Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (epub e ink reader .TXT) π
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Doctor Thorne is the third book in Trollopeβs βChronicles of Barsetshireβ series, which is set in the fictional county of Barsetshire, somewhere in Englandβs West Country. Unlike the two earlier novels in the series, Doctor Thorne isnβt set in the cathedral city of Barchester, but in the small village of Greshamsbury and the estate of the local squire, Greshamsbury Park.
Doctor Thorne is a middle-aged medical practitioner in Greshamsbury, a friend of the local squire Mr. Gresham, who is deeply in debt because of ill-advised attempts to gain a seat in Parliament. Doctor Thorne not only provides medical advice to the Greshams, but also assists Mr. Gresham in obtaining financial loans from a local self-made entrepreneur, Sir Richard Scratcherd. When Mr. Greshamβs son Frank comes of age, it is impressed on the young man that he must βmarry moneyβ to overcome the debts of the estate.
Doctor Thorne is regarded highly among Trollopeβs works, with one prominent critic, Michael Sadleir, writing in 1927 of βthe sensational perfection of Doctor Thorne.β
A television adaptation of the book was produced by ITV and aired in March 2016, with a script written by Julian Fellowes, the writer of Gosford Park and Downton Abbey
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- Author: Anthony Trollope
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Let me have but one word to say that I am released from my promise, and I will tell my uncle that the matter between us is over. It will be painful for us at first; those occasional meetings which must take place will distress us, but that will wear off. We shall always think well of each other, and why should we not be friends? This, doubtless, cannot be done without inward wounds; but such wounds are in Godβs hands, and He can cure them.
I know what your first feelings will be on reading this letter; but do not answer it in obedience to first feelings. Think over it, think of your father, and all you owe him, of your old name, your old family, and of what the world expects from you. [Mary was forced to put her hand to her eyes, to save her paper from her falling tears, as she found herself thus repeating, nearly word for word, the arguments that had been used by Lady Arabella.] Think of these things, coolly, if you can, but, at any rate, without passion: and then let me have one word in answer. One word will suffice.
I have but to add this: do not allow yourself to think that my heart will ever reproach you. It cannot reproach you for doing that which I myself suggest. [Maryβs logic in this was very false; but she was not herself aware of it.] I will never reproach you either in word or thought; and as for all others, it seems to me that the world agrees that we have hitherto been wrong. The world, I hope, will be satisfied when we have obeyed it.
God bless you, dearest Frank! I shall never call you so again; but it would be a pretence were I to write otherwise in this letter. Think of this, and then let me have one line.
Your affectionate friend,
Mary Thorne.
P.S.β βOf course I cannot be at dear Beatriceβs marriage; but when they come back to the parsonage, I shall see her. I am sure they will both be happy, because they are so good. I need hardly say that I shall think of them on their wedding day.
When she had finished her letter, she addressed it plainly, in her own somewhat bold handwriting, to Francis N. Gresham, Jun., Esq., and then took it herself to the little village post-office. There should be nothing underhand about her correspondence: all the Greshamsbury world should know of itβ βthat world of which she had spoken in her letterβ βif that world so pleased. Having put her penny label on it, she handed it, with an open brow and an unembarrassed face, to the bakerβs wife, who was Her Majestyβs postmistress at Greshamsbury; and, having so finished her work, she returned to see the table prepared for her uncleβs dinner. βI will say nothing to him,β said she to herself, βtill I get the answer. He will not talk to me about it, so why should I trouble him?β
XLIII The Race of Scatcherd Becomes ExtinctIt will not be imagined, at any rate by feminine readers, that Maryβs letter was written off at once, without alterations and changes, or the necessity for a fair copy. Letters from one young lady to another are doubtless written in this manner, and even with them it might sometimes be better if more patience had been taken; but with Maryβs first letter to her loverβ βher first love-letter, if love-letter it can be calledβ βmuch more care was used. It was copied and recopied, and when she returned from posting it, it was read and reread.
βIt is very cold,β she said to herself; βhe will think I have no heart, that I have never loved him!β And then she all but resolved to run down to the bakerβs wife, and get back her letter, that she might alter it. βBut it will be better so,β she said again. βIf I touched his feelings now, he would never bring himself to leave me. It is right that I should be cold to him. I should be false to myself if I tried to move his loveβ βI, who have nothing to give him in return for it.β And so she made no further visit to the post-office, and the letter went on its way.
We will now follow its fortunes for a short while, and explain how it was that Mary received no answer for a week; a week, it may well be imagined, of terrible suspense to her. When she took it to the post-office, she doubtless thought that the bakerβs wife had nothing to do but to send it up to the house at Greshamsbury, and that Frank would receive it that evening, or, at latest, early on the following morning. But this was by no means so. The epistle was posted on a Friday afternoon, and it behoved the bakerβs wife to send it into Silverbridgeβ βSilverbridge being the post-townβ βso that all due formalities, as ordered by the Queenβs Government, might there be perfected. Now, unfortunately, the post-boy had taken his departure before Mary reached the shop, and it was not, therefore, dispatched till Saturday. Sunday was always a dies non with the Greshamsbury Mercury, and, consequently, Frankβs letter was not delivered at the house till Monday morning; at which time Mary had for two long days been waiting with weary heart for the expected answer.
Now Frank had on that morning gone up to London by the early train, with his future brother-in-law, Mr. Oriel. In order to accomplish this, they had left Greshamsbury for Barchester exactly as the post-boy was leaving Silverbridge for Greshamsbury.
βI should like to wait for my letters,β Mr. Oriel had said, when the journey was being discussed.
βNonsense,β Frank had answered. βWho ever got a letter that was worth waiting for?β and so Mary was doomed to a week of
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