For in this house where time had ceased they talked incessantly of
time. But it was always _his_ time; the time for his early morning
cup of tea; the time for his medicine; the time for his breakfast;
the time for reading his chapter to him while he dozed; the time for
washing him, for dressing him, for taking him out (he went out now,
in a wheel-chair drawn by Peacock's pony); the time for his medicine
again; his dinner time; the time for his afternoon sleep; his
tea-time; the time for his last dose of medicine; his supper time and
his time for being undressed and put to bed. And there were several
times during the night which were his times also.
The Vicar had desired supremacy in his Vicarage and he was at last
supreme. He was supreme over his daughter Gwenda. The stubborn,
intractable creature was at his feet. She was his to bend or break
or utterly destroy. She who was capable of anything was capable of an
indestructible devotion. His times, the relentless, the monotonously
recurring, were her times too.
If it had not been for Steven Rowcliffe she would have had none to
call her own (except night time, when the Vicar slept). But Rowcliffe
had kept to his days for visiting the Vicarage. He came twice or
thrice a week; not counting Wednesdays. Only, though Mary did not know
it, he came as often as not in the evenings at dusk, just after the
Vicar had been put to bed. When it was wet he sat in the dining-room
with Gwenda.
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