And that wasn't in a novel!" concluded Miss Penkridge
triumphantly. "Novels--Improbability--pooh! Judged by what some people
can tell of life, the novel that's improbable hasn't yet been written!"
"Well!" remarked Viner after a pause, "I dare say you're right, Aunt
Bethia. Only, you see, I haven't come across the things in life that you
read about in novels."
"You may yet," replied Miss Penkridge. "But when anybody says to me of a
novel that it's impossible and far-fetched and so on, I'm always inclined
to remind him of the old adage. For you can take it from me, Richard,
that truth is stranger than fiction, and that life's full of queer
things. Only, as you say, we don't all come across the strange things."
The silvery chime of the clock on the mantelpiece caused Miss Penkridge,
at this point, to bring her work and her words to a summary conclusion.
Hurrying her knitting into the hand-bag which she carried at her belt,
she rose, kissed her nephew and departed bedward; while Viner, after
refilling his pipe, proceeded to carry out another nightly proceeding
which had become a habit. Every night, throughout the year, he always
went for a walk before going to bed.
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