The Woman in White (Penguin Classics)
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The Woman in White famously opens with Walter Hartright's eerie encounter on a moonlit London road. Engaged as a drawing master to the beautiful Laura Fairlie, Walter is drawn into the sinister intrigues of Sir Percival Glyde and his "charming" friend Count Fosco, who has a taste for white mice, vanilla bonbons and poison.
Pursuing questions of identity and insanity along the paths and corridors of English country houses and the madhouse, The Woman in White is the first and most influential of the Victorian genre that combined Gothic horror with psychological realism.
For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. With more than 1,700 titles, Penguin Classics represents a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.
gives himself the trouble when he has got you to drive for him. Is he going to fatigue that nice, shining, pretty horse by taking him very far, to-day?’ ‘I don’t know, sir,’ answered the man. ‘The horse is a mare, if you please, sir. She’s the highest-couraged thing we’ve got in the stables. Her name’s Brown Molly, sir; and she’ll go till she drops. Sir Percival usually takes Isaac of York 13 for the short distances.’ ‘And your shining courageous Brown Molly for the long?’ ‘Yes, sir.’
dressed?’ ‘She had a neat, pretty white gown on, and over it a poor worn thin dark shawl. Her bonnet was of brown straw, as poor and worn as the shawl. I was struck by the difference between her gown and the rest of her dress, and she saw that I noticed it. “Don’t look at my bonnet and shawl,” she said, speaking in a quick, breathless, sudden way; “if I mustn’t wear white, I don’t care what I wear. Look at my gown, as much as you please; I’m not ashamed of that.” Very strange, was it not? Before
shop. The clergyman’s Wednesday evening Lectures on Justification by Faith are publishing there by subscription—I’ m down on the list. The doctor’s wife only put a shilling in the plate at our last charity sermon—I put half a crown. Mr. Churchwarden Soward held the plate, and bowed to me. Ten years ago he told Pigrum the chemist, I ought to be whipped out of the town, at the cart’s tail. Is your mother alive? Has she got a better Bible on her table than I have got on mine? Does she stand better
explanation that words could convey. On hearing him express himself to this effect, I offered him the original letter which I had kept for his inspection. He thanked me, and declined to look at it; saying that he had seen the copy, and that he was quite willing to leave the original in our hands. The statement itself, on which he immediately entered, was as simply and satisfactory as I had all along anticipated it would be. Mrs. Catherick, he informed us, had, in past years, laid him under some
prevented it, if she had allowed me the smallest chance of doing so. I even waited and watched, now, when the harm was done, for a word from Sir Percival that would give me the opportunity of putting him in the wrong. ‘You have left it to me, Miss Fairlie, to resign you,’ he continued. ‘I am not heartless enough to resign a woman who has just shown herself to be the noblest of her sex.’ He spoke with such warmth and feeling, with such passionate enthusiasm and yet with such perfect delicacy,