Mrs. Elliot rose and fluttered away.
When she had heard what one of the million voices speaking in the paper
had to say, and noticed that a cousin of hers had married a clergyman at
Minehead--ignoring the drunken women, the golden animals of Crete,
the movements of battalions, the dinners, the reforms, the fires, the
indignant, the learned and benevolent, Mrs. Thornbury went upstairs to
write a letter for the mail.
The paper lay directly beneath the clock, the two together seeming to
represent stability in a changing world. Mr. Perrott passed through;
Mr. Venning poised for a second on the edge of a table. Mrs. Paley was
wheeled past. Susan followed. Mr. Venning strolled after her. Portuguese
military families, their clothes suggesting late rising in untidy
bedrooms, trailed across, attended by confidential nurses carrying noisy
children. As midday drew on, and the sun beat straight upon the roof,
an eddy of great flies droned in a circle; iced drinks were served under
the palms; the long blinds were pulled down with a shriek, turning all
the light yellow. The clock now had a silent hall to tick in, and an
audience of four or five somnolent merchants. By degrees white figures
with shady hats came in at the door, admitting a wedge of the hot summer
day, and shutting it out again. After resting in the dimness for a
minute, they went upstairs.
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