He wore a surly look, and kicked clumsily
against the furniture as he crossed the room. His appearance was a
surprise, for, though I had given him my address, I did not in the least
expect that he would come to see me; a certain pride, I suppose,
characteristic of his rugged strain, having always made him shy of such
intimacy.
'Did you ever hear the like of _that_!' he shouted, half angrily. 'It's all
over. They're not going! And all because of those blamed books!'
And spluttering and growling, he made known what he had just learnt at his
aunt's home. On the previous afternoon the Christophersons had been
surprised by a visit from their relatives and would-be benefactress, Mrs.
Keeting. Never before had that lady called upon them; she came, no doubt
(this could only be conjectured), to speak with them of their approaching
removal. The close of the conversation (a very brief one) was overheard by
the landlady, for Mrs. Keeting spoke loudly as she descended the stairs.
'Impossible! Quite impossible! I couldn't think of it! How could you dream
for a moment that I would let you fill my house with musty old books? Most
unhealthy! I never knew anything so extraordinary in my life, never!' And
so she went out to her carriage, and was driven away.
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