Later on they would agree that perhaps by this time
there was a "break in the rains," and that nothing in the world was so
trying as a break in the rains, the sun grilling down and drawing up
steam from every puddle. In September things, they remembered, would be
at their very worst and most depressing: one had hardly the energy to
lift a finger in September. Mrs. Simpson looked back upon the discomfort
she had endured in Bengal at this time of year with a kind of regret
that it was irretrievably over; she lingered upon a severe illness which
had been part of the experience. She seemed to think that with a little
judicious management she might have spent more time in that climate and
less in England. There was in her tone a suggestion of gentle envy of
Laura, going forth to these dismal conditions with her young life in her
hands, all tricked out for the sacrifice, which left Duff Lindsay and
his white and gold drawing-room entirely out of consideration. Any
sacrifice to Mrs. Simpson was alluring; she would be killed all day
long, in a manner, for its own sake.
The victim had taken her passage early in October, and during the first
week of that month Plymouth gathered itself into meetings to bid her
farewell.
Pages:
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364