Flags in the Dust: The complete text of Faulkner's third novel, which appeared in a cut version as Sartoris
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The complete text of Faulkner's third novel, published for the first time in 1973, appeared with his reluctant consent in a much cut version in 1929 as SARTORIS.
diffidently, giving Bayard’s hand a single pump-handle shake; and from a slobbering inquisitive surging of half grown hounds Buddy reached up his hand. “Be lookin’ fer you,” he said briefly, and Bayard wheeled away, and when he looked back they lifted their hands gravely. Then Buddy shouted after him and he reined Perry about and returned. Henry had vanished, and he reappeared with a weighted towsack. “I nigh fergot it,” he said. “Jug of cawn pappy’s sendin’ in to yo’ granddaddy. You wont git
superintended his hours, spent most of the day in this room, and presently Narcissa herself; and the three of them would sit for rapt murmurous hours in a sort of choral debauch of abnegation while the object of it slept digesting, waked, stoked himself anew and slept again. “He’s a Sartoris, all right,” Miss Jenny said, “but an improved model. He hasn’t got that wild look of ’em. I believe it was the name. Bayard. We did well to name him Johnny.” “Yes,” Narcissa said, watching her sleeping son
windows were shuttered behind heavy maroon curtains, and it served only to enhance the obscurity and to render more shapeless the hooded anonymous furniture. But behind these dun bulks and in all the corners of the room there waited, as actors stand within the wings beside the waiting stage, figures in crinoline and hooped muslin and silk; in stocks and flowing coats; in gray too, with crimson sashes and sabres in gallant sheathed repose;—Jeb Stuart himself perhaps, on his glittering garlanded
contained a bed, a chair, a dressing-table and a washstand with a slop-jar beside it. The floor was covered with straw matting frayed in places. The single light hung unshaded from a greenish-brown cord; upon the wall above the paper-filled fireplace a framed lithograph of an Indian maiden in immaculate buckskin leaned her naked bosom above a formal moonlit pool of Italian marble. She held a guitar and a rose, and dusty sparrows sat on the window ledge and watched them brightly through the dusty
beads on his forehead, while she watched him with grave anxiety. “Does it hurt?” “No,” he answered, and his hand shut again on her wrists that made no effort to withdraw. The sun was gone, and twilight, foster-dam of quietude and peace, filled the fading room and evening had found itself. “And you wont drive that car fast anymore?” she persisted from the dusk. “No,” he answered. 9 Meanwhile she had received another letter from her anonymous correspondent. Horace when he came in one