Mr Cheesacre's Disappointment. Preparations for Lady Monk's Party. Bold Speculations on Murder. The Last Will of the Old Squire.
Showing How Alice Was Punished. The Will. Another Walk on the Fells. The Pallisers at Breakfast. Going Abroad. The Rocks and Valleys. The First Kiss. Lady Monk's Plan. The Last Kiss. From London to Baden. From Baden to Lucerne. At Lucerne. Showing What Happened in the Churchyard. Rouge et Noir. I worry that I'm just easily amused sometimes.
I really enjoyed reading this summer's must-read thriller Gone Girl , I thought it was well-paced, and it kept me engaged throughout the book. It didn't make me think about any of the big important questions of life, but I wasn't expecting it to. I read it to be entertained, and it succeeded. Was it a better book than George Saunders new collection of stories? Probably not, writing wise Saunders is probably better. The stories in Saunders collection were more what my personal liking were I'd wouldn't necessarily say a story about a missing wife is one of the things I go looking for in a story, on the other hand Saunders writes about the sorts of things I generally would think I'm looking for in a story.
My expectations were dashed by Saunders though, I wanted more than was in the book. I rated it accordingly, I know people who are going to like it a lot more than I did, and I feel kind of envious that they will have a better experience than I did. But that is going off topic a bit. I don't think I'm a good reviewer of 'popular fiction' the sorts of books that fall into my all-time favorites are generally not plot-driven.
They aren't the sort of books that have blurbs that say, "a real-page turner", or "call in sick tomorrow because you're going to be up all night reading to the final twist". Instead when I do read these books I usually have one of two reactions.
My critical faculties usually drop when I read a book like this and unless the writing is awful I'm usually fairly entertained. It's sort of the same way that I watch movies these days.
I see them so infrequently that I'm easily caught up in the whole 'spectacle' of them. Blow some shit up and I'm kind of happy these days in the three or four times a year that I sit down and watch a movie. But am I really this easily amused? Or after about twenty years of being a fairly serious reader who took literature classes, worked in a library for a couple of years, interned for almost a year with a publisher and then worked for the past eleven years in one of the biggest fiction sections in the country I'm not trying to brag, I'm just trying to get the idea that I've spent a lot of time around books in the past two decades I've just gotten fairly good at picking out what books to read?
I wouldn't have picked out this book though. If it hadn't been for Roubaud I would haven't have read Trollope I was going to say ever, but that is stupid to say, who knows what would have happened, what I would have read that would have pointed me towards him, which is something you never really do know once you start reading, and especially when you happen to pick up a book by someone who really loves reading and gives you names and titles and pointers towards other writers you might have never thought of or heard of.
Some band I never heard of was thanked or mentioned as an influence, and sometimes that would lead to a new favorite or sometimes it would lead to a band I'd be mystified about why they were thought highly of, but it is one of the pre-internet ways that my musical repertoire grew.
When I was twenty four I believed I had read all the novels that mattered. I thought literature was dead. I figured there were maybe a few odds and ends of authors I'd already read that I should still read, but mostly I figured I'd seen it all. I was wrong. Should you read Trollope? I have no idea.
I'm not going to try to sell him on you. If you want to be sold on him and you have the inclination to read Roubaud's labyrinthine prose then I'd recommend letting him sell you on it.
I really enjoyed my week I spent with Trollope, and I'm planning on spending more time with him in the near future. Is this the review you meant to write? Isn't this just another of your long-winded why I read reviews?
I meant for this to be more involved with other topics. I meant to do more propositions. I wrote those a couple of weeks ago, everything after them I wrote today.
I wanted to write about love: conditional, unconditional, passion and pragmatic. I wanted to create a Roubaud-esque review where I swung the topics around, weaved in and out of them and maybe answered nothing but constructed something nevertheless.
Then this was going to be the last review I ever wrote for this site or second to last depending on if I had written this before or after the one other review that I feel obliged to still write, which I haven't written yet. It wasn't going to be stated that it was the last review, it wasn't going to be a grand fuck-you or anything. I just planned on not writing anymore, or if I did write reviews not send them to the feed, just let them be reminders to me of what I thought at particular times, sometimes about the book I just read and sometimes about other things.
Instead I'll probably keep writing these things, which are more of a public diary than reviews anyway. One day maybe I'll figure out the answers to these questions and then I can get to the serious business of writing book reports. Katie Lumsden. This was magnificent. I love Anthony Trollope's writing style, his explorations of marriage, love and responsibilities.
Few people can make me love and hate characters like Trollope can, and this is another resounding success. What an author. This is an excellent, if long, read. Trollope tells a good story and I think his female characters are stronger, better developed and more believeable than any other male Victorian novelist. He is still conventional apart from the novel Marion Fay perhaps but he has a strong empathy with his female characters and they tend to be better drawn and have more depth than his male characters.
The novel revolves around the romantic adventures of three women; Alice Vavasor, her cousin Kate and Lady Glencora Palliser. Alice has to chose between dull, reliable and loving in the form of John Grey and exciting, dangerous and unscrupulous in the form of George Vavasor. Her choices cause problems, hence the title. Lady Glencore, my favourite character, is torn between a seemingly loveless marraige and a handsome previous suitor who wants to run off with her. She is very tempted to do so.
The minor characters are marvelous with some wonderful comic creations; the love triangle of Mr Cheeseacre, Captain Bellfield and Aunt Greenow. Trollope works it all out in the end. Tolstoy rated Trollope very highly and the more I read of him the more I understand why. Incidentally, a clergyman wrote to Trollope to complain that he had been forced to stop his daughters reading this novel; what better recommendation could you have!!
This crime induces her to become engaged to her cousin who is so evil that Trollope made sure to give him a disfiguring facial scar lest the reader thinks for a moment George Vavasor is the tiniest bit good. George has a sister, Kate, and they have an Aunt, Mrs Greenow, a recently widowed woman set on enjoying herself after her financially satisfying but otherwise inane marriage to a much older man.
The fourth woman in this novel is Glencora Palliser married to one who will certainly be a very important character in these novels, Plantagenet Palliser, the man destined to become Chancellor of the Exchequer. The Pallisers are by far the most interesting couple of all the duos and trios of this novel. Glencora is an extraordinary female character. She is in love with someone else, and is given plenty of opportunities to give in to those feelings.
Glencora has the vitality of Emma Bovary and the sense of misplacement of Effi Briest, but she manages to avoid the path of destruction that would inevitably befall her had she followed her heart. But he does try to connect with his wife, which is a wonderful way to subvert the trope of the aloof husband. Nothing, it would seem, could be more rational than that Alice should go to Switzerland with her cousins; but Lady Macleod was clearly not of this opinion; she looked very grim as she made this allusion to cousin George, and seemed to be preparing herself for a fight.
It is very good-natured of him, seeing how much his time is taken up. George Vavasor, but she looked it. Grey know that he is going? Alice remained silent for a full minute before she answered this question, during which Lady Macleod sat watching her grimly, with her eyes very intent upon her niece's face.
If she supposed such silence to have been in any degree produced by shame in answering the question, she was much mistaken. But it may be doubted whether she understood the character of the girl whom she thought she knew so well, and it is probable that she did make such mistake. You want to know whether Mr. Grey will approve of it. As I only wrote yesterday of course I have not heard, and therefore cannot say.
But I can say this, aunt, that much as I might regret his disapproval, it would make no change in my plans. Then I must tell you, you are very wrong.
It ought to make a change. Come, aunt, if we must discuss this matter let us do it at any rate fairly. In an ordinary way, if Mr.
Grey had asked me to give up for any reason my trip altogether, I should have given it up certainly, as I would give up any other indifferent project at the request of so dear a friend,—a friend with whom I am so—so—so closely connected. But if he asked me not to travel with my cousin George, I should refuse him absolutely, without a word of parley on the subject, simply because of the nature and closeness of my connection with him. I suppose you understand what I mean, aunt?
You mean that you would refuse to obey him on the very subject on which he has a right to claim your obedience. She had heard that tone before, and might have been used to it; but, nevertheless, the little jump was involuntary.
Moreover, I should be careful to let him know how much I was offended by any such counsel from him. It would show a littleness on his part, and a suspicion of which I cannot suppose him to be capable. When she had finished she stood at one of the windows with her back to her visitor. There was silence between them for a minute or two, during which Lady Macleod was deeply considering how best she might speak the terrible words, which, as Alice's nearest female relative, she felt herself bound to utter.
At last she collected her thoughts and her courage, and spoke out. Of course Mr. Grey cannot like you to travel with George Vavasor. She spoke with a steady voice, and fixed her eyes upon the old lady's face, as though determined to show that she had no fear of what might be said to her. Grey, with the consent and approbation of all your friends. Two years ago you had— had—". If you mean to say that two years ago I was engaged to my cousin George you are mistaken.
Three years ago I told him that under certain conditions I would become engaged to him. But my conditions did not suit him, nor his me, and no engagement was ever made. Grey knows the history of the whole thing. As far as it was possible I have told him everything that took place. If I were thinking of becoming his wife you would have a perfect right to discuss it, because of your constant kindness to me.
But as matters are he is simply a cousin; and as I like him and you do not, we had better say nothing about him.
You are still a girl, but you are the promised wife of a very worthy man, who will look to you for all his domestic happiness. George Vavasor has the name, at least, of being very wild. If I were going away with George by himself, there might be something in what you say. Kate and I have put our purses together, and are going to have an outing for our special fun and gratification.
As we should be poor travellers alone, George has promised to go with his sister. Papa knows all about it, and never thought of making any objection.
Lady Macleod shook her head. She did not like to say anything against Mr. Vavasor before his daughter; but the shaking of her head was intended to signify that Mr. Vavasor's assent in such a matter was worth nothing. Grey will be displeased,—and that he will have very great cause for displeasure. And I think, moreover, that his approbation ought to be your chief study.
I believe, my dear, I'll ask you to let Jane get me a cab. I shan't have a bit too much time to dress for the concert. Alice simply rang the bell, and said no further word on the subject which they had been discussing. When Lady Macleod got up to go away, Alice kissed her, as was customary with them, and the old lady as she went uttered her customary valediction.
I'll come to-morrow if I can. But both of them felt that words had been spoken which must probably lead to some diminution of their past intimacy. When Lady Macleod had gone Alice sat alone for an hour thinking of what had passed between them,—thinking rather of those two men, the worthy man and the wild man, whose names had been mentioned in close connection with herself.
John Grey was a worthy man, a man worthy at all points, as far as she knew him. She told herself it was so. And she told herself, also, that her cousin George was wild,—very wild.
And yet her thoughts were, I fear, on the whole more kindly towards her cousin than towards her lover. She had declared to her aunt that John Grey would be incapable of such suspicion as would be shown by any objection on his part to the arrangements made for the tour.
She had said so, and had so believed; and yet she continued to brood over the position which her affairs would take, if he did make the objection which Lady Macleod anticipated. She told herself over and over again, that under such circumstances she would not give way an inch.
Grey's answer to Alice Vavasor's letter, which was duly sent by return of post and duly received on the morning after Lady Macleod's visit, may perhaps be taken as giving a sample of his worthiness. It was dated from Nethercoats, a small country-house in Cambridgeshire which belonged to him, at which he already spent much of his time, and at which he intended to live altogether after his marriage. I am glad you have settled your affairs,—foreign affairs, I mean,—so much to your mind.
As to your home affairs they are not, to my thinking, quite so satisfactorily arranged. But as I am a party interested in the latter my opinion may perhaps have an undue bias.
Touching the tour, I quite agree with you that you and Kate would have been uncomfortable alone. It's a very fine theory, that of women being able to get along without men as well as with them; but, like other fine theories, it will be found very troublesome by those who first put it in practice.
Gloved hands, petticoats, feminine softness, and the general homage paid to beauty, all stand in the way of success. These things may perhaps some day be got rid of, and possibly with advantage; but while young ladies are still encumbered with them a male companion will always be found to be a comfort. I don't quite know whether your cousin George is the best possible knight you might have chosen. I should consider myself to be infinitely preferable, had my going been upon the cards.
Were you in danger of meeting Paynim foes, he, no doubt, would kill them off much quicker than I could do, and would be much more serviceable in liberating you from the dungeons of oppressors, or even from stray tigers in the Swiss forests. But I doubt his being punctual with the luggage. He will want you or Kate to keep the accounts, if any are kept. He will be slow in getting you glasses of water at the railway stations, and will always keep you waiting at breakfast.
I hold that a man with two ladies on a tour should be an absolute slave to them, or they will not fully enjoy themselves. He should simply be an upper servant, with the privilege of sitting at the same table with his mistresses.
I have my doubts as to whether your cousin is fit for the place; but, as to myself, it is just the thing that I was made for. Luckily, however, neither you nor Kate are without wills of your own, and perhaps you may be able to reduce Mr.
Vavasor to obedience. As to the home affairs I have very little to say here,—in this letter. I shall of course run up and see you before you start, and shall probably stay a week in town. I know I ought not to do so, as it will be a week of idleness, and yet not a week of happiness. I'd sooner have an hour with you in the country than a whole day in London. And I always feel in town that I've too much to do to allow of my doing anything.
If it were sheer idleness I could enjoy it, but it is a feverish idleness, in which one is driven here and there, expecting some gratification which not only never comes, but which never even begins to come. I will, however, undergo a week of it,—say the last seven days of this month, and shall trust to you to recompense me by as much of yourself as your town doings will permit.
And now again as to those home affairs. If I say nothing now I believe you will understand why I refrain. You have cunningly just left me to imply, from what you say, that all my arguments have been of no avail; but you do not answer them, or even tell me that you have decided.
I shall therefore imply nothing, and still trust to my personal eloquence for success. Or rather not trust,—not trust, but hope. The garden is going on very well. We are rather short of water, and therefore not quite as bright as I had hoped; but we are preparing with untiring industry for future brightness.
Your commands have been obeyed in all things, and Morrison always says "The mistress didn't mean this," or "The mistress did intend that.
That is my prayer. I was obliged to seem to care, even if I didn't care. When she opened it, which she did quickly, not pausing a moment lest she should suspect herself of fearing to see what might be its contents, her mind was full of that rebuke which her aunt had anticipated, and which she had almost taught herself to expect. She had torn the letter open rapidly, and had dashed at its contents with quick eyes. In half a moment she had seen what was the nature of the reply respecting the proposed companion of her tour, and then she had completed her reading slowly enough.
Then she considered the letter bit by bit, taking it backwards, and sipping her tea every now and then amidst her thoughts. No; she had no home, no house, there. She had no husband;—not as yet. He spoke of their engagement as though it were a betrothal, as betrothals used to be of yore; as though they were already in some sort married. Such betrothals were not made now-a-days. There still remained, both to him and to her, a certain liberty of extricating themselves from this engagement.
Should he come to her and say that he found that their contemplated marriage would not make him happy, would not she release him without a word of reproach? Would not she regard him as much more honourable in doing so than in adhering to a marriage which was distasteful to him? And if she would so judge him,—judge him and certainly acquit him, was it not reasonable that she under similar circumstances should expect a similar acquittal? Then she declared to herself that she carried on this argument within her own breast simply as an argument, induced to do so by that assertion on his part that he was already her husband,—that his house was even now her home.
She had no intention of using that power which was still hers. She had no wish to go back from her pledged word. She thought that she had no such wish. She loved him much, and admired him even more than she loved him.
He was noble, generous, clever, good,—so good as to be almost perfect; nay, for aught she knew he was perfect. Would that he had some faults! Would that he had! How could she, full of faults as she knew herself to be,—how could she hope to make happy a man perfect as he was!
But then there would be no doubt as to her present duty. She loved him, and that was everything. Having told him that she loved him, and having on that score accepted his love, nothing but a change in her heart towards him could justify her in seeking to break the bond which bound them together.
She did love him, and she loved him only. But she had once loved her cousin. Yes, truly it was so. In her thoughts she did not now deny it. She had loved him, and was tormented by a feeling that she had had a more full delight in that love than in this other that had sprung up subsequently. She had told herself that this had come of her youth;—that love at twenty was sweeter than it could be afterwards.
There had been a something of rapture in that earlier dream which could never be repeated,—which could never live, indeed, except in a dream. Now, now that she was older and perhaps wiser, love meant a partnership, in which each partner would be honest to the other, in which each would wish and strive for the other's welfare, so that thus their joint welfare might be insured.
Then, in those early girlish days, it had meant a total abnegation of self. The one was of earth, and therefore possible. The other had been a ray from heaven,—and impossible, except in a dream.
And she had been mistaken in her first love. She admitted that frankly. He whom she had worshipped had been an idol of clay, and she knew that it was well for her to have abandoned that idolatry.
He had not only been untrue to her, but, worse than that, had been false in excusing his untruth. He had not only promised falsely, but had made such promises with a deliberate, premeditated falsehood. And he had been selfish, coldly selfish, weighing the value of his own low lusts against that of her holy love.
She had known this, and had parted from him with an oath to herself that no promised contrition on his part should ever bring them again together. But she had pardoned him as a man, though never as a lover, and had bade him welcome again as a cousin and as her friend's brother. She had again become very anxious as to his career, not hiding her regard, but professing that anxiety aloud.
She knew him to be clever, ambitious, bold,—and she believed even yet, in spite of her own experience, that he might not be bad at heart. Now, as she told herself that in truth she loved the man to whom her troth was plighted, I fear that she almost thought more of that other man from whom she had torn herself asunder. Were I a man, no earthly consideration should induce me to live elsewhere. It is odd how we differ in all things. However brilliant might be his own light, he would be contented to hide it under a bushel!
And at last she recurred to that matter as to which she had been so anxious when she first opened her lover's letter. It will be remembered how assured she had expressed herself that Mr.
Grey would not condescend to object to her travelling with her cousin. He had not so condescended. He had written on the matter with a pleasant joke, like a gentleman as he was, disdaining to allude to the past passages in the life of her whom he loved, abstaining even from expressing anything that might be taken as a permission on his part.
There had been in Alice's words, as she told him of their proposed plan, a something that had betrayed a tremor in her thoughts. She had studiously striven so to frame her phrases that her tale might be told as any other simple statement,—as though there had been no trembling in her mind as she wrote. But she had failed, and she knew that she had failed. She had failed; and he had read all her effort and all her failure. She was quite conscious of this; she felt it thoroughly; and she knew that he was noble and a gentleman to the last drop of his blood.
And yet—yet—yet there was almost a feeling of disappointment in that he had not written such a letter as Lady Macleod had anticipated. During the next week Lady Macleod still came almost daily to Queen Anne Street, but nothing further was said between her and Miss Vavasor as to the Swiss tour; nor were any questions asked about Mr..
Grey's opinion on the subject. The old lady of course discovered that there was no quarrel, or, as she believed, any probability of a quarrel; and with that she was obliged to be contented. Nor did she again on this occasion attempt to take Alice to Lady Midlothian's. Indeed, their usual subjects of conversation were almost abandoned, and Lady Macleod's visits, though they were as constant as heretofore, were not so long.
She did not dare to talk about Mr. Grey, and because she did not so dare, was determined to regard herself as in a degree ill-used. So she was silent, reserved, and fretful. At length came the last day of her London season, and her last visit to her niece. I've marked the time accurately, but I know the man will swear it's over the half-hour. I really think they're worse. I pay the bill every month, but they've always one down that I didn't have. It's the regular practice, for I've had them from all the men in the place.
What do you think of Mrs. Green wanting to charge me for an extra week, because she says I didn't give her notice till Tuesday morning? I won't pay her, and she may stop my things if she dares. However, it's the last time. I shall never come up to London again, my dear. What should an old woman like me do, trailing up to town every year, merely because it's what people choose to call the season.
Age doesn't matter when a person's health is so good as yours. But as for friends—! Well, I suppose one has no right to complain when one gets to be as old as I am; but I declare I believe that those I love best would sooner be without me than with me. Of course my life would have been very different if you could have consented to remain with me till you were married.
But I didn't mean you. I don't know that I meant any one. You shouldn't mind what an old woman like me says. I don't know why I stayed the last week. I did say to Lady Midlothian that I thought I should go on the 20th; and, though I know that she knew that I really didn't go, she has not once sent to me since.
To be sure they've been out every night; but I thought she might have asked me to come and lunch. It's so very lonely dining by myself in lodgings in London. But we won't talk about that. I've just one word more to say. Let me see. I've just six minutes to stay. I've made up my mind that I'll never come up to town again,—except for one thing.
I always think that when a girl is once engaged the sooner she's married the better. There may be reasons for delay on the gentleman's part. Alice was silent for a moment, during which Lady Macleod's face assumed a look of almost tragic horror. Was there something wrong on Mr. Grey's side of which she was altogether unaware? Alice, though for a second or two she had been guilty of a slight playful deceit, was too honest to allow the impression to remain.
Grey is not putting it off. It has been left to me to fix the time. After all it is not more than four months yet since I—I accepted him. I don't know that there has been any delay. I'm going to think about it, and you mustn't drive me. People always do seem to think it so terrible that a girl should have her own way in anything. She mustn't like any one at first; and then, when she does like some one, she must marry him directly she's bidden.
I haven't much of my own way at present; but you see, when I'm married I shan't have it at all. You can't wonder that I shouldn't be in a hurry. But, goodness gracious me! I've been here twenty-eight minutes, and that horrid man will impose upon me. Good-bye; God bless you!
Mind you write. And then John Grey came up to town, arriving a day or two after the time that he had fixed. It is not, perhaps, improbable that Alice had used some diplomatic skill in preventing a meeting between Lady Macleod and her lover. They both were very anxious to obtain the same object, and Alice was to some extent opposed to their views. Had Lady Macleod and John Grey put their forces together she might have found herself unable to resist their joint endeavours.
She was resolved that she would not at any rate name any day for her marriage before her return from Switzerland; and she may therefore have thought it wise to keep Mr. Grey in the country till after Lady Macleod had gone, even though she thereby cut down the time of his sojourn in London to four days. On the occasion of that visit Mr. Vavasor did a very memorable thing. He dined at home with the view of welcoming his future son-in-law.
He dined at home, and asked, or rather assented to Alice's asking, George and Kate Vavasor to join the dinner-party. Grey joins in the dissipation of a dinner-party. We shall all be changed soon, I suppose, and George and I will take to keeping a little cottage in the country. I would forgive your raillery, however painful it might be, if it were only fair. Grey whom you meant to attack. If I can forgive him for not caring for society, surely you might do so.
You don't forgive him. If you did you might be quite sure that I should say nothing. And if you choose to bid me hold my tongue I will say nothing. But when you tell me all your own thoughts about this thing you can hardly expect but that I should let you know mine in return.
I'm not particular; and if you are ready for a little good, wholesome, useful hypocrisy, I won't balk you. I mayn't be quite so dishonest as you call me, but I'm not so wedded to truth but what I can look, and act, and speak a few falsehoods if you wish it. Only let us understand each other. I know that for the last year or two I have been trying to find out your wishes, and, upon my word, my success has been very indifferent. I suppose you wish to marry Mr. Grey, but I'm by no means certain.
I suppose the last thing on earth you'd wish would be to marry George? You make me doubt whether I hate or love you most. Knowing what my feelings are about George, I cannot understand how you can bring yourself to speak of him to me with such contempt! There Alice found her in tears, and was driven by her friend's real grief into the expression of an apology, which she knew was not properly due from her.
Kate was acquainted with all the circumstances of that old affair between her brother and Alice. She had given in her adhesion to the propriety of what Alice had done. She had allowed that her brother George's behaviour had been such as to make any engagement between them impossible. The fault, therefore, had been hers in making any reference to the question of such a marriage.
Nor had it been by any means her first fault of the same kind. Till Alice had become engaged to Mr. Grey she had spoken of George only as her brother, or as her friend's cousin, but now she was constantly making allusion to those past occurrences, which all of them should have striven to forget.
You can also support it by buying one of the collections. Whether or no, she, whom you are to forgive, if you can, did or did not belong to the Upper Ten Thousand of this our English world, I am not prepared to say with any strength of affirmation.
By blood she was connected with big people — distantly connected with some very big people indeed, people who belonged to the Upper Ten Hundred if there be any such division; but of these very big relations she had known and seen little, and they had cared as little for her. Her grandfather, Squire Vavasor of Vavasor Hall, in Westmoreland, was a country gentleman, possessing some thousand a year at the outside, and he therefore never came up to London, and had no ambition to have himself numbered as one in any exclusive set.
A hot-headed, ignorant, honest old gentleman, he lived ever at Vavasor Hall, declaring, to any who would listen to him, that the country was going to the mischief, and congratulating himself that at any rate, in his county, parliamentary reform had been powerless to alter the old political arrangements.
Alice Vavasor, whose offence against the world I am to tell you, and if possible to excuse, was the daughter of his younger son; and as her father, John Vavasor, had done nothing to raise the family name to eminence, Alice could not lay claim to any high position from her birth as a Vavasor. John Vavasor had come up to London early in life as a barrister, and had failed.
He had failed at least in attaining either much wealth or much repute, though he had succeeded in earning, or perhaps I might better say, in obtaining, a livelihood. He had married a lady somewhat older than himself, who was in possession of four hundred a year, and who was related to those big people to whom I have alluded.
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