautiful young man with the
round red neck and the white arms and the strong six feet of height,
whom she had made and given to the world, to him she would have given
the world and all the heavens had it been in her power. And, as things
were, she could not even give him Cloom Manor and its fruitful acres. Of
this impotency Archelaus was even more aware than usual as he sat beside
her and glowered down the table at his little brother.
Ishmael was still showing off, though less noisily, for he was feeling
very tired and sleepy; the unaccustomed cider and the heavy meal of
roast mutton, in a house where there was rarely any meat except
occasional rashers, were proving too potent for him. The room was
intensely hot, the prevailing notion of comfort being to shut every
window at night, and a large fire, before which the side of mutton had
been gravely twirling for hours, was only now beginning to subside. The
candles guttered and grew soft in the warmth, beads of moisture stood
out on the faces of the company, and the smell of incompletely-washed
bodies reminded the Parson of hot afternoons with his Sunday school.
Read more


Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20