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Nothing would more clearly show the true relation of the Church of England to 'other Protestant churches' than a reprint of the whole proceedings of the Convocations from William and Mary to their extinction adding proper notes. Yours ever truly, Francis Palgrave. The Right Rev. Dr. Philpotts, Bishop of Exeter, to J. R. Hope, Esq. Bishopstowe, Torquay: November 10, 1842.
Gideon Hayle was sitting down to a charming little dinner at the Café des Princes, and was smiling to himself as he thought of the success that had attended the trick he had played upon me. When I reached the charming little Surrey village of Bishopstowe, I could see that it bore out Kitwater's description of it.
There was not a man of Buddleton or Fuddleton; not a yeoman or peasant of Montacute super Mare or Montacute Abbotts, nor of Percy Bellamont nor Friar's Bellamont, nor Winch nor Finch, nor of Mandeville Stokes nor Mandeville Bois; not a goodman true of Carleton and Ingleton and Kirkby and Dent, and Gillamoor and Padmore and Hutton le Hale; not a stout forester from the glades of Thorp, or the sylvan homes of Hurst Lydgate and Bishopstowe, that knew not where foamed and flowed the duke's ale, that was to quench the longings of his thirsty village.
"I wonder what they are doing at Bishopstowe now?" I said, and a moment later wished I had held my tongue. "Poor little Bishopstowe," my companion answered. "How thankful I shall be to get safely back to it! I don't think I shall ever want to travel again." "Ah! you cannot tell," I replied. "You are seeing the world just now under very unfavourable auspices.
I could imagine it coming like a breath from another world to that quiet house at Bishopstowe. I pictured the girl's face as she read it, and the strained attention of the two men, who, needless to say, would hang on every word.
In my mind's eye I could see her just as she had stood on that old stone bridge at Bishopstowe, with the sunset behind her and the church bells sounding across the meadows, calling the villagers to evensong. How much better it was, I argued, to be standing talking to her there in that old world peace, than to be dressing for a dinner at an up-to-date French restaurant.
"It would be as well perhaps for you to furnish me with your address, in order that I may communicate with you, should it be necessary." "At present," said Kitwater, "we are staying with my niece at the village of Bishopstowe in Surrey. My late brother was vicar of the parish for many years, and he left his daughter a small property in the neighbourhood.
However, those laugh best who laugh last, and though he has had a very fair innings so far, we will see whether he can beat me in the end. I'll get back to Town now, run down to Bishopstowe to-morrow morning to report progress, and then be off to Paris after him on Monday." At 8.45 that night I reached London. At the same moment Mr.
I pitied her from the bottom of my heart, and was prepared to do all that lay in my power to help her. It was a strange change for her, from the quiet little village of Bishopstowe, to the pursuit of a criminal across Europe to an island in the Mediterranean. "And when it is over?" was the question I asked myself on numerous occasions. "What is going to happen then?
We had exhausted the probabilities of the case long since, and I soon found that he could think or talk of nothing else. At six o'clock I prepared to make my adieux. My train left Bishopstowe for London at the half-hour, and I should just have time to walk the distance comfortably. To my delight my hostess decided to go to church, and said she would walk with me as far as the lych-gate.
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