Corbet Bibury to Beckancal London:
Please explain curious article by library fire-place.
Beckancal London to Corbet Bibury:
Sorry if I have been over-zealous.
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Corbet Bibury to Beckancal London:
Do not seem to have any bellows.
Beckancal London to Corbet Bibury:
Look in oak chest in hall.
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Corbet Bibury to Beckancal London:
Gardener clamouring for secateur.
Beckancal London to Corbet Bibury:
In cupboard in summer-house.
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Corbet Bibury to Beckancal London:
Cannot find any shaving paper.
Beckancal London to Corbet Bibury:
Tear up "Times."
And then came Mr. Barclay Corbet in person to express his absolute satisfaction and to make Ben and her staff a handsome present, and then to spend some hours downstairs in fixing up his shelves properly.
"Whoever thought I wanted an 'Encyclopædia Britannica,'" he said, "is the world's worst clairvoyant. What I want is the works of A. Trollope. They're good to read and they're good to send you to sleep."
XXXIII
Alicia, better dressed than usual, with a new vanity bag and a rather dashing hat, had been seated in Ben's room for many minutes before she could bring herself to be explicit and admit that she had received an offer of marriage. From a widower, a retired ironmaster, living at Hove. In one of the avenues, she added; with his sister: a horrid woman. They had met at a séance, for he, too, was interested in spiritualism and was in communication with his late wife. At least he had tried to be, but that lady had refused to be communicative because, she said, there was someone antipathetic to her in the room.
"You, I suppose," said Ben, in her blunt way.
"I don't know why you should say so," said Alicia, hurt.
"I don't see why she should rejoice in your presence, anyway," Ben replied. "It can't be much fun for dead wives, out of it for ever, watching their husbands preparing for a second marriage."