Library / Literature & Fiction

Nona Vincent
by Henry James
- Pages
- about 44
- Category
- Literature & Fiction
- Language
- English
- Reading time
- 49 min at 250 wpm
From the opening
Transcribed from 1893 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org. Proofed by Nina Hall, Mohua Sen, Bridie, Francine
Smith and David.
“I WONDERED whether you wouldn’t read it to me,” said Mrs. Alsager, as
they lingered a little near the fire before he took leave. She looked
down at the fire sideways, drawing her dress away from it and making her
proposal with a shy sincerity that added to her charm. Her charm was
always great for Allan Wayworth, and the whole air of her house, which
was simply a sort of distillation of herself, so soothing, so beguiling
that he always made several false starts before departure. He had spent
some such good hours there, had forgotten, in her warm, golden
drawing-room, so much of the loneliness and so many of the worries of his
life, that it had come to be the immediate answer to his longings, the
cure for his aches, the harbour of refuge from his storms. His
tribulations were not unprecedented, and some of his advantages, if of a
usual kind, were marked in degree, inasmuch as he was very clever for one
so young, and very independent for one so poor. He was eight-and-twenty,
but he had lived a good deal and was full of ambitions and curiosities
and disappointments. The opportunity to talk of some of these in
Grosvenor Place corrected perceptibly the immense inconvenience of
London. This inconvenience took for him principally the line of
insensibility to Allan Wayworth’s literary form. He had a literary form,
or he thought he had, and her intelligent recognition of the circumstance
was the sweetest consolation Mrs. Alsager could have administered. She
was even more literary and more artistic than he, inasmuch as he could
often work off his overflow (this was his occupation, his profession),
while the generous woman, abounding in happy thoughts, but unedited and
unpublished, stood there in the rising tide like the nymph of a fountain
in the plash of the marble basin.
A short sample. Read the whole book
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