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Wharton, Edith, 1862-1937

"The Custom of the Country"


She looked up with a frown and he gave a deprecating laugh. "Didn't I
knock? Don't look so savage! They told me downstairs you'd got back, and
I just bolted in without thinking."
He had widened and purpled since their first encounter, five years
earlier, but his features had not matured. His face was still the
face of a covetous bullying boy, with a large appetite for primitive
satisfactions and a sturdy belief in his intrinsic right to them. It was
all the more satisfying to Undine's vanity to see his look change at her
tone from command to conciliation, and from conciliation to the entreaty
of a capriciously-treated animal.
"What a ridiculous hour for a visit!" she exclaimed, ignoring his
excuse. "Well, if you disappear like that, without a word--"
"I told my maid to telephone you I was going away."
"You couldn't make time to do it yourself, I suppose?"
"We rushed off suddenly; I'd hardly time to get to the station."
"You rushed off where, may I ask?" Van Degen still lowered down on her.
"Oh didn't I tell you? I've been down staying at Chelles' chateau in
Burgundy." Her face lit up and she raised herself eagerly on her elbow.
"It's the most wonderful old house you ever saw: a real castle, with
towers, and water all round it, and a funny kind of bridge they pull up.
Chelles said he wanted me to see just how they lived at home, and I did;
I saw everything: the tapestries that Louis Quinze gave them, and the
family portraits, and the chapel, where their own priest says mass, and
they sit by themselves in a balcony with crowns all over it.


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