Fisher,
who had told Mr. Wilkins. Mrs. Fisher thought highly of this story,
and often spoke of it. It was about a cherrywood walking-stick.
Briggs's father had thrust this stick into the ground at that spot, and
said to Domenico's father, who was then the gardener, "Here we will
have an oleander." And Briggs's father left the stick in the ground as
a reminder to Domenico's father, and presently--how long afterwards
nobody remembered--the stick began to sprout, and it was an oleander.
There stood poor Mr. Briggs being told all about it, and
listening to the story he must have known from infancy with patience.
Probably he was thinking of something else. She was afraid he
was. How unfortunate, how extremely unfortunate, the determination
that seized people to get hold of and engulf other people. If only
they could be induced to stand more on their own feet. Why couldn't
Mr. Briggs be more like Lotty, who never wanted anything of anybody,
but was complete in herself and respected other people's completeness?
One loved being with Lotty. With her one was free, and yet befriended.
Mr. Briggs looked so really nice, too. She thought she might like him
if only he wouldn't so excessively like her.
Scrap felt melancholy. Here she was shut up in her bedroom,
which was stuffy from the afternoon sun that had been pouring into it,
instead of out in the cool garden, and all because of Mr.
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