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They laid these on the floor of the baggage car and lifted the man on to them. His name was Zeb Meader, and he was still insensible. Austen Vane, with a peculiar set look upon his face, sat beside him all the way into Ripton. He spoke only once, and that was to tell the conductor to telegraph from Avalon to have the ambulance from St. Mary's Hospital meet the train at Ripton.
"Oh, he can't have anymore; do you want to kill him?" cried Victoria, seizing the plate, and adding mischievously, "I don't believe you're of very much use after all!" "Then it's time I learned," said Austen. "Here's Mr. Jenney. I'm sure he'll have a piece." "Well," said Mr. Jenney, the same Mr.
"What did she want to know?" Austen exclaimed, not unnaturally. "Well, she wanted to know about the accident, and I told her how you druv up and screwed that thing around my leg and backed the train down. She was a good deal took with that." "I think you are inclined to make too much of it," said Austen. Three days later, as he was about to enter the ward, Mr.
The list of the material benefits, for which there was a crying need, bore a strong resemblance to a summary of the worthy measures upon which Mr. Crewe had spent so much time and labour in the last Legislature. Austen laid down the paper, leaned back in his chair, and thrust his hands in his pockets, and with a little vertical pucker in his forehead, regarded his friend.
If Austen cared anything about money, he never would have broken with the old man, who has some little put away." "Why did he leave his father?" asked Victoria, not taking the trouble now to conceal her interest. "Well," said Tom, "you know they never did get along. It hasn't been Austen's fault he's tried.
The sleigh flew on up the hill, but she turned once more to look behind her, and he still had his hat in his hand, the snowflakes falling on his bared head. Then he was aware that James Redbrook was gazing at him curiously. "That's Flint's daughter, ain't it?" inquired the member from Mercer. "Didn't callate you'd know her." Austen flushed. He felt exceedingly foolish, but an answer came to him.
"I am not so absorbed in Humphrey's career that I cannot take an interest in yours. In fact, yours interests me more, because it is more mysterious. Humphrey's," she added, laughing, "is charted from day to day, and announced in bulletins. He is more generous to his friends than you." "I have nothing to chart," said Austen, "except such pilgrimages as this, and these, after all, are unchartable.
On the rare evenings when the two were at home together, the Honourable Hilary sat under one side of the lamp with a pile of documents and newspapers, and Austen under the other with a book from the circulating library. No public questions could be broached upon which they were not as far apart as the poles, and the Honourable Hilary put literature in the same category as embroidery.
I want to tell you, first of all, that I admire my son." "I thought so," Mr. Flint interrupted. "And more than that," the Honourable Hilary continued, "I prophesy that the time will come when you'll admire him. Austen Vane never did an underhanded thing in his life or committed a mean action. He's be'n wild, but he's always told me the truth.
Chamberlain; next him was Sir Henry James, and then came Mr. Courtney, in a snuff-coloured coat and drab waistcoat; for all the world like an old-fashioned squire who has not yet learned to accommodate himself to the sombre garments of an unpicturesque age. The dutiful Austen left himself without a seat, and was content to kneel in the gangway, and there take sweet counsel from his parent. Mr.
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