Wilfrid Cumbermede by George MacDonald
page 51 of 638 (07%)
page 51 of 638 (07%)
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'Well, Willie, my dear, you're more to me than the old sword. But I
wouldn't have had it handled with disrespect for all that the place is worth. However, I don't suppose they can--. What made them do it, child? They've not taken it down from the wall?' 'Yes, grannie. I think it was because I was staring at it too much, grannie. Perhaps they were afraid I would take it down and hurt myself with it. But I was only going to ask you about it. Tell me a story about it, grannie.' All my notion was some story, I did not think whether true or false, like one of Nannie's stories. 'That I will, my child--all about it--all about it. Let me see.' Her eyes went wandering a little, and she looked perplexed. 'And they took it from you, did they? Poor child! Poor child!' 'They didn't take it from me, grannie. I never had it in my hands.' 'Wouldn't give it you then? Oh dear! Oh dear!' I began to feel uncomfortable--grannie looked so strange and lost. The old feeling that she ought to be buried because she was dead returned upon me; but I overcame it so far as to be able to say: 'Won't you tell me about it then, grannie? I want so much to hear about the battle.' |
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