Explore "The Garden of Resurrection" by E. Temple Thurston on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
For a little while that afternoon I watched Cruikshank bedding out his stocks. He has evidently been warned to be very careful what he says about my going. I gather that from the fact that he leaves the subject severely alone. It shows a discretion on his part which, while it may be the better part of valor, has an irritating way of defeating its own ends. I can imagine all they have been saying about Clarissa and myself, while Cruikshank, hiding his head under the sand of silence, is patting himself on the back in the belief that I cannot see all he knows.
It was thinking of this hidden head of his that made me ask him did his back not ache over the labors of a garden.