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Trying a different Web browser might help. Or, clearing the history of your visits to the site. Please email the diagnostic information above to help pglaf. She was so intent upon these thoughts that she hardly at first took note of a man in a white mackintosh whom she saw riding down the street.

Possibly it was owing to her face being near to the pane that he saw her so quickly, and directed his horse so close to the cottage-front that his hoofs were almost upon the narrow border for plants growing under the wall. It was not till he touched the window with his riding-crop that she observed him. The rain had nearly ceased, and she opened the casement in obedience to his gesture.

I was in a sort of dream. You know the legend, I suppose?

Thomas Hardy

My—somebody was going to tell it me once, but didn't. As for me, I'm a sham one, so it doesn't matter. It is rather dismal. It is that this sound of a non-existent coach can only be heard by one of d'Urberville blood, and it is held to be of ill-omen to the one who hears it. It has to do with a murder, committed by one of the family, centuries ago. One of the family is said to have abducted some beautiful woman, who tried to escape from the coach in which he was carrying her off, and in the struggle he killed her—or she killed him—I forget which.

Such is one version of the tale… I see that your tubs and buckets are packed. Going away, aren't you? Why is it?

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Though we might, perhaps, have stayed as weekly tenants—if it had not been for me. Miserable snobs! May their dirty souls be burnt to cinders! Turned out? We have taken rooms there.


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Mother is so foolish about father's people that she will go there. Now why not come to my garden-house at Trantridge? There are hardly any poultry now, since my mother's death; but there's the house, as you know it, and the garden. It can be whitewashed in a day, and your mother can live there quite comfortably; and I will put the children to a good school.

Really I ought to do something for you! For that nice husband, no doubt. Now look here, Tess, I know what men are, and, bearing in mind the grounds of your separation, I am quite positive he will never make it up with you. Now, though I have been your enemy, I am your friend, even if you won't believe it.


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Come to this cottage of mine. We'll get up a regular colony of fowls, and your mother can attend to them excellently; and the children can go to school. Your views may change—and then—we should be—my mother would be—homeless again. I would guarantee you against such as that in writing, if necessary. Think it over. But d'Urberville persisted; she had seldom seen him so determined; he would not take a negative.

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I shall get the house swept out and whitened to-morrow morning, and fires lit; and it will be dry by the evening, so that you can come straight there. Now mind, I shall expect you. She could not look up at d'Urberville.

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To-morrow I shall expect to hear your mother's goods unloading… Give me your hand on it now—dear, beautiful Tess! With stormy eyes she pulled the stay-bar quickly, and, in doing so, caught his arm between the casement and the stone mullion. Well I shall expect you, or your mother and children at least. But you won't, Tess; I know you; you'll never ask for it—you'll starve first!

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Just at the corner of the street he met the man with the paint-pot, who asked him if he had deserted the brethren. Tess remained where she was a long while, till a sudden rebellious sense of injustice caused the region of her eyes to swell with the rush of hot tears thither. Her husband, Angel Clare himself, had, like others, dealt out hard measure to her; surely he had! She had never before admitted such a thought; but he had surely! Never in her life—she could swear it from the bottom of her soul—had she ever intended to do wrong; yet these hard judgements had come.

Whatever her sins, they were not sins of intention, but of inadvertence, and why should she have been punished so persistently? She passionately seized the first piece of paper that came to hand, and scribbled the following lines: O why have you treated me so monstrously, Angel! I do not deserve it. I have thought it all over carefully, and I can never, never forgive you! You know that I did not intend to wrong you—why have you so wronged me? You are cruel, cruel indeed!

I will try to forget you.