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Lawrence, D. H. (David Herbert), 1885-1930

"England, My England"

'Are you goin' down wi'
th' trap, Joe?'
'Yes, I've told you I'm going down wi' th' trap, haven't I?'
'We'd better be getting her in then.--So long, Jack, if I don't see you
before I go,' said Malcolm, shaking hands.
He went out, followed by Joe, who seemed to have his tail between his
legs.
'Well, this is the devil's own,' exclaimed the doctor, when he was left
alone with Fred Henry. 'Going before Wednesday, are you?'
'That's the orders,' replied the other.
'Where, to Northampton?'
'That's it.'
'The devil!' exclaimed Fergusson, with quiet chagrin.
And there was silence between the two.
'All settled up, are you?' asked Fergusson.
'About.'
There was another pause.
'Well, I shall miss yer, Freddy, boy,' said the young doctor.
'And I shall miss thee, Jack,' returned the other.
'Miss you like hell,' mused the doctor.
Fred Henry turned aside. There was nothing to say. Mabel came in again,
to finish clearing the table.
'What are _you_ going to do, then, Miss Pervin?' asked Fergusson. 'Going
to your sister's, are you?'
Mabel looked at him with her steady, dangerous eyes, that always made him
uncomfortable, unsettling his superficial ease.
'No,' she said.
'Well, what in the name of fortune _are_ you going to do? Say what you
mean to do,' cried Fred Henry, with futile intensity.
But she only averted her head, and continued her work. She folded the
white table-cloth, and put on the chenille cloth.


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