Books: Peregrine\'s Progress
J >>
Jeffery Farnol >> Peregrine\'s Progress
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19 |
20 |
21 |
22 |
23 |
24 |
25 |
26 |
27 |
28 |
29 This eBook was produced by Yvonne Dailey, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
PEREGRINE'S PROGRESS
BY JEFFERY FARNOL
_He who hath Imagination is blessed or cursed with a fearful magic
whereby he may scale the heights of Heaven or plumb the deeps of
Hell_
CONTENTS
ANTE SCRIPTUM
BOOK I--THE SILENT PLACES
I Introducing Myself
II Tells How and Why I Set Forth Upon the Quest in Question
III Wherein the Reader Shall Find Some Description of an Extraordinary
Tinker
IV In Which I Meet a Down-at-Heels Gentleman
V Further Concerning the Aforesaid Gentleman, One Anthony
VI Describes Certain Lively Happenings at the "Jolly Waggoner" Inn
VII White Magic
VIII I Am Left Forlorn
IX Describes the Woes of Galloping Jerry, a Notorious Highwayman
X The Philosophy of the Same
XI Which Proves Beyond All Argument That Clothes Make the Man
XII The Price of a Goddess
XIII Which Tells Somewhat of My Deplorable Situation
XIV In Which I Satisfy Myself of My Cowardice
XV Proving That a Goddess Is Wholly Feminine
XVI In Which I Begin to Appreciate the Virtues of the Chaste Goddess
XVII How We Set Out for Tonbridge
XVIII Concerning the Grammar of a Goddess
XIX How and Why I Fought with One Gabbing Dick, a Peddler
XX Of the Tongue of a Woman and the Feet of a Goddess
XXI In Which I Learned That I Am Less of a Coward Than I Had Supposed
XXII Describing the Hospitality of One Jerry Jarvis, a Tinker
XXIII Discusses the Virtues of the Onion
XXIV How I Met One Jessamy Todd, a Snatcher of Souls
XXV Tells of My Adventures at the Fair
XXVI The Ethics of Prigging
XXVII Juno Versus Diana
XXVIII Exemplifying That Clothes Do Make the Man
XXIX Tells of an Ominous Meeting
XXX Of a Truly Memorable Occasion
XXXI A Vereker's Advice to a Vereker
XXXII How I Made a Surprising Discovery, Which, However, May Not
Surprise the Reader in the Least
XXXIII Of Two Incomparable Things. The Voice of Diana and Jessamy's
"Right"
XXXIV The Noble Art of Organ-Playing
XXXV Of a Shadow in the Sun
XXXVI Tells How I Met Anthony Again
XXXVII A Disquisition on True Love
XXXVIII A Crucifixion
XXXIX How I Came Home Again
TO THE READER
BOOK II--SHADOW
I The Incidents of an Early Morning Walk
II Introducing Jasper Shrig, a Bow Street Runner
III Concerning a Black Postchaise
IV Of a Scarabaeus Ring and a Gossamer Veil
V Storm and Tempest
VI I Am Haunted of Evil Dreams
VII Concerning the Song of a Blackbird at Evening
VIII The Deeps of Hell
IX Concerning the Opening of a Door
X Tells How a Mystery Was Resolved
XI Which Shows That My Uncle Jervas Was Right, After All
XII Tells How I Went Upon an Expedition with Mr. Shrig
TO MY PATIENT AND KINDLY READER
BOOK III--DAWN
I Concerning One Tom Martin, an Ostler
II I Go to Find Diana
III Tells How I Found Diana and Sooner Than I Deserved
IV I Wait for a Confession
V In Which We Meet Old Friends
VI Which, as the Patient Reader Sees, Is the Last
ANTE SCRIPTUM
This is the tale of Diana, the Gipsy, the Goddess, the Woman, one in
all and all in one and that one so wonderful, so elusive, so utterly
feminine that I, being but a man and no great student in the Sex, may,
in striving to set her before you in cold words, distort this dear
image out of all semblance and true proportion.
Here and now I would begin this book by telling of Diana as I remember
her, a young dryad vivid with life, treading the leafy ways, grey eyes
a-dream, kissed by sun and wind, filling the woodland with the glory
of her singing, out-carolling the birds.
I would fain show her to you in her swift angers and ineffable
tenderness, in her lofty pride and sweet humility, passionate with
life yet boldly virginal, fronting evil scornful and undismayed, with
eyes glittering bright as her "little _churi_" yet yielding
herself a willing sacrifice and meekly enduring for Friendship's sake.
With her should this book properly commence; but because I doubt my
pen (more especially at this so early stage) I will begin not with
Diana but with my aunt Julia, my uncle Jervas, my uncle George and my
painfully conscious self, trusting that, as this narrative progresses,
my halting pen may grow more assured and my lack of art be atoned for
by sincerity. For if any writer or historian were sincere then most
truly that am I.
Therefore I set forth upon this relation humbly aware of my failings,
yet trusting those who read will not fall asleep over my first
ineffectual chapter nor throw the book aside after my second, but with
kind and tolerant patience will bear with me and read bravely on
until, being more at my ease, I venture to tell of Diana's wonderful
self.
And when they shall come to the final chapter of this history (if they
ever do) may they be merciful in their judgment of their humble
author, that is to say this same poor, ineffectual, unheroical person
who now subscribes himself
PEREGRINE VEREKER.
Book One
THE SILENT PLACES
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCING MYSELF
"Nineteen to-day, is he!" said my uncle Jervas, viewing me languidly
through his quizzing-glass. "How confoundedly the years flit!
Nineteen--and on me soul, our poor youth looks as if he hadn't a
single gentlemanly vice to bless himself with!"
"Not one, Jervas, my boy," quoth my uncle George, shaking his comely
head at me. "Not one, begad, and that's the dooce of it! It seems he
don't swear, he don't drink, he don't gamble, he don't make love, he
don't even--"
"Don't, George," exclaimed my aunt Julia in her sternest tone, her
handsome face flushed, her stately back very rigid.
"Don't what, Julia?"
"Fill our nephew's mind with your own base masculine ideas--I forbid."
"But damme--no, Julia, no--I mean, bless us! What's to become of a
man--what's a man to do who don't--"
"Cease, George!"
"But he's almost a man, ain't he?"
"Certainly not; Peregrine is--my nephew--"
"And ours, Julia. We are his legal guardians besides--"
"And set him in my care until he comes of age!" retorted my aunt
defiantly.
"And there, happy youth, is his misfortune!" sighed my uncle Jervas.
"Misfortune?" echoed my aunt in whisper so awful that I, for one,
nearly trembled. "Misfortune!" she repeated. "Hush! Silence! Not a
word! I must think this over! Misfortune!"
In the dreadful pause ensuing, I glanced half-furtively from one to
other of my three guardians; at my uncle Jervas, lounging gracefully
in his chair, an exquisite work of art from glossy curls to polished
Hessians; at my uncle George, standing broad back to the mantel, a
graceful, stalwart figure in tight-fitting riding-coat, buckskins and
spurred boots; at my wonderful aunt, her dark and statuesque beauty as
she sat, her noble form posed like an offended Juno, dimpled chin on
dimpled fist, dark brows bent above long-lashed eyes, ruddy lips
close-set and arched foot tapping softly beneath the folds of her
ample robe.
"His misfortune!" she repeated for the fourth time, softly and as to
herself. "And ever have I striven to be to him the tender mother he
never knew, to stand in place of the father he never saw!"
"I'm sure of it, Julia!" said my uncle George, fidgeting with his
stock.
"His misfortune! And I have watched over him with care unfailing--"
"Er--of course, yes--not a doubt of it, Julia," said uncle George,
fiddling with a coat button.
"His upbringing has been the passion of my life--"
"I'm sure of it, Julia, your sweet and--er--womanly nature--"
"George, have the goodness not to interrupt!" sighed my aunt, with a
little gesture of her hand. "I have furthermore kept him segregated
from all that could in any way vitiate or vulgarise; he has had the
ablest tutors and been my constant companion, and to-day--I am
told--all this is but his misfortune. Now and therefore. Sir Jervas
Vereker, pray explain yourself."
"Briefly and with joy, m'dear Julia," answered my uncle Jervas,
smiling sleepily into my aunt's fierce black eyes. "I simply mean that
your meticulous care of our nephew has turned what should have been an
ordinary and humanly promising, raucous and impish hobbledehoy into a
very precise, something superior, charmingly prim and modest, ladylike
young fellow--"
"Ladyli--!" My stately aunt came as near gasping as was possible in
such a woman, then her stately form grew more rigidly statuesque, her
mouth and chin took on that indomitable look I knew so well, and she
swept the speaker with the blasting fire of her fine black eyes. "Sir
Jervas Vereker!" she exclaimed at last, and in tones of such chilling
haughtiness that I, for one, felt very like shivering. There fell
another awful silence, aunt Julia sitting very upright, hands clenched
on the arms of her chair, dark brows bent against my uncle Jervas, who
met her withering glance with all his wonted impassivity, while my
uncle George, square face slightly flushed, glanced half-furtively
from one to the other and clicked nervous heels together so that his
spurs jingled.
"George!" exclaimed my aunt suddenly. "In heaven's name, cease
rattling your spurs as if you were in your native stables."
"Certainly, m'dear Julia!" he mumbled, and stood motionless and
abashed.
"'Pon me life, Julia," sighed my uncle Jervas, "I swear the years but
lend you new graces; time makes you but the handsomer--"
"Begad, but that's the very naked truth, Julia!" cried uncle George.
"You grow handsomer than ever."
"Tush!" exclaimed my aunt, yet her long lashes drooped suddenly.
"Your hair is--" said uncle Jervas.
"Wonderful!" quoth uncle George. "Always was, begad!"
"Tchah!" exclaimed my aunt.
"Your hair is as silky," pursued my uncle Jervas, "as abundant and as
black as--"
"As night!" added uncle George.
"A fiddlestick!" exclaimed my aunt.
"A raven's wing!" pursued my uncle Jervas. "Time hath not changed the
wonder of it--"
"Phoh!" exclaimed my aunt.
"Devil a white hair to be seen, Julia!" added uncle George.
"While as for myself, Julia," sighed my uncle Jervas, "my fellow
discovered no fewer than four white hairs above my right ear this
morning, alas! And look at poor George--as infernally grey as a
badger."
"I think," said my aunt, leaning back in her chair, "I think we were
discussing my nephew Peregrine--"
"Our mutual ward--precisely, Julia."
"Aye," quoth uncle George, "we are legal guardians of the lad and--"
"Fie, George!" cried aunt Julia. "A vulgar word, an unseemly word!"
"Eh? Word, Julia? What word?"
"'Lad'!" exclaimed my aunt, frowning. "A most obnoxious word,
applicable only to beings with pitchforks and persons in sleeved
waistcoats who chew straws and attend to horses. Lads pertain only to
your world! Peregrine never was, will, or could be such a thing!"
"Good God!" exclaimed my uncle George feebly, and groped for his
short, crisp-curling whisker with fumbling fingers.
"Peregrine never was, will, or could be such a thing!" repeated my
aunt in a tone of finality.
"Then what the dev--"
"George!"
"I should say then--pray, Julia, what the--hum--ha--is he?"
"Being my nephew, he is a young gentleman, of course!"
"Ha!" quoth my uncle George.
"Hum!" sighed my uncle Jervas. "A gentleman is usually a better man
for having been a lad! As to our nephew--"
"Pray, Jervas," said aunt Julia, lifting white imperious hand, "suffer
me one word, at least; in justice to myself I can sit mute no
longer--"
"Mute?" exclaimed uncle George, grasping whisker again. "Mute, were
you, Julia; oh, begad, why then--"
"George--silence--I plead!" said my aunt, and folding her white hands
demurely on her knee gazed down at them wistfully beneath drooping
lashes.
"Proceed, Julia," quoth my uncle Jervas, "your voice is music to my
soul--"
"Mine too!" added uncle George, "mine too, dooce take me if 't isn't!"
MY AUNT (her voice soft and plaintively sad). For nineteen happy years
I have devoted myself to caring for my nephew Peregrine, body and
mind. My every thought has been of him or for him, my love has been
his shield against discomforts, bodily ailments and ills of the mind--
MY UNCLE JERVAS. And precisely there, Julia, lies his happy
misfortune. You have thought for him so effectively he has had small
scope to think for himself; cared for him so sedulously that he shall
hardly know how to take care of himself; sheltered him so rigorously
that, once removed from the sphere of your strong personality, he
would be pitifully lost and helpless. In short, he is suffering of a
surfeit of love, determined tenderness and pertinacious care--in a
word, Julia, he is over-Juliaized!
MY UNCLE GEORGE (a little diffidently, and jingling his spurs). B'gad,
and there ye have it, sweet soul--d'ye see--
MY AUNT (smiting him speechless with flashing eye). I--am--not your
sweet soul. And as for poor dear Peregrine--
MY UNCLE JERVAS. The poor youth is become altogether too
preternaturally dignified, too confounded sober, solemn and sedate for
this mundane sphere; he needs more--
UNCLE GEORGE. Brimstone and the devil!
MY AUNT (freezingly). George Vereker!
UNCLE JERVAS. Wholesome ungentleness.
UNCLE GEORGE (hazarding the suggestion). An occasional black
eye--bloody nose, d'ye see, Julia, healthy bruise or so--
MY AUNT. Mr. Vereker!
UNCLE GEORGE (groping for whisker). What I mean to say is, Julia,
a--ha--hum! (Subsides.)
UNCLE JERVAS. George is exactly right, Julia. Our nephew is well
enough in many ways, I'll admit, but corporeally he is no Vereker; he
fills the eye but meanly--
MY AUNT (in tones of icy gloom). Sir Jervas--explain!
UNCLE JERVAS. Well, my dear Julia, scan him, I beg; regard him with an
observant eye, the eye not of a doting woman but a dispassionate
critic--examine him!
(Here I sank lower in my great chair.)
MY AUNT. If Peregrine is not so--large as your robust self or so burly
as--monstrous George, am I to blame?
MY UNCLE JERVAS. The adjective robust as applied to myself is, I
think, a trifle misplaced. I suggest the word "elegant" instead.
MY AUNT (patient and sighful). What have you to remark, George
Vereker?
UNCLE GEORGE (measuring me with knowing eye). I should say he would
strip devilish--I mean--uncommonly light--
MY AUNT (in murmurous horror). Strip? An odious suggestion! Only
ostlers, pugilists, and such as yourself, George, would stoop to do
such a thing! Oh, monstrous!
UNCLE GEORGE (pathetically). No, no, Julia m'dear, you mistake; to
"strip" is a term o' the "fancy"--milling, d'ye see--fibbing is a
very gentlemanly art, assure you; I went three rounds with the
"Camberwell Chicken" before I--
My AUNT (scornfully). Have done with your chickens, sir--
UNCLE GEORGE (ruefully). B'gad, he nearly did for me--naked mauleys,
you'll understand. In--
MY AUNT (covers ears). Horrors! this ribaldry, George Vereker!
UNCLE GEORGE. O Lord! (Sinks into chair and gloomy silence.)
MY UNCLE JERVAS (rising gracefully, taking aunt Julia's indignant
hands and kissing them gallantly). George is perfectly right, dear
soul. Our Peregrine requires a naked mauley (clenches Aunt Julia's
white hand into a fist)--something like this, only bigger and
harder--applied to his torso--
UNCLE GEORGE. Of course, above the belt, you'll understand, Julia! Now
the Camberwell Chicken--
MY UNCLE JERVAS. Applied, I say, with sufficient force to awake him to
the stern--shall we say the harsh realities of life.
AUNT JULIA. Life can be real without sordid brutality.
UNCLE JERVAS. Not unless one is blind and deaf, or runs away and hides
from his fellows like a coward; for brutality, alas, is a very human
attribute and slumbers more or less in each one of us, let us deny it
how we will.
UNCLE GEORGE. True enough, Jervas, and as you'll remember when I
fought the "Camberwell Chicken," my right ogle being closed and claret
flowing pretty freely, the crowd afraid of their money--
MY AUNT (coldly determined). Enough! My nephew shall never experience
such horrors or consort with such brutish ruffians.
UNCLE GEORGE. Then he'll never be a man, Julia.
MY AUNT. Nature made him that. I intend him for a poet.
Here my uncle George rose up, sat down and rose again, striving for
speech, while uncle Jervas smiled and dangled his eyeglass.
MY UNCLE GEORGE (breathing heavily). That's done it, Jervas, that's
one in the wind. A poet! Poor, poor lad.
MY AUNT (triumphantly). He has written some charming sonnets, and an
ode to a throstle that has been much admired.
UNCLE GEORGE (faintly). Ode! B'gad! Throstle!
MY UNCLE JERVAS. He trifles with paints and brushes, too, I believe?
MY AUNT. Charmingly! He may dazzle the world with a noble picture yet;
who knows?
MY UNCLE JERVAS. Oh, my dear Julia, who indeed! He has a pronounced
aversion for most manly sports, I believe: horses, for instance--
MY AUNT. He rides with me occasionally, but as for your inhuman
hunting and racing--certainly not!
UNCLE GEORGE. And before we were his age, I had broken my collarbone
and you had won the county steeplechase from me by a head, Jervas. Ha,
that was a race, lad, never enjoyed anything more unless it was when
the "Camberwell Chicken" went down and couldn't come up to time and
the crowd--
AUNT JULIA. You were both so terribly wild and reckless!
UNCLE JERVAS. No, my sweet woman, just ordinary healthy young animals.
AUNT JULIA. My nephew is a young gentleman.
UNCLE GEORGE. Ha!
UNCLE JERVAS. H'm! A gentleman should know how to use his fists--there
is Sir Peter Vibart, for instance.
UNCLE GEORGE. And to shoot straight, Julia.
UNCLE JERVAS. And comport himself in the society of the Sex. Yet you
keep Peregrine as secluded as a young nun.
MY AUNT. He prefers solitude. Love will come later.
UNCLE JERVAS. Most unnatural! Before I was Peregrine's age I had been
head over ears in and out of love with at least--
MY AUNT. Reprobate!
UNCLE GEORGE. So had I, Julia. There was Mary--or was it Ann--at least
if it wasn't Ann it was Betty or Bessie; anyhow, I know she was--
AUNT JULIA. Rake!
UNCLE JERVAS. Remember, we were very young and had never been
privileged to behold the Lady Julia Conroy--
UNCLE GEORGE. Begad, Julia--and there y'have it!
MY AUNT. We were discussing my nephew, I think!
MY UNCLE JERVAS. True, Julia, and I was about to remark that since you
refuse to send him up to Oxford or Cambridge, the only chance I see
for him is to quit your apron strings and go out into the world to
find his manhood if he can.
My aunt turned upon the speaker, handsome head upflung, but, ere she
could speak, the grandfather clock in the corner rang the hour in its
mellow chime. Thereupon my aunt rose to her stately height and reached
out to me her slender, imperious hand.
"Peregrine, it is ten o'clock. Good night, dear boy!" said she and
kissed me. Thereafter, having kissed the hand that clasped mine, I
bowed to my two uncles and went dutifully to bed.
CHAPTER II
TELLS HOW AND WHY I SET FORTH UPON THE QUEST IN QUESTION
"Ladylike!" said I to myself, leaning forth from my chamber window
into a fragrant summer night radiant with an orbed moon. But for once
I was heedless of the ethereal beauty of the scene before me and felt
none of that poetic rapture that would otherwise undoubtedly have
inspired me, since my vision was turned inwards rather than out and my
customary serenity hatefully disturbed.
"Ladylike!"
Thus, all unregarding, I breathed the incense of flowery perfumes and
stared blindly upon the moon's splendour, pondering this hateful word
in its application to myself. And gradually, having regard to the
manifest injustice and bad taste of the term, conscious of the affront
it implied, I grew warm with a righteous indignation that magnified
itself into a furious anger against my two uncles.
"Damn them! Damn them both!" exclaimed I and, in that moment, caught
my breath, shocked, amazed, and not a little ashamed at this outburst,
an exhibition so extremely foreign to my usually placid nature.
'To swear is a painful exhibition of vulgarity, and passion
uncontrolled lessens one's dignity and is a sign of weakness.'
Remembering this, one of my wonderful aunt's incontrovertible maxims,
I grew abashed (as I say) by reason of this my deplorable lapse. And
yet:
"'Ladylike!'"
I repeated the opprobrious epithet for the third time and scowled up
at the placid moon.
And this, merely because I had a shrinking horror of all brutal and
sordid things, a detestation for anything smacking of vulgarity or bad
taste. To me, the subtle beauty of line or colour, the singing music
of a phrase, were of more account than the reek of stables or the
whooping clamour and excitement of the hunting-field, my joys being
rather raptures of the soul than the more material pleasures of the
flesh.
"And was it," I asked myself, "was it essential to exchange buffets
with a 'Camberwell Chicken,' to shoot and be shot at, to spur sweating
and unwilling horses over dangerous fences--were such things truly
necessary to prove one's manhood? Assuredly not! And yet--'Ladylike!'"
Moved by a sudden impulse I turned from the lattice to the elegant
luxuriousness of my bedchamber, its soft carpets, rich hangings and
exquisite harmonies of colour; and coming before the cheval mirror I
stood to view and examine myself as I had never done hitherto,
surveying my reflection not with the accustomed eyes of Peregrine
Vereker, but rather with the coldly appraising eyes of a stranger, and
beheld this:
A youthful, slender person of no great stature, clothed in garments
elegantly unostentatious.
His face grave and of a saturnine cast--but the features fairly
regular.
His complexion sallow--but clear and without blemish.
His hair rather too long--but dark and crisp-curled.
His brow a little too prominent--but high and broad.
His eyes dark and soft--but well-opened and direct.
His nose a little too short to please me--but otherwise well-shaped.
His mouth too tender in its curves--but the lips close and firm.
His chin too smoothly rounded, at a glance--but when set, looks
determined enough.
His whole aspect not altogether unpleasing, though I yearned mightily
to see him a few inches taller.
Thus then I took dispassionate regard to, and here as dispassionately
set down, my outer being; as to my inner, that shall appear, I hope,
as this history progresses.
I was yet engaged on this most critical examination of my person when
I was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the flagged terrace
beneath my open window and the voices of my two uncles as they passed
slowly to and fro, each word of their conversation very plain to hear
upon the warm, still air. Honour should have compelled me to close my
ears or the lattice; had I done so, how different might this history
have been, how utterly different my career. As it was, attracted by
the sound of my own name, I turned from contemplation of my person
and, coming to the window, leaned out again.
"Poor Peregrine," said my uncle George for the second time.
"Why the pity, George? Curse and confound it, wherefore the pity? Our
youth is a perfect ass, an infernal young fish, a puppy-dog--pah!"
"Aye, but," quoth my uncle George (and I could distinguish the faint
jingle of his spurs), "we roasted him devilishly to-night between us,
Jervas, and never a word out o' the lad--"
"Egad, Julia did the talking for him--"
"Ha, yes--dooce take me, she did so!" exclaimed uncle George. "What an
amazingly magnificent creature she is--"
"And did ye mark our youth's cool insolence, his disdainful airs--the
cock of his supercilious nose--curst young puppy!"
"Most glorious eyes in Christendom," continued my uncle George,
"always make me feel so dooced--er--so curst humble--no, humble's not
quite the word; what I do mean is--"
"Fatuous, George?" suggested Uncle Jervas a trifle impatiently.
"Unworthy--yes, unworthy and er--altogether dooced, d'ye see--her
whole life one of exemplary self-sacrifice and so forth, d'ye see,
Jervas--"
"Exactly, George! Julia will never marry, we know, while she has this
precious youth to pet and pamper and cherish--"
"Instead of us, Jervas!"
"Us? George, don't be a fool! She couldn't wed us both, man!"
"Why, no!" sighed uncle George. "She'd ha' to be content wi' one of
us, to be sure, and that one would be--"
"Myself, George!"
"Aye!" quoth uncle George, sighing more gustily than ever. "Begad, I
think it would, Jervas."
"Though, mark me, George, I have sometimes thought she has the
preposterous lack of judgment to prefer you."
"No--did you though!" exclaimed my uncle George, spurs jingling again.
"B'gad, and did you though--dooce take me!"
"Aye, George, I did, but only very occasionally. Of course, were she
free of this incubus Peregrine, free to live for her own happiness
instead of his, I should have her wedded and wifed while you were
thinking about it."
"Aye," sighed my uncle George, "you were always such an infernal
dasher--"
"As it is, the boy will grow into a priggish, self-satisfied
do-nothing, and she into an adoring, solitary old woman--"
"Julia! An old woman! Good God! Hush, Jervas--it sounds dooced
indecent!"
"But true, George, devilish true! Here's Julia must grow into a
crotchety old female, myself into a solitary, embittered recluse, and
you into a lonely, doddering old curmudgeon--and all for sake of this
damned lad--"
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19 |
20 |
21 |
22 |
23 |
24 |
25 |
26 |
27 |
28 |
29