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Rodmoor is, unusually for a John Cowper Powys novel, set in East Anglia, Rodmoor itself being a coastal village. The protagonist, Adrian Sorio, is a typically Powys-like hero, highly-strung with only precarious mental stability. He is in love with two women - Nance Herrick and the more unconventional Phillipa Renshaw. This was Powys second novel, published in 1916. It deploys a rich and memorable cast of characters.
excited in her, Nance was full of a thrilling and inexpressible happiness during these Autumn days. She loved the roar of the great wind—the northwest wind—in chimneys and house-tops at night. She loved the drifting of the dead leaves along the muddy roads. She loved the long swishing murmur of the rushes growing by the dyke paths as they bent their feathery heads over the wet banks or bowed in melancholy rhythm across the rain-filled ditches. Autumn was assuredly and without doubt the
the windows of the sisters’ room. Linda had done her best to forget her own trouble and to offer what she could of consolation and hope to Nance. It was nearly three o’clock before the unhappy girl found forgetfulness in sleep, and now with the first gleam of light she was awake again. The worst she could have anticipated was what had happened. Adrian had been taken away—not recognizing any one—to that very Asylum at Mundham which they had glanced at together with such ominous forebodings. She
of them will please you.” “But—Fingal—” the girl protested, lifting her head from Pope’s Rape of the Lock illustrated by Aubrey Beardsley—“what are you going to do? I feel as if you were preparing me for a voyage. I’d sooner talk to you than look at any books.” “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, throwing at her a nervous and rather harassed look, “I must wash my hands.” He hurried precipitously from the room and Nance, lifting her eyebrows and shrugging her shoulders, returned to the
This latter change was obviously produced by vigorous rubbing, not by the application of any cosmetic. He drew a chair close to her side and ignored with infinite kindness the fact that his pile of books lay untouched where he had placed them. “Your neck is just like a column of white marble,” he said. “Are your arms the same—I mean are they as white—under this?” Very gently and using his hands as if they belonged to someone else, he began rolling up the sleeve of her summer frock. Nance was
water, and in the face of this wind. O! I became Miss Doorm’s accomplice, Nance! You may be perfectly happy. I made up my mind that very moment that I would write at once to Baltazar and accept his invitation. Indeed I did write to him, the minute I could hear no more talking. I was too excited to write much. I just wrote: ‘Amico mio:—I will come to you very soon.’ and when I’d finished the letter I went straight out and posted it. I believe I heard Linda crying as I went downstairs, but, as I