 wanted to know
about Mr. Bulstrode's position in Middlemarch.
    After all, however, there was a dull space of time which needed relieving
with bread and cheese and ale, and when he was seated alone with these resources
in the wainscoated parlour, he suddenly slapped his knee, and exclaimed,
»Ladislaw!« That action of memory which he had tried to set going, and had
abandoned in despair, had suddenly completed itself without conscious effort - a
common experience, agreeable as a completed sneeze, even if the name remembered
is of no value. Raffles immediately took out his pocket-book, and wrote down the
name, not because he expected to use it, but merely for the sake of not being at
a loss if he ever did happen to want it. He was not going to tell Bulstrode:
there was no actual good in telling, and to a mind like that of Mr. Raffles
there is always probable good in a secret.
    He was satisfied with his present success, and by three o'clock that day he
had taken up his portmanteau at the turnpike and mounted the coach, relieving
Mr. Bulstrode's eyes of an ugly black spot on the landscape at Stone Court, but
not relieving him of the dread that the black spot might reappear and become
inseparable even from the vision of his hearth.
 

                                    Book VI

                             The Widow and the Wife

                                  Chapter LIV

 »Negli occhi porta la mia donna Amore;
 Per che si fa gentil ciò ch'ella mira:
 Ov'ella passa, ogni uom ver lei si gira,
 E cui saluta fa tremar lo core.
 Sicchè, bassando il viso, tutto smore,
 E d 'ogni suo difetto allor sospira:
 Fuggon dinanzi a lei Superbia ed Ira:
 Aiutatemi, donne, a farle onore.
 Ogni dolcezza, ogni pensiero umile
 Nasce nel core a chi parlar la sente;
 Ond' è beato chi prima la vide.
 Quel ch'ella par quand' un poco sorride,
 Non si può dicer, nè tener a mente,
 Si è nuovo miracolo gentile.«
                                                           Dante: La Vita Nuova.
 
By that delightful morning when the hayricks at Stone Court were scenting the
air quite impartially, as if Mr. Raffles had been a guest worthy of finest
incense, Dorothea had again taken up her abode at Lowick Manor. After three
months Freshitt had become rather oppressive: to sit like a model for Saint
Catherine looking rapturously at Celia's baby would not do for many hours in the
day, and to remain in that momentous babe's presence with persistent disregard
was a course that could not have been tolerated in a
