I liked
the Skye best, I must confess. There was something pathetic about him."
The story seemed to have no climax.
"What happened to him?" Rachel asked.
"That's a very sad story," said Richard, lowering his voice and peeling
an apple. "He followed my wife in the car one day and got run over by a
brute of a cyclist."
"Was he killed?" asked Rachel.
But Clarissa at her end of the table had overheard.
"Don't talk of it!" she cried. "It's a thing I can't bear to think of to
this day."
Surely the tears stood in her eyes?
"That's the painful thing about pets," said Mr. Dalloway; "they die. The
first sorrow I can remember was for the death of a dormouse. I regret to
say that I sat upon it. Still, that didn't make one any the less sorry.
Here lies the duck that Samuel Johnson sat on, eh? I was big for my
age."
"Then we had canaries," he continued, "a pair of ring-doves, a lemur,
and at one time a martin."
"Did you live in the country?" Rachel asked him.
"We lived in the country for six months of the year. When I say 'we' I
mean four sisters, a brother, and myself. There's nothing like coming of
a large family. Sisters particularly are delightful."
"Dick, you were horribly spoilt!" cried Clarissa across the table.
"No, no. Appreciated," said Richard.
Rachel had other questions on the tip of her tongue; or rather one
enormous question, which she did not in the least know how to put into
words.
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