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would suit me better—if they didn’t boss me about too
much.’
But his mother had ceased to listen.
‘Just as he was getting on, or might have been getting
on, at his job—a young nuisance—here he goes and ruins
himself for life. What good will he be, do you think, after
THIS?’
‘It may lick him into shape beautifully,’ said Paul.
‘Lick him into shape!—lick what marrow there WAS out
of his bones. A SOLDIER!—a common SOLDIER!—noth-
ing but a body that makes movements when it hears a shout!
It’s a fine thing!’
‘I can’t understand why it upsets you,’ said Paul.
‘No, perhaps you can’t. But I understand”; and she sat
back in her chair, her chin in one hand, holding her elbow
with the other, brimmed up with wrath and chagrin.
‘And shall you go to Derby?’ asked Paul.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s no good.’
‘I’ll see for myself.’
‘And why on earth don’t you let him stop. It’s just what
he wants.’
‘Of course,’ cried the mother, ‘YOU know what he
wants!’
She got ready and went by the first train to Derby, where
she saw her son and the sergeant. It was, however, no good.
When Morel was having his dinner in the evening, she
said suddenly:
‘I’ve had to go to Derby to-day.’
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