It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die--
Emerson you beast, you've got on my bags."
"Hush, dears," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to
remain shocked. "And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly
first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly."
"Mother, do come away," said Lucy. "Oh for goodness' sake, do
come."
"Hullo!" cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.
He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant
and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:
"Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!"
"Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow."
Miss Honeychurch bowed.
That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow
the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had
been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing
benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a
momentary chalice for youth.
Chapter XIII: How Miss Bartlett's Boiler Was So Tiresome
How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she
had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories,
which surely we have a right to assume.
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