Old
Puddifoot, with all sorts of nods, winks and murmurs, alluded to
mysterious medical secrets, and "how much he could tell an' he would," and
that "he had said years ago about Brandon...." Well, never mind what he
had said, but it was all turning out exactly as, for years, he had
expected.
Nothing is stranger (and perhaps more fortunate) than the speed with which
the past is forgotten. Brandon might have been all his days the odd,
muttering, eye-wandering figure that he now appeared. Where was the Viking
now? Where the finest specimen of physical health in all Glebeshire? Where
the King and Crowned Monarch of Polchester?
In the dust and debris of the broken past. "Poor old Archdeacon." "A bit
queer in the upper storey." "Not to be wondered at after all the trouble
he's had." "They break up quickly, those strong-looking men." "Bit too
pleased with himself, he was." "Ah, well, he's served his time; what we
need are more modern men. You can't deny that he was old-fashioned."
People were not altogether to be blamed for this sudden sense that they
were stepping into a new period, out of one room into another, so to
speak.
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