["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE\n\nMOREL was rather a heedless man, careless of danger. So he had endless\naccidents. Now, when Mrs. Morel heard the rattle of an empty coal-cart\ncease at her entry-end, she ran into the parlour to look, expecting\nalmost to see her husband seated in the waggon, his face grey under his\ndirt, his body limp and sick with some hurt or other. If it were he, she\nwould run out to help. About a year after William went to London, and just after Paul had left\nschool, before he got work, Mrs. Morel was upstairs and her son was\npainting in the kitchen--he was very clever with his brush--when there\ncame a knock at the door. Crossly he put down his brush to go. At the\nsame moment his mother opened a window upstairs and looked down. A pit-lad in his dirt stood on the threshold. \"Is this Walter Morel's?\" he asked. \"Yes,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"What is it?\" But she had guessed already. \"Your mester's got hurt,\" he said. \"Eh, dear me!\" she exclaimed. \"It's a wonder if he hadn't, lad. And\nwhat's he done this time?\" \"I don't know for sure, but it's 'is leg somewhere. They ta'ein' 'im ter\nth' 'ospital.\" \"Good gracious me!\" she exclaimed. \"Eh, dear, what a one he is! There's\nnot five minutes of peace, I'll be hanged if there is! His thumb's\nnearly better, and now--Did you see him?\" \"I seed him at th' bottom. An' I seed 'em bring 'im up in a tub, an'\n'e wor in a dead faint. But he shouted like anythink when Doctor Fraser\nexamined him i' th' lamp cabin--an' cossed an' swore, an' said as 'e wor\ngoin' to be ta'en whoam--'e worn't goin' ter th' 'ospital.\" The boy faltered to an end. \"He WOULD want to come home, so that I can have all the bother. Thank\nyou, my lad. Eh, dear, if I'm not sick--sick and surfeited, I am!\" She came downstairs. Paul had mechanically resumed his painting. \"And it must be pretty bad if they've taken him to the hospital,\" she\nwent on. \"But what a CARELESS creature he is! OTHER men don't have all\nthese accidents. Yes, he WOULD want to put all the burden on me. Eh,\ndear, just as we WERE getting easy a bit at last. Put those things away,\nthere's no time to be painting now. What time is there a train? I know I\ns'll have to go trailing to Keston. I s'll have to leave that bedroom.\" \"I can finish it,\" said Paul. \"You needn't. I shall catch the seven o'clock back, I should think. Oh,\nmy blessed heart, the fuss and commotion he'll make! And those granite\nsetts at Tinder Hill--he might well call them kidney pebbles--they'll\njolt him almost to bits. I wonder why they can't mend them, the state\nthey're in, an' all the men as go across in that ambulance. You'd think\nthey'd have a hospital here. The men bought the ground, and, my sirs,\nthere'd be accidents enough to keep it going. But no, they must trail\nthem ten miles in a slow ambulance to Nottingham. It's a crying shame! Oh, and the fuss he'll make! I know he will! I wonder who's with him. Barker, I s'd think. Poor beggar, he'll wish himself anywhere rather. But he'll look after him, I know. Now there's no telling how long he'll\nbe stuck in that hospital--and WON'T he hate it! But if it's only his\nleg it's not so bad.\" All the time she was getting ready. Hurriedly taking off her bodice, she\ncrouched at the boiler while the water ran slowly into her lading-can. \"I wish this boiler was at the bottom of the sea!\" she exclaimed,\nwriggling the handle impatiently. She had very handsome, strong arms,\nrather surprising on a smallish woman. Paul cleared away, put on the kettle, and set the table. \"There isn't a train till four-twenty,\" he said. \"You've time enough.\" \"Oh no, I haven't!\" she cried, blinking at him over the towel as she\nwiped her face. \"Yes, you have. You must drink a cup of tea at any rate. Should I come\nwith you to Keston?\" \"Come with me? What for, I should like to know? Now, what have I to take\nhim? Eh, dear! His clean shirt--and it's a blessing it IS clean. But it\nhad better be aired. And stockings--he won't want them--and a towel, I\nsuppose; and handkerchiefs. Now what else?\" \"A comb, a knife and fork and spoon,\" said Paul. His father had been in\nthe hospital before. \"Goodness knows what sort of state his feet were in,\" continued Mrs.\nMorel, as she combed her long brown hair, that was fine as silk, and\nwas touched now with grey. \"He's very particular to wash himself to the\nwaist, but below he thinks doesn't matter. But there, I suppose they see\nplenty like it.\" Paul had laid the table. He cut his mother one or two pieces of very\nthin bread and butter. \"Here you are,\" he said, putting her cup of tea in her place. \"I can't be bothered!\" she exclaimed crossly. \"Well, you've got to, so there, now it's put out ready,\" he insisted. So she sat down and sipped her tea, and ate a little, in silence. She\nwas thinking. In a few minutes she was gone, to walk the two and a half miles to\nKeston Station. All the things she was taking him she had in her bulging\nstring bag. Paul watched her go up the road between the hedges--a\nlittle, quick-stepping figure, and his heart ached for her, that she was\nthrust forward again into pain and trouble. And she, tripping so quickly\nin her anxiety, felt at the back of her her son's heart waiting on her,\nfelt him bearing what part of the burden he could, even supporting her. And when she was at the hospital, she thought: \"It WILL upset that lad\nwhen I tell him how bad it is. I'd better be careful.\" And when she was\ntrudging home again, she felt he was coming to share her burden. \"Is it bad?\" asked Paul, as soon as she entered the house. \"It's bad enough,\" she replied. \"What?\" She sighed and sat down, undoing her bonnet-strings. Her son watched her\nface as it was lifted, and her small, work-hardened hands fingering at\nthe bow under her chin. \"Well,\" she answered, \"it's not really dangerous, but the nurse says\nit's a dreadful smash. You see, a great piece of rock fell on his\nleg--here--and it's a compound fracture. There are pieces of bone\nsticking through--\"\n\n\"Ugh--how horrid!\" exclaimed the children. \"And,\" she continued, \"of course he says he's going to die--it wouldn't\nbe him if he didn't. 'I'm done for, my lass!' he said, looking at me. 'Don't be so silly,' I said to him. 'You're not going to die of a broken\nleg, however badly it's smashed.' 'I s'll niver come out of 'ere but in\na wooden box,' he groaned. 'Well,' I said, 'if you want them to carry\nyou into the garden in a wooden box, when you're better, I've no doubt\nthey will.' 'If we think it's good for him,' said the Sister. She's an\nawfully nice Sister, but rather strict.\" Mrs. Morel took off her bonnet. The children waited in silence. \"Of course, he IS bad,\" she continued, \"and he will be. It's a great\nshock, and he's lost a lot of blood; and, of course, it IS a very\ndangerous smash. It's not at all sure that it will mend so easily. And\nthen there's the fever and the mortification--if it took bad ways he'd\nquickly be gone. But there, he's a clean-blooded man, with wonderful\nhealing flesh, and so I see no reason why it SHOULD take bad ways. Of\ncourse there's a wound--\"\n\nShe was pale now with emotion and anxiety. The three children realised\nthat it was very bad for their father, and the house was silent,\nanxious. \"But he always gets better,\" said Paul after a while. \"That's what I tell him,\" said the mother. Everybody moved about in silence.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-03 The user is reading a book]\n<User> \"And he really looked nearly done for,\" she said. \"But the Sister says\nthat is the pain.\" Annie took away her mother's coat and bonnet. \"And he looked at me when I came away! I said: 'I s'll have to go now,\nWalter, because of the train--and the children.' And he looked at me. It\nseems hard.\" Paul took up his brush again and went on painting. Arthur went outside\nfor some coal. Annie sat looking dismal. And Mrs. Morel, in her little\nrocking-chair that her husband had made for her when the first baby was\ncoming, remained motionless, brooding. She was grieved, and bitterly\nsorry for the man who was hurt so much. But still, in her heart of\nhearts, where the love should have burned, there was a blank. Now, when\nall her woman's pity was roused to its full extent, when she would have\nslaved herself to death to nurse him and to save him, when she would\nhave taken the pain herself, if she could, somewhere far away inside\nher, she felt indifferent to him and to his suffering. It hurt her\nmost of all, this failure to love him, even when he roused her strong\nemotions. She brooded a while. \"And there,\" she said suddenly, \"when I'd got halfway to Keston, I found\nI'd come out in my working boots--and LOOK at them.\" They were an old\npair of Paul's, brown and rubbed through at the toes. \"I didn't know\nwhat to do with myself, for shame,\" she added. In the morning, when Annie and Arthur were at school, Mrs. Morel talked\nagain to her son, who was helping her with her housework. \"I found Barker at the hospital. He did look bad, poor little fellow! 'Well,' I said to him, 'what sort of a journey did you have with him?' 'Dunna ax me, missis!' he said. 'Ay,' I said, 'I know what he'd be.' 'But it WOR bad for him, Mrs. Morel, it WOR that!' he said. 'I know,' I\nsaid. 'At ivry jolt I thought my 'eart would ha' flown clean out o' my\nmouth,' he said. 'An' the scream 'e gives sometimes! Missis, not for a\nfortune would I go through wi' it again.' 'I can quite understand it,'\nI said. 'It's a nasty job, though,' he said, 'an' one as'll be a long\nwhile afore it's right again.' 'I'm afraid it will,' I said. I like Mr.\nBarker--I DO like him. There's something so manly about him.\" Paul resumed his task silently. \"And of course,\" Mrs. Morel continued, \"for a man like your father,\nthe hospital IS hard. He CAN'T understand rules and regulations. And he\nwon't let anybody else touch him, not if he can help it. When he smashed\nthe muscles of his thigh, and it had to be dressed four times a day,\nWOULD he let anybody but me or his mother do it? He wouldn't. So, of\ncourse, he'll suffer in there with the nurses. And I didn't like leaving\nhim. I'm sure, when I kissed him an' came away, it seemed a shame.\" So she talked to her son, almost as if she were thinking aloud to him,\nand he took it in as best he could, by sharing her trouble to lighten\nit. And in the end she shared almost everything with him without\nknowing. Morel had a very bad time. For a week he was in a critical condition. Then he began to mend. And then, knowing he was going to get better, the\nwhole family sighed with relief, and proceeded to live happily. They were not badly off whilst Morel was in the hospital. There were\nfourteen shillings a week from the pit, ten shillings from the sick\nclub, and five shillings from the Disability Fund; and then every week\nthe butties had something for Mrs. Morel--five or seven shillings--so\nthat she was quite well to do. And whilst Morel was progressing\nfavourably in the hospital, the family was extraordinarily happy and\npeaceful. On Saturdays and Wednesdays Mrs. Morel went to Nottingham to\nsee her husband. Then she always brought back some little thing: a small\ntube of paints for Paul, or some thick paper; a couple of postcards for\nAnnie, that the whole family rejoiced over for days before the girl was\nallowed to send them away; or a fret-saw for Arthur, or a bit of pretty\nwood. She described her adventures into the big shops with joy. Soon the\nfolk in the picture-shop knew her, and knew about Paul. The girl in\nthe book-shop took a keen interest in her. Mrs. Morel was full of\ninformation when she got home from Nottingham. The three sat round till\nbed-time, listening, putting in, arguing. Then Paul often raked the\nfire. \"I'm the man in the house now,\" he used to say to his mother with joy. They learned how perfectly peaceful the home could be. And they\nalmost regretted--though none of them would have owned to such\ncallousness--that their father was soon coming back. Paul was now fourteen, and was looking for work. He was a rather small\nand rather finely-made boy, with dark brown hair and light blue eyes. His face had already lost its youthful chubbiness, and was becoming\nsomewhat like William's--rough-featured, almost rugged--and it was\nextraordinarily mobile. Usually he looked as if he saw things, was full\nof life, and warm; then his smile, like his mother's, came suddenly and\nwas very lovable; and then, when there was any clog in his soul's quick\nrunning, his face went stupid and ugly. He was the sort of boy that\nbecomes a clown and a lout as soon as he is not understood, or feels\nhimself held cheap; and, again, is adorable at the first touch of\nwarmth. He suffered very much from the first contact with anything. When he was\nseven, the starting school had been a nightmare and a torture to him. But afterwards he liked it. And now that he felt he had to go out into\nlife, he went through agonies of shrinking self-consciousness. He was\nquite a clever painter for a boy of his years, and he knew some French\nand German and mathematics that Mr. Heaton had taught him. But nothing\nhe had was of any commercial value. He was not strong enough for heavy\nmanual work, his mother said. He did not care for making things with his\nhands, preferred racing about, or making excursions into the country, or\nreading, or painting. \"What do you want to be?\" his mother asked. \"Anything.\" \"That is no answer,\" said Mrs. Morel. But it was quite truthfully the only answer he could give. His ambition,\nas far as this world's gear went, was quietly to earn his thirty or\nthirty-five shillings a week somewhere near home, and then, when his\nfather died, have a cottage with his mother, paint and go out as he\nliked, and live happy ever after. That was his programme as far as doing\nthings went. But he was proud within himself, measuring people against\nhimself, and placing them, inexorably. And he thought that PERHAPS he\nmight also make a painter, the real thing. But that he left alone. \"Then,\" said his mother, \"you must look in the paper for the\nadvertisements.\" He looked at her. It seemed to him a bitter humiliation and an anguish\nto go through. But he said nothing. When he got up in the morning, his\nwhole being was knotted up over this one thought:\n\n\"I've got to go and look for advertisements for a job.\" It stood in front of the morning, that thought, killing all joy and even\nlife, for him. His heart felt like a tight knot. And then, at ten o'clock, he set off. He was supposed to be a queer,\nquiet child. Going up the sunny street of the little town, he felt as\nif all the folk he met said to themselves: \"He's going to the Co-op. reading-room to look in the papers for a place. He can't get a job. I\nsuppose he's living on his mother.\" Then he crept up the stone stairs\nbehind the drapery shop at the Co-op., and peeped in the reading-room. Usually one or two men were there, either old, useless fellows, or\ncolliers \"on the club\". So he entered, full of shrinking and suffering\nwhen they looked up, seated himself at the table, and pretended to scan\nthe news. He knew they would think: \"What does a lad of thirteen want in\na reading-room with a newspaper?\" and he suffered. Then he looked wistfully out of the window. Already he was a prisoner\nof industrialism.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-03, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-05 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Large sunflowers stared over the old red wall of the\ngarden opposite, looking in their jolly way down on the women who\nwere hurrying with something for dinner. The valley was full of corn,\nbrightening in the sun. Two collieries, among the fields, waved their\nsmall white plumes of steam. Far off on the hills were the woods of\nAnnesley, dark and fascinating. Already his heart went down. He was\nbeing taken into bondage. His freedom in the beloved home valley was\ngoing now. The brewers' waggons came rolling up from Keston with enormous barrels,\nfour a side, like beans in a burst bean-pod. The waggoner, throned\naloft, rolling massively in his seat, was not so much below Paul's eye. The man's hair, on his small, bullet head, was bleached almost white by\nthe sun, and on his thick red arms, rocking idly on his sack apron, the\nwhite hairs glistened. His red face shone and was almost asleep with\nsunshine. The horses, handsome and brown, went on by themselves, looking\nby far the masters of the show. Paul wished he were stupid. \"I wish,\" he thought to himself, \"I was fat\nlike him, and like a dog in the sun. I wish I was a pig and a brewer's\nwaggoner.\" Then, the room being at last empty, he would hastily copy an\nadvertisement on a scrap of paper, then another, and slip out in immense\nrelief. His mother would scan over his copies. \"Yes,\" she said, \"you may try.\" William had written out a letter of application, couched in admirable\nbusiness language, which Paul copied, with variations. The boy's\nhandwriting was execrable, so that William, who did all things well, got\ninto a fever of impatience. The elder brother was becoming quite swanky. In London he found that he\ncould associate with men far above his Bestwood friends in station. Some\nof the clerks in the office had studied for the law, and were more or\nless going through a kind of apprenticeship. William always made friends\namong men wherever he went, he was so jolly. Therefore he was soon\nvisiting and staying in houses of men who, in Bestwood, would have\nlooked down on the unapproachable bank manager, and would merely have\ncalled indifferently on the Rector. So he began to fancy himself as a\ngreat gun. He was, indeed, rather surprised at the ease with which he\nbecame a gentleman. His mother was glad, he seemed so pleased. And his lodging in\nWalthamstow was so dreary. But now there seemed to come a kind of fever\ninto the young man's letters. He was unsettled by all the change, he did\nnot stand firm on his own feet, but seemed to spin rather giddily on the\nquick current of the new life. His mother was anxious for him. She could\nfeel him losing himself. He had danced and gone to the theatre, boated\non the river, been out with friends; and she knew he sat up afterwards\nin his cold bedroom grinding away at Latin, because he intended to get\non in his office, and in the law as much as he could. He never sent his\nmother any money now. It was all taken, the little he had, for his own\nlife. And she did not want any, except sometimes, when she was in a\ntight corner, and when ten shillings would have saved her much worry. She still dreamed of William, and of what he would do, with herself\nbehind him. Never for a minute would she admit to herself how heavy and\nanxious her heart was because of him. Also he talked a good deal now of a girl he had met at a dance, a\nhandsome brunette, quite young, and a lady, after whom the men were\nrunning thick and fast. \"I wonder if you would run, my boy,\" his mother wrote to him, \"unless\nyou saw all the other men chasing her too. You feel safe enough and vain\nenough in a crowd. But take care, and see how you feel when you find\nyourself alone, and in triumph.\" William resented these things, and\ncontinued the chase. He had taken the girl on the river. \"If you saw\nher, mother, you would know how I feel. Tall and elegant, with the\nclearest of clear, transparent olive complexions, hair as black as jet,\nand such grey eyes--bright, mocking, like lights on water at night. It\nis all very well to be a bit satirical till you see her. And she dresses\nas well as any woman in London. I tell you, your son doesn't half put\nhis head up when she goes walking down Piccadilly with him.\" Mrs. Morel wondered, in her heart, if her son did not go walking down\nPiccadilly with an elegant figure and fine clothes, rather than with\na woman who was near to him. But she congratulated him in her doubtful\nfashion. And, as she stood over the washing-tub, the mother brooded over\nher son. She saw him saddled with an elegant and expensive wife, earning\nlittle money, dragging along and getting draggled in some small, ugly\nhouse in a suburb. \"But there,\" she told herself, \"I am very likely\na silly--meeting trouble halfway.\" Nevertheless, the load of anxiety\nscarcely ever left her heart, lest William should do the wrong thing by\nhimself. Presently, Paul was bidden call upon Thomas Jordan, Manufacturer of\nSurgical Appliances, at 21, Spaniel Row, Nottingham. Mrs. Morel was all\njoy. \"There, you see!\" she cried, her eyes shining. \"You've only written four\nletters, and the third is answered. You're lucky, my boy, as I always\nsaid you were.\" Paul looked at the picture of a wooden leg, adorned with elastic\nstockings and other appliances, that figured on Mr. Jordan's notepaper,\nand he felt alarmed. He had not known that elastic stockings existed. And he seemed to feel the business world, with its regulated system of\nvalues, and its impersonality, and he dreaded it. It seemed monstrous\nalso that a business could be run on wooden legs. Mother and son set off together one Tuesday morning. It was August and\nblazing hot. Paul walked with something screwed up tight inside him. He would have suffered much physical pain rather than this unreasonable\nsuffering at being exposed to strangers, to be accepted or rejected. Yet\nhe chattered away with his mother. He would never have confessed to her\nhow he suffered over these things, and she only partly guessed. She\nwas gay, like a sweetheart. She stood in front of the ticket-office at\nBestwood, and Paul watched her take from her purse the money for the\ntickets. As he saw her hands in their old black kid gloves getting the\nsilver out of the worn purse, his heart contracted with pain of love of\nher. She was quite excited, and quite gay. He suffered because she WOULD talk\naloud in presence of the other travellers. \"Now look at that silly cow!\" she said, \"careering round as if it\nthought it was a circus.\" \"It's most likely a bottfly,\" he said very low. \"A what?\" she asked brightly and unashamed. They thought a while. He was sensible all the time of having her\nopposite him. Suddenly their eyes met, and she smiled to him--a rare,\nintimate smile, beautiful with brightness and love. Then each looked out\nof the window. The sixteen slow miles of railway journey passed. The mother and son\nwalked down Station Street, feeling the excitement of lovers having an\nadventure together. In Carrington Street they stopped to hang over the\nparapet and look at the barges on the canal below. \"It's just like Venice,\" he said, seeing the sunshine on the water that\nlay between high factory walls. \"Perhaps,\" she answered, smiling. They enjoyed the shops immensely. \"Now you see that blouse,\" she would say, \"wouldn't that just suit our\nAnnie? And for one-and-eleven-three. Isn't that cheap?\" \"And made of needlework as well,\" he said. \"Yes.\" They had plenty of time, so they did not hurry. The town was strange\nand delightful to them. But the boy was tied up inside in a knot of\napprehension. He dreaded the interview with Thomas Jordan. It was nearly eleven o'clock by St. Peter's Church. They turned up a\nnarrow street that led to the Castle. It was gloomy and old-fashioned,\nhaving low dark shops and dark green house doors with brass knockers,\nand yellow-ochred doorsteps projecting on to the pavement; then another\nold shop whose small window looked like a cunning, half-shut eye. Mother\nand son went cautiously, looking everywhere for \"Thomas Jordan and\nSon\". It was like hunting in some wild place.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-05, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-07 The user is reading a book]\n<User> They were on tiptoe of\nexcitement. Suddenly they spied a big, dark archway, in which were names of various\nfirms, Thomas Jordan among them. \"Here it is!\" said Mrs. Morel. \"But now WHERE is it?\" They looked round. On one side was a queer, dark, cardboard factory, on\nthe other a Commercial Hotel. \"It's up the entry,\" said Paul. And they ventured under the archway, as into the jaws of the dragon. They emerged into a wide yard, like a well, with buildings all round. It\nwas littered with straw and boxes, and cardboard. The sunshine actually\ncaught one crate whose straw was streaming on to the yard like gold. But\nelsewhere the place was like a pit. There were several doors, and two\nflights of steps. Straight in front, on a dirty glass door at the top of\na staircase, loomed the ominous words \"Thomas Jordan and Son--Surgical\nAppliances.\" Mrs. Morel went first, her son followed her. Charles I\nmounted his scaffold with a lighter heart than had Paul Morel as he\nfollowed his mother up the dirty steps to the dirty door. She pushed open the door, and stood in pleased surprise. In front of her\nwas a big warehouse, with creamy paper parcels everywhere, and clerks,\nwith their shirt-sleeves rolled back, were going about in an at-home\nsort of way. The light was subdued, the glossy cream parcels seemed\nluminous, the counters were of dark brown wood. All was quiet and very\nhomely. Mrs. Morel took two steps forward, then waited. Paul stood\nbehind her. She had on her Sunday bonnet and a black veil; he wore a\nboy's broad white collar and a Norfolk suit. One of the clerks looked up. He was thin and tall, with a small face. His way of looking was alert. Then he glanced round to the other end of\nthe room, where was a glass office. And then he came forward. He did\nnot say anything, but leaned in a gentle, inquiring fashion towards Mrs.\nMorel. \"Can I see Mr. Jordan?\" she asked. \"I'll fetch him,\" answered the young man. He went down to the glass office. A red-faced, white-whiskered old man\nlooked up. He reminded Paul of a pomeranian dog. Then the same little\nman came up the room. He had short legs, was rather stout, and wore\nan alpaca jacket. So, with one ear up, as it were, he came stoutly and\ninquiringly down the room. \"Good-morning!\" he said, hesitating before Mrs. Morel, in doubt as to\nwhether she were a customer or not. \"Good-morning. I came with my son, Paul Morel. You asked him to call\nthis morning.\" \"Come this way,\" said Mr. Jordan, in a rather snappy little manner\nintended to be businesslike. They followed the manufacturer into a grubby little room, upholstered\nin black American leather, glossy with the rubbing of many customers. On the table was a pile of trusses, yellow wash-leather hoops tangled\ntogether. They looked new and living. Paul sniffed the odour of new\nwash-leather. He wondered what the things were. By this time he was so\nmuch stunned that he only noticed the outside things. \"Sit down!\" said Mr. Jordan, irritably pointing Mrs. Morel to a\nhorse-hair chair. She sat on the edge in an uncertain fashion. Then the\nlittle old man fidgeted and found a paper. \"Did you write this letter?\" he snapped, thrusting what Paul recognised\nas his own notepaper in front of him. \"Yes,\" he answered. At that moment he was occupied in two ways: first, in feeling guilty\nfor telling a lie, since William had composed the letter; second, in\nwondering why his letter seemed so strange and different, in the fat,\nred hand of the man, from what it had been when it lay on the kitchen\ntable. It was like part of himself, gone astray. He resented the way the\nman held it. \"Where did you learn to write?\" said the old man crossly. Paul merely looked at him shamedly, and did not answer. \"He IS a bad writer,\" put in Mrs. Morel apologetically. Then she pushed\nup her veil. Paul hated her for not being prouder with this common\nlittle man, and he loved her face clear of the veil. \"And you say you know French?\" inquired the little man, still sharply. \"Yes,\" said Paul. \"What school did you go to?\" \"The Board-school.\" \"And did you learn it there?\" \"No--I--\" The boy went crimson and got no farther. \"His godfather gave him lessons,\" said Mrs. Morel, half pleading and\nrather distant. Mr. Jordan hesitated. Then, in his irritable manner--he always seemed to\nkeep his hands ready for action--he pulled another sheet of paper from\nhis pocket, unfolded it. The paper made a crackling noise. He handed it\nto Paul. \"Read that,\" he said. It was a note in French, in thin, flimsy foreign handwriting that the\nboy could not decipher. He stared blankly at the paper. \"'Monsieur,'\" he began; then he looked in great confusion at Mr. Jordan. \"It's the--it's the--\"\n\nHe wanted to say \"handwriting\", but his wits would no longer work even\nsufficiently to supply him with the word. Feeling an utter fool, and\nhating Mr. Jordan, he turned desperately to the paper again. \"'Sir,--Please send me'--er--er--I can't tell the--er--'two pairs--gris\nfil bas--grey thread stockings'--er--er--'sans--without'--er--I can't\ntell the words--er--'doigts--fingers'--er--I can't tell the--\"\n\nHe wanted to say \"handwriting\", but the word still refused to come. Seeing him stuck, Mr. Jordan snatched the paper from him. \"'Please send by return two pairs grey thread stockings without TOES.'\" \"Well,\" flashed Paul, \"'doigts' means 'fingers'--as well--as a rule--\"\n\nThe little man looked at him. He did not know whether \"doigts\" meant\n\"fingers\"; he knew that for all HIS purposes it meant \"toes\". \"Fingers to stockings!\" he snapped. \"Well, it DOES mean fingers,\" the boy persisted. He hated the little man, who made such a clod of him. Mr. Jordan looked\nat the pale, stupid, defiant boy, then at the mother, who sat quiet and\nwith that peculiar shut-off look of the poor who have to depend on the\nfavour of others. \"And when could he come?\" he asked. \"Well,\" said Mrs. Morel, \"as soon as you wish. He has finished school\nnow.\" \"He would live in Bestwood?\" \"Yes; but he could be in--at the station--at quarter to eight.\" \"H'm!\" It ended by Paul's being engaged as junior spiral clerk at eight\nshillings a week. The boy did not open his mouth to say another word,\nafter having insisted that \"doigts\" meant \"fingers\". He followed his\nmother down the stairs. She looked at him with her bright blue eyes full\nof love and joy. \"I think you'll like it,\" she said. \"'Doigts' does mean 'fingers', mother, and it was the writing. I\ncouldn't read the writing.\" \"Never mind, my boy. I'm sure he'll be all right, and you won't see much\nof him. Wasn't that first young fellow nice? I'm sure you'll like them.\" \"But wasn't Mr. Jordan common, mother? Does he own it all?\" \"I suppose he was a workman who has got on,\" she said. \"You mustn't mind\npeople so much. They're not being disagreeable to YOU--it's their way. You always think people are meaning things for you. But they don't.\" It was very sunny. Over the big desolate space of the market-place the\nblue sky shimmered, and the granite cobbles of the paving glistened. Shops down the Long Row were deep in obscurity, and the shadow was full\nof colour. Just where the horse trams trundled across the market was a\nrow of fruit stalls, with fruit blazing in the sun--apples and piles of\nreddish oranges, small green-gage plums and bananas. There was a warm\nscent of fruit as mother and son passed. Gradually his feeling of\nignominy and of rage sank. \"Where should we go for dinner?\" asked the mother. It was felt to be a reckless extravagance. Paul had only been in an\neating-house once or twice in his life, and then only to have a cup of\ntea and a bun.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-07, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-09 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Most of the people of Bestwood considered that tea and\nbread-and-butter, and perhaps potted beef, was all they could afford to\neat in Nottingham. Real cooked dinner was considered great extravagance. Paul felt rather guilty. They found a place that looked quite cheap. But when Mrs. Morel scanned\nthe bill of fare, her heart was heavy, things were so dear. So she\nordered kidney-pies and potatoes as the cheapest available dish. \"We oughtn't to have come here, mother,\" said Paul. \"Never mind,\" she said. \"We won't come again.\" She insisted on his having a small currant tart, because he liked\nsweets. \"I don't want it, mother,\" he pleaded. \"Yes,\" she insisted; \"you'll have it.\" And she looked round for the waitress. But the waitress was busy, and\nMrs. Morel did not like to bother her then. So the mother and son waited\nfor the girl's pleasure, whilst she flirted among the men. \"Brazen hussy!\" said Mrs. Morel to Paul. \"Look now, she's taking that\nman HIS pudding, and he came long after us.\" \"It doesn't matter, mother,\" said Paul. Mrs. Morel was angry. But she was too poor, and her orders were too\nmeagre, so that she had not the courage to insist on her rights just\nthen. They waited and waited. \"Should we go, mother?\" he said. Then Mrs. Morel stood up. The girl was passing near. \"Will you bring one currant tart?\" said Mrs. Morel clearly. The girl looked round insolently. \"Directly,\" she said. \"We have waited quite long enough,\" said Mrs. Morel. In a moment the girl came back with the tart. Mrs. Morel asked coldly\nfor the bill. Paul wanted to sink through the floor. He marvelled at his\nmother's hardness. He knew that only years of battling had taught her to\ninsist even so little on her rights. She shrank as much as he. \"It's the last time I go THERE for anything!\" she declared, when they\nwere outside the place, thankful to be clear. \"We'll go,\" she said, \"and look at Keep's and Boot's, and one or two\nplaces, shall we?\" They had discussions over the pictures, and Mrs. Morel wanted to buy\nhim a little sable brush that he hankered after. But this indulgence he\nrefused. He stood in front of milliners' shops and drapers' shops almost\nbored, but content for her to be interested. They wandered on. \"Now, just look at those black grapes!\" she said. \"They make your mouth\nwater. I've wanted some of those for years, but I s'll have to wait a\nbit before I get them.\" Then she rejoiced in the florists, standing in the doorway sniffing. \"Oh! oh! Isn't it simply lovely!\" Paul saw, in the darkness of the shop, an elegant young lady in black\npeering over the counter curiously. \"They're looking at you,\" he said, trying to draw his mother away. \"But what is it?\" she exclaimed, refusing to be moved. \"Stocks!\" he answered, sniffing hastily. \"Look, there's a tubful.\" \"So there is--red and white. But really, I never knew stocks to smell\nlike it!\" And, to his great relief, she moved out of the doorway, but\nonly to stand in front of the window. \"Paul!\" she cried to him, who was trying to get out of sight of the\nelegant young lady in black--the shop-girl. \"Paul! Just look here!\" He came reluctantly back. \"Now, just look at that fuchsia!\" she exclaimed, pointing. \"H'm!\" He made a curious, interested sound. \"You'd think every second as\nthe flowers was going to fall off, they hang so big an' heavy.\" \"And such an abundance!\" she cried. \"And the way they drop downwards with their threads and knots!\" \"Yes!\" she exclaimed. \"Lovely!\" \"I wonder who'll buy it!\" he said. \"I wonder!\" she answered. \"Not us.\" \"It would die in our parlour.\" \"Yes, beastly cold, sunless hole; it kills every bit of a plant you put\nin, and the kitchen chokes them to death.\" They bought a few things, and set off towards the station. Looking up\nthe canal, through the dark pass of the buildings, they saw the Castle\non its bluff of brown, green-bushed rock, in a positive miracle of\ndelicate sunshine. \"Won't it be nice for me to come out at dinner-times?\" said Paul. \"I can\ngo all round here and see everything. I s'll love it.\" \"You will,\" assented his mother. He had spent a perfect afternoon with his mother. They arrived home in\nthe mellow evening, happy, and glowing, and tired. In the morning he filled in the form for his season-ticket and took it\nto the station. When he got back, his mother was just beginning to wash\nthe floor. He sat crouched up on the sofa. \"He says it'll be here on Saturday,\" he said. \"And how much will it be?\" \"About one pound eleven,\" he said. She went on washing her floor in silence. \"Is it a lot?\" he asked. \"It's no more than I thought,\" she answered. \"An' I s'll earn eight shillings a week,\" he said. She did not answer, but went on with her work. At last she said:\n\n\"That William promised me, when he went to London, as he'd give me a\npound a month. He has given me ten shillings--twice; and now I know\nhe hasn't a farthing if I asked him. Not that I want it. Only just now\nyou'd think he might be able to help with this ticket, which I'd never\nexpected.\" \"He earns a lot,\" said Paul. \"He earns a hundred and thirty pounds. But they're all alike. They're\nlarge in promises, but it's precious little fulfilment you get.\" \"He spends over fifty shillings a week on himself,\" said Paul. \"And I keep this house on less than thirty,\" she replied; \"and am\nsupposed to find money for extras. But they don't care about helping\nyou, once they've gone. He'd rather spend it on that dressed-up\ncreature.\" \"She should have her own money if she's so grand,\" said Paul. \"She should, but she hasn't. I asked him. And I know he doesn't buy her\na gold bangle for nothing. I wonder whoever bought ME a gold bangle.\" William was succeeding with his \"Gipsy\", as he called her. He asked the\ngirl--her name was Louisa Lily Denys Western--for a photograph to send\nto his mother. The photo came--a handsome brunette, taken in profile,\nsmirking slightly--and, it might be, quite naked, for on the photograph\nnot a scrap of clothing was to be seen, only a naked bust. \"Yes,\" wrote Mrs. Morel to her son, \"the photograph of Louie is very\nstriking, and I can see she must be attractive. But do you think, my\nboy, it was very good taste of a girl to give her young man that photo\nto send to his mother--the first? Certainly the shoulders are beautiful,\nas you say. But I hardly expected to see so much of them at the first\nview.\" Morel found the photograph standing on the chiffonier in the parlour. He\ncame out with it between his thick thumb and finger. \"Who dost reckon this is?\" he asked of his wife. \"It's the girl our William is going with,\" replied Mrs. Morel. \"H'm! 'Er's a bright spark, from th' look on 'er, an' one as wunna do\nhim owermuch good neither. Who is she?\" \"Her name is Louisa Lily Denys Western.\" \"An' come again to-morrer!\" exclaimed the miner. \"An' is 'er an\nactress?\" \"She is not. She's supposed to be a lady.\" \"I'll bet!\" he exclaimed, still staring at the photo. \"A lady, is she? An' how much does she reckon ter keep up this sort o' game on?\" \"On nothing. She lives with an old aunt, whom she hates, and takes what\nbit of money's given her.\" \"H'm!\" said Morel, laying down the photograph. \"Then he's a fool to ha'\nta'en up wi' such a one as that.\" \"Dear Mater,\" William replied. \"I'm sorry you didn't like the\nphotograph. It never occurred to me when I sent it, that you mightn't\nthink it decent.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-09, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-10 The user is reading a book]\n<User> However, I told Gyp that it didn't quite suit your prim\nand proper notions, so she's going to send you another, that I hope\nwill please you better. She's always being photographed; in fact, the\nphotographers ask her if they may take her for nothing.\" Presently the new photograph came, with a little silly note from the\ngirl. This time the young lady was seen in a black satin evening bodice,\ncut square, with little puff sleeves, and black lace hanging down her\nbeautiful arms. \"I wonder if she ever wears anything except evening clothes,\" said Mrs.\nMorel sarcastically. \"I'm sure I ought to be impressed.\" \"You are disagreeable, mother,\" said Paul. \"I think the first one with\nbare shoulders is lovely.\" \"Do you?\" answered his mother. \"Well, I don't.\" On the Monday morning the boy got up at six to start work. He had the\nseason-ticket, which had cost such bitterness, in his waistcoat pocket. He loved it with its bars of yellow across. His mother packed his dinner\nin a small, shut-up basket, and he set off at a quarter to seven to\ncatch the 7.15 train. Mrs. Morel came to the entry-end to see him off. It was a perfect morning. From the ash tree the slender green fruits\nthat the children call \"pigeons\" were twinkling gaily down on a little\nbreeze, into the front gardens of the houses. The valley was full of a\nlustrous dark haze, through which the ripe corn shimmered, and in which\nthe steam from Minton pit melted swiftly. Puffs of wind came. Paul\nlooked over the high woods of Aldersley, where the country gleamed, and\nhome had never pulled at him so powerfully. \"Good-morning, mother,\" he said, smiling, but feeling very unhappy. \"Good-morning,\" she replied cheerfully and tenderly. She stood in her white apron on the open road, watching him as he\ncrossed the field. He had a small, compact body that looked full of\nlife. She felt, as she saw him trudging over the field, that where he\ndetermined to go he would get. She thought of William. He would have\nleaped the fence instead of going round the stile. He was away in\nLondon, doing well. Paul would be working in Nottingham. Now she had\ntwo sons in the world. She could think of two places, great centres of\nindustry, and feel that she had put a man into each of them, that these\nmen would work out what SHE wanted; they were derived from her, they\nwere of her, and their works also would be hers. All the morning long\nshe thought of Paul. At eight o'clock he climbed the dismal stairs of Jordan's Surgical\nAppliance Factory, and stood helplessly against the first great\nparcel-rack, waiting for somebody to pick him up. The place was still\nnot awake. Over the counters were great dust sheets. Two men only had\narrived, and were heard talking in a corner, as they took off their\ncoats and rolled up their shirt-sleeves. It was ten past eight. Evidently there was no rush of punctuality. Paul listened to the voices\nof the two clerks. Then he heard someone cough, and saw in the office\nat the end of the room an old, decaying clerk, in a round smoking-cap of\nblack velvet embroidered with red and green, opening letters. He waited\nand waited. One of the junior clerks went to the old man, greeted him\ncheerily and loudly. Evidently the old \"chief\" was deaf. Then the young\nfellow came striding importantly down to his counter. He spied Paul. \"Hello!\" he said. \"You the new lad?\" \"Yes,\" said Paul. \"H'm! What's your name?\" \"Paul Morel.\" \"Paul Morel? All right, you come on round here.\" Paul followed him round the rectangle of counters. The room was second\nstorey. It had a great hole in the middle of the floor, fenced as with a\nwall of counters, and down this wide shaft the lifts went, and the light\nfor the bottom storey. Also there was a corresponding big, oblong hole\nin the ceiling, and one could see above, over the fence of the top\nfloor, some machinery; and right away overhead was the glass roof, and\nall light for the three storeys came downwards, getting dimmer, so that\nit was always night on the ground floor and rather gloomy on the second\nfloor. The factory was the top floor, the warehouse the second, the\nstorehouse the ground floor. It was an insanitary, ancient place. Paul was led round to a very dark corner. \"This is the 'Spiral' corner,\" said the clerk. \"You're Spiral, with\nPappleworth. He's your boss, but he's not come yet. He doesn't get here\ntill half-past eight. So you can fetch the letters, if you like, from\nMr. Melling down there.\" The young man pointed to the old clerk in the office. \"All right,\" said Paul. \"Here's a peg to hang your cap on. Here are your entry ledgers. Mr.\nPappleworth won't be long.\" And the thin young man stalked away with long, busy strides over the\nhollow wooden floor. After a minute or two Paul went down and stood in the door of the glass\noffice. The old clerk in the smoking-cap looked down over the rim of his\nspectacles. \"Good-morning,\" he said, kindly and impressively. \"You want the letters\nfor the Spiral department, Thomas?\" Paul resented being called \"Thomas\". But he took the letters and\nreturned to his dark place, where the counter made an angle, where the\ngreat parcel-rack came to an end, and where there were three doors in\nthe corner. He sat on a high stool and read the letters--those whose\nhandwriting was not too difficult. They ran as follows:\n\n\"Will you please send me at once a pair of lady's silk spiral\nthigh-hose, without feet, such as I had from you last year; length,\nthigh to knee, etc.\" Or, \"Major Chamberlain wishes to repeat his\nprevious order for a silk non-elastic suspensory bandage.\" Many of these letters, some of them in French or Norwegian, were a great\npuzzle to the boy. He sat on his stool nervously awaiting the arrival\nof his \"boss\". He suffered tortures of shyness when, at half-past eight,\nthe factory girls for upstairs trooped past him. Mr. Pappleworth arrived, chewing a chlorodyne gum, at about twenty to\nnine, when all the other men were at work. He was a thin, sallow man\nwith a red nose, quick, staccato, and smartly but stiffly dressed. He\nwas about thirty-six years old. There was something rather \"doggy\",\nrather smart, rather 'cute and shrewd, and something warm, and something\nslightly contemptible about him. \"You my new lad?\" he said. Paul stood up and said he was. \"Fetched the letters?\" Mr. Pappleworth gave a chew to his gum. \"Yes.\" \"Copied 'em?\" \"No.\" \"Well, come on then, let's look slippy. Changed your coat?\" \"No.\" \"You want to bring an old coat and leave it here.\" He pronounced the\nlast words with the chlorodyne gum between his side teeth. He vanished\ninto the darkness behind the great parcel-rack, reappeared coatless,\nturning up a smart striped shirt-cuff over a thin and hairy arm. Then\nhe slipped into his coat. Paul noticed how thin he was, and that his\ntrousers were in folds behind. He seized a stool, dragged it beside the\nboy's, and sat down. \"Sit down,\" he said. Paul took a seat. Mr. Pappleworth was very close to him. The man seized the letters,\nsnatched a long entry-book out of a rack in front of him, flung it open,\nseized a pen, and said:\n\n\"Now look here. You want to copy these letters in here.\" He sniffed\ntwice, gave a quick chew at his gum, stared fixedly at a letter,\nthen went very still and absorbed, and wrote the entry rapidly, in a\nbeautiful flourishing hand. He glanced quickly at Paul. \"See that?\" \"Yes.\" \"Think you can do it all right?\" \"Yes.\" \"All right then, let's see you.\" He sprang off his stool. Paul took a pen. Mr. Pappleworth disappeared. Paul rather liked copying the letters, but he wrote slowly, laboriously,\nand exceedingly badly. He was doing the fourth letter, and feeling quite\nbusy and happy, when Mr. Pappleworth reappeared. \"Now then, how'r' yer getting on? Done 'em?\"\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-10, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-13 The user is reading a book]\n<User> He leaned over the boy's shoulder, chewing, and smelling of chlorodyne. \"Strike my bob, lad, but you're a beautiful writer!\" he exclaimed\nsatirically. \"Ne'er mind, how many h'yer done? Only three! I'd 'a eaten\n'em. Get on, my lad, an' put numbers on 'em. Here, look! Get on!\" Paul ground away at the letters, whilst Mr. Pappleworth fussed over\nvarious jobs. Suddenly the boy started as a shrill whistle sounded near\nhis ear. Mr. Pappleworth came, took a plug out of a pipe, and said, in\nan amazingly cross and bossy voice:\n\n\"Yes?\" Paul heard a faint voice, like a woman's, out of the mouth of the tube. He gazed in wonder, never having seen a speaking-tube before. \"Well,\" said Mr. Pappleworth disagreeably into the tube, \"you'd better\nget some of your back work done, then.\" Again the woman's tiny voice was heard, sounding pretty and cross. \"I've not time to stand here while you talk,\" said Mr. Pappleworth, and\nhe pushed the plug into the tube. \"Come, my lad,\" he said imploringly to Paul, \"there's Polly crying out\nfor them orders. Can't you buck up a bit? Here, come out!\" He took the book, to Paul's immense chagrin, and began the copying\nhimself. He worked quickly and well. This done, he seized some strips\nof long yellow paper, about three inches wide, and made out the day's\norders for the work-girls. \"You'd better watch me,\" he said to Paul, working all the while rapidly. Paul watched the weird little drawings of legs, and thighs, and ankles,\nwith the strokes across and the numbers, and the few brief directions\nwhich his chief made upon the yellow paper. Then Mr. Pappleworth\nfinished and jumped up. \"Come on with me,\" he said, and the yellow papers flying in his hands,\nhe dashed through a door and down some stairs, into the basement where\nthe gas was burning. They crossed the cold, damp storeroom, then a\nlong, dreary room with a long table on trestles, into a smaller, cosy\napartment, not very high, which had been built on to the main building. In this room a small woman with a red serge blouse, and her black hair\ndone on top of her head, was waiting like a proud little bantam. \"Here y'are!\" said Pappleworth. \"I think it is 'here you are'!\" exclaimed Polly. \"The girls have been\nhere nearly half an hour waiting. Just think of the time wasted!\" \"YOU think of getting your work done and not talking so much,\" said Mr.\nPappleworth. \"You could ha' been finishing off.\" \"You know quite well we finished everything off on Saturday!\" cried\nPony, flying at him, her dark eyes flashing. \"Tu-tu-tu-tu-terterter!\" he mocked. \"Here's your new lad. Don't ruin him\nas you did the last.\" \"As we did the last!\" repeated Polly. \"Yes, WE do a lot of ruining, we\ndo. My word, a lad would TAKE some ruining after he'd been with you.\" \"It's time for work now, not for talk,\" said Mr. Pappleworth severely\nand coldly. \"It was time for work some time back,\" said Polly, marching away with\nher head in the air. She was an erect little body of forty. In that room were two round spiral machines on the bench under the\nwindow. Through the inner doorway was another longer room, with six more\nmachines. A little group of girls, nicely dressed in white aprons, stood\ntalking together. \"Have you nothing else to do but talk?\" said Mr. Pappleworth. \"Only wait for you,\" said one handsome girl, laughing. \"Well, get on, get on,\" he said. \"Come on, my lad. You'll know your road\ndown here again.\" And Paul ran upstairs after his chief. He was given some checking\nand invoicing to do. He stood at the desk, labouring in his execrable\nhandwriting. Presently Mr. Jordan came strutting down from the glass\noffice and stood behind him, to the boy's great discomfort. Suddenly a\nred and fat finger was thrust on the form he was filling in. \"MR. J. A. Bates, Esquire!\" exclaimed the cross voice just behind his\near. Paul looked at \"Mr. J. A. Bates, Esquire\" in his own vile writing, and\nwondered what was the matter now. \"Didn't they teach you any better THAN that while they were at it? If\nyou put 'Mr.' you don't put Esquire'-a man can't be both at once.\" The boy regretted his too-much generosity in disposing of honours,\nhesitated, and with trembling fingers, scratched out the \"Mr.\" Then all\nat once Mr. Jordan snatched away the invoice. \"Make another! Are you going to send that to a gentleman?\" And he tore\nup the blue form irritably. Paul, his ears red with shame, began again. Still Mr. Jordan watched. \"I don't know what they DO teach in schools. You'll have to write better\nthan that. Lads learn nothing nowadays, but how to recite poetry\nand play the fiddle. Have you seen his writing?\" he asked of Mr.\nPappleworth. \"Yes; prime, isn't it?\" replied Mr. Pappleworth indifferently. Mr. Jordan gave a little grunt, not unamiable. Paul divined that his\nmaster's bark was worse than his bite. Indeed, the little manufacturer,\nalthough he spoke bad English, was quite gentleman enough to leave his\nmen alone and to take no notice of trifles. But he knew he did not\nlook like the boss and owner of the show, so he had to play his role of\nproprietor at first, to put things on a right footing. \"Let's see, WHAT'S your name?\" asked Mr. Pappleworth of the boy. \"Paul Morel.\" It is curious that children suffer so much at having to pronounce their\nown names. \"Paul Morel, is it? All right, you Paul-Morel through them things there,\nand then--\"\n\nMr. Pappleworth subsided on to a stool, and began writing. A girl came\nup from out of a door just behind, put some newly-pressed elastic web\nappliances on the counter, and returned. Mr. Pappleworth picked up the\nwhitey-blue knee-band, examined it, and its yellow order-paper quickly,\nand put it on one side. Next was a flesh-pink \"leg\". He went through\nthe few things, wrote out a couple of orders, and called to Paul to\naccompany him. This time they went through the door whence the girl had\nemerged. There Paul found himself at the top of a little wooden flight\nof steps, and below him saw a room with windows round two sides, and at\nthe farther end half a dozen girls sitting bending over the benches\nin the light from the window, sewing. They were singing together \"Two\nLittle Girls in Blue\". Hearing the door opened, they all turned round,\nto see Mr. Pappleworth and Paul looking down on them from the far end of\nthe room. They stopped singing. \"Can't you make a bit less row?\" said Mr. Pappleworth. \"Folk'll think we\nkeep cats.\" A hunchback woman on a high stool turned her long, rather heavy face\ntowards Mr. Pappleworth, and said, in a contralto voice:\n\n\"They're all tom-cats then.\" In vain Mr. Pappleworth tried to be impressive for Paul's benefit. He descended the steps into the finishing-off room, and went to the\nhunchback Fanny. She had such a short body on her high stool that her\nhead, with its great bands of bright brown hair, seemed over large, as\ndid her pale, heavy face. She wore a dress of green-black cashmere, and\nher wrists, coming out of the narrow cuffs, were thin and flat, as she\nput down her work nervously. He showed her something that was wrong with\na knee-cap. \"Well,\" she said, \"you needn't come blaming it on to me. It's not my\nfault.\" Her colour mounted to her cheek. \"I never said it WAS your fault. Will you do as I tell you?\" replied Mr.\nPappleworth shortly. \"You don't say it's my fault, but you'd like to make out as it was,\" the\nhunchback woman cried, almost in tears. Then she snatched the knee-cap\nfrom her \"boss\", saying: \"Yes, I'll do it for you, but you needn't be\nsnappy.\" \"Here's your new lad,\" said Mr. Pappleworth. Fanny turned, smiling very gently on Paul. \"Oh!\" she said.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-13, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-14 The user is reading a book]\n<User> \"Yes; don't make a softy of him between you.\" \"It's not us as 'ud make a softy of him,\" she said indignantly. \"Come on then, Paul,\" said Mr. Pappleworth. \"Au revoy, Paul,\" said one of the girls. There was a titter of laughter. Paul went out, blushing deeply, not\nhaving spoken a word. The day was very long. All morning the work-people were coming to speak\nto Mr. Pappleworth. Paul was writing or learning to make up parcels,\nready for the midday post. At one o'clock, or, rather, at a quarter to\none, Mr. Pappleworth disappeared to catch his train: he lived in the\nsuburbs. At one o'clock, Paul, feeling very lost, took his dinner-basket\ndown into the stockroom in the basement, that had the long table on\ntrestles, and ate his meal hurriedly, alone in that cellar of gloom and\ndesolation. Then he went out of doors. The brightness and the freedom of\nthe streets made him feel adventurous and happy. But at two o'clock\nhe was back in the corner of the big room. Soon the work-girls went\ntrooping past, making remarks. It was the commoner girls who worked\nupstairs at the heavy tasks of truss-making and the finishing of\nartificial limbs. He waited for Mr. Pappleworth, not knowing what to do,\nsitting scribbling on the yellow order-paper. Mr. Pappleworth came at\ntwenty minutes to three. Then he sat and gossiped with Paul, treating\nthe boy entirely as an equal, even in age. In the afternoon there was never very much to do, unless it were near\nthe week-end, and the accounts had to be made up. At five o'clock all\nthe men went down into the dungeon with the table on trestles, and there\nthey had tea, eating bread-and-butter on the bare, dirty boards, talking\nwith the same kind of ugly haste and slovenliness with which they ate\ntheir meal. And yet upstairs the atmosphere among them was always jolly\nand clear. The cellar and the trestles affected them. After tea, when all the gases were lighted, WORK went more briskly. There was the big evening post to get off. The hose came up warm and\nnewly pressed from the workrooms. Paul had made out the invoices. Now he\nhad the packing up and addressing to do, then he had to weigh his stock\nof parcels on the scales. Everywhere voices were calling weights, there\nwas the chink of metal, the rapid snapping of string, the hurrying to\nold Mr. Melling for stamps. And at last the postman came with his sack,\nlaughing and jolly. Then everything slacked off, and Paul took his\ndinner-basket and ran to the station to catch the eight-twenty train. The day in the factory was just twelve hours long. His mother sat waiting for him rather anxiously. He had to walk from\nKeston, so was not home until about twenty past nine. And he left the\nhouse before seven in the morning. Mrs. Morel was rather anxious about\nhis health. But she herself had had to put up with so much that she\nexpected her children to take the same odds. They must go through with\nwhat came. And Paul stayed at Jordan's, although all the time he was\nthere his health suffered from the darkness and lack of air and the long\nhours. He came in pale and tired. His mother looked at him. She saw he was\nrather pleased, and her anxiety all went. \"Well, and how was it?\" she asked. \"Ever so funny, mother,\" he replied. \"You don't have to work a bit hard,\nand they're nice with you.\" \"And did you get on all right?\" \"Yes: they only say my writing's bad. But Mr. Pappleworth--he's my\nman--said to Mr. Jordan I should be all right. I'm Spiral, mother; you\nmust come and see. It's ever so nice.\" Soon he liked Jordan's. Mr. Pappleworth, who had a certain \"saloon bar\"\nflavour about him, was always natural, and treated him as if he had been\na comrade. Sometimes the \"Spiral boss\" was irritable, and chewed more\nlozenges than ever. Even then, however, he was not offensive, but one\nof those people who hurt themselves by their own irritability more than\nthey hurt other people. \"Haven't you done that YET?\" he would cry. \"Go on, be a month of\nSundays.\" Again, and Paul could understand him least then, he was jocular and in\nhigh spirits. \"I'm going to bring my little Yorkshire terrier bitch tomorrow,\" he said\njubilantly to Paul. \"What's a Yorkshire terrier?\" \"DON'T know what a Yorkshire terrier is? DON'T KNOW A YORKSHIRE--\" Mr.\nPappleworth was aghast. \"Is it a little silky one--colours of iron and rusty silver?\" \"THAT'S it, my lad. She's a gem. She's had five pounds' worth of pups\nalready, and she's worth over seven pounds herself; and she doesn't\nweigh twenty ounces.\" The next day the bitch came. She was a shivering, miserable morsel. Paul\ndid not care for her; she seemed so like a wet rag that would never\ndry. Then a man called for her, and began to make coarse jokes. But Mr.\nPappleworth nodded his head in the direction of the boy, and the talk\nwent on _sotto voce_. Mr. Jordan only made one more excursion to watch Paul, and then the only\nfault he found was seeing the boy lay his pen on the counter. \"Put your pen in your ear, if you're going to be a clerk. Pen in your\near!\" And one day he said to the lad: \"Why don't you hold your shoulders\nstraighter? Come down here,\" when he took him into the glass office and\nfitted him with special braces for keeping the shoulders square. But Paul liked the girls best. The men seemed common and rather dull. He liked them all, but they were uninteresting. Polly, the little brisk\noverseer downstairs, finding Paul eating in the cellar, asked him if she\ncould cook him anything on her little stove. Next day his mother gave\nhim a dish that could be heated up. He took it into the pleasant, clean\nroom to Polly. And very soon it grew to be an established custom that he\nshould have dinner with her. When he came in at eight in the morning he\ntook his basket to her, and when he came down at one o'clock she had his\ndinner ready. He was not very tall, and pale, with thick chestnut hair, irregular\nfeatures, and a wide, full mouth. She was like a small bird. He often\ncalled her a \"robinet\". Though naturally rather quiet, he would sit and\nchatter with her for hours telling her about his home. The girls all\nliked to hear him talk. They often gathered in a little circle while he\nsat on a bench, and held forth to them, laughing. Some of them regarded\nhim as a curious little creature, so serious, yet so bright and jolly,\nand always so delicate in his way with them. They all liked him, and he\nadored them. Polly he felt he belonged to. Then Connie, with her mane of\nred hair, her face of apple-blossom, her murmuring voice, such a lady in\nher shabby black frock, appealed to his romantic side. \"When you sit winding,\" he said, \"it looks as if you were spinning at\na spinning-wheel--it looks ever so nice. You remind me of Elaine in the\n'Idylls of the King'. I'd draw you if I could.\" And she glanced at him blushing shyly. And later on he had a sketch\nhe prized very much: Connie sitting on the stool before the wheel, her\nflowing mane of red hair on her rusty black frock, her red mouth shut\nand serious, running the scarlet thread off the hank on to the reel. With Louie, handsome and brazen, who always seemed to thrust her hip at\nhim, he usually joked. Emma was rather plain, rather old, and condescending. But to condescend\nto him made her happy, and he did not mind. \"How do you put needles in?\" he asked. \"Go away and don't bother.\" \"But I ought to know how to put needles in.\" She ground at her machine all the while steadily. \"There are many things you ought to know,\" she replied. \"Tell me, then, how to stick needles in the machine.\" \"Oh, the boy, what a nuisance he is! Why, THIS is how you do it.\" He watched her attentively. Suddenly a whistle piped.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-14, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-16 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Then Polly\nappeared, and said in a clear voice:\n\n\"Mr. Pappleworth wants to know how much longer you're going to be down\nhere playing with the girls, Paul.\" Paul flew upstairs, calling \"Good-bye!\" and Emma drew herself up. \"It wasn't ME who wanted him to play with the machine,\" she said. As a rule, when all the girls came back at two o'clock, he ran upstairs\nto Fanny, the hunchback, in the finishing-off room. Mr. Pappleworth\ndid not appear till twenty to three, and he often found his boy sitting\nbeside Fanny, talking, or drawing, or singing with the girls. Often, after a minute's hesitation, Fanny would begin to sing. She had a\nfine contralto voice. Everybody joined in the chorus, and it went well. Paul was not at all embarrassed, after a while, sitting in the room with\nthe half a dozen work-girls. At the end of the song Fanny would say:\n\n\"I know you've been laughing at me.\" \"Don't be so soft, Fanny!\" cried one of the girls. Once there was mention of Connie's red hair. \"Fanny's is better, to my fancy,\" said Emma. \"You needn't try to make a fool of me,\" said Fanny, flushing deeply. \"No, but she has, Paul; she's got beautiful hair.\" \"It's a treat of a colour,\" said he. \"That coldish colour like earth,\nand yet shiny. It's like bog-water.\" \"Goodness me!\" exclaimed one girl, laughing. \"How I do but get criticised,\" said Fanny. \"But you should see it down, Paul,\" cried Emma earnestly. \"It's simply\nbeautiful. Put it down for him, Fanny, if he wants something to paint.\" Fanny would not, and yet she wanted to. \"Then I'll take it down myself,\" said the lad. \"Well, you can if you like,\" said Fanny. And he carefully took the pins out of the knot, and the rush of hair, of\nuniform dark brown, slid over the humped back. \"What a lovely lot!\" he exclaimed. The girls watched. There was silence. The youth shook the hair loose\nfrom the coil. \"It's splendid!\" he said, smelling its perfume. \"I'll bet it's worth\npounds.\" \"I'll leave it you when I die, Paul,\" said Fanny, half joking. \"You look just like anybody else, sitting drying their hair,\" said one\nof the girls to the long-legged hunchback. Poor Fanny was morbidly sensitive, always imagining insults. Polly was\ncurt and businesslike. The two departments were for ever at war, and\nPaul was always finding Fanny in tears. Then he was made the recipient\nof all her woes, and he had to plead her case with Polly. So the time went along happily enough. The factory had a homely feel. No one was rushed or driven. Paul always enjoyed it when the work got\nfaster, towards post-time, and all the men united in labour. He liked to\nwatch his fellow-clerks at work. The man was the work and the work was\nthe man, one thing, for the time being. It was different with the girls. The real woman never seemed to be there at the task, but as if left out,\nwaiting. From the train going home at night he used to watch the lights of the\ntown, sprinkled thick on the hills, fusing together in a blaze in the\nvalleys. He felt rich in life and happy. Drawing farther off, there was\na patch of lights at Bulwell like myriad petals shaken to the ground\nfrom the shed stars; and beyond was the red glare of the furnaces,\nplaying like hot breath on the clouds. He had to walk two and more miles from Keston home, up two long hills,\ndown two short hills. He was often tired, and he counted the lamps\nclimbing the hill above him, how many more to pass. And from the\nhilltop, on pitch-dark nights, he looked round on the villages five\nor six miles away, that shone like swarms of glittering living things,\nalmost a heaven against his feet. Marlpool and Heanor scattered the\nfar-off darkness with brilliance. And occasionally the black valley\nspace between was traced, violated by a great train rushing south to\nLondon or north to Scotland. The trains roared by like projectiles level\non the darkness, fuming and burning, making the valley clang with\ntheir passage. They were gone, and the lights of the towns and villages\nglittered in silence. And then he came to the corner at home, which faced the other side\nof the night. The ash-tree seemed a friend now. His mother rose with\ngladness as he entered. He put his eight shillings proudly on the table. \"It'll help, mother?\" he asked wistfully. \"There's precious little left,\" she answered, \"after your ticket and\ndinners and such are taken off.\" Then he told her the budget of the day. His life-story, like an Arabian\nNights, was told night after night to his mother. It was almost as if it\nwere her own life.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-16, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-16", "answer": "Walter Morel, Mrs. Morel, Paul Morel, William Morel, Louisa Lily Denys Western, Mr. Jordan, Mr. Pappleworth, Polly, pit accident, hospital, broken leg, family happiness, Paul new man of the house, job search, letter of application, William's handwriting, London, social class, Paul's interview, surgical appliances factory, Station Street, Thomas Jordan's office, restaurant, humiliation, picture of William's sweetheart, shoulders, Paul's first day at work, dark dirty building, speaking tube, twelve-hour days, long commute, factory women, Polly heats dinner, mother-son relationship, indifference, frustrated desires, child labor, cottage dream, painting, class mobility, family dynamics, Paul's anxiety, Paul's slow writing, Paul's gentle nature, Paul's respect for women, Paul's pale and tired, Paul's accomplishment, Paul's relationship with mother, Paul's relationship with William"}]