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"Better than being cooks like your German ladies," retorted Paul stoutly. "If you are German this evening. Better than being cooks." "I doubt it! I very much doubt it, my friend. At what time shall I present myself at Box F2 this evening?" "About nine as soon as you like." Paul looked at the clock. The pointers lagged horribly.
"Lois is late this morning," Vandermere remarked, looking up at the clock. "And on her birthday, too!" Lady Mary declared. "Young people, nowadays, are so blasé. Look at all those presents on the table for her, and here the breakfast gong has rung twice, and there is no sign of her." Vandermere turned to his host. "You haven't heard anything about that fellow Saton?" he asked.
In surprise, Maida craned out of the window to consult the big church clock. It agreed exactly with the tall grandfather’s clock in the living-room. Both pointed to twelve, then to five minutes after and ten and fifteen—still no bell. A little later Dicky came swinging along, the sides of his old rusty raincoat flapping like the wings of some great bird.
"Well, you go out there and lie down on the lounge till you feel better. Cover you over and don't be cold. I'll call you when there's anything for you to do." Tall Isabel rose and walked out, wiping her eyes. Her little aunt sat mistress of the field. For many minutes there was silence, and the clock ticked. The parson felt something rising in his throat. He blew his nose vigorously.
After a distinct and repeated agreement as to the price of their rooms he charged them twice as much, and then made a merit of throwing off two marks out of the twenty he had plundered them of. "Now I see," said Mrs. March, on their way down to the boat, "how fortunate it was that we baked his clock. You may laugh, but I believe we were the instruments of justice."
"You promised to marry me at the end of six months," he reminded her. "Surely it isn't six months already," she said. He referred her to the calendar, recalled the date of her husband's death. "You are strangely literal for a poet," she said. "Of course I said six months, but six months doesn't mean twenty-six weeks by the clock. All I meant was that a decent period must intervene.
A woman, well on the way to middle age, sat in the house-place of a small cottage on the white high-road. Everything had been done for the night, the pigs and pony fed; the cow milked and the milk strained; the churn cleaned and the cream standing. The hens had been driven in and were almost asleep on their perches. The wood was ready for the morning and the clock had been wound up.
"The courier leaves this evening," she said, with a queer ring of anxiety in her voice, as if she feared that for some reason or another she ran the risk of failing to despatch her letter. She glanced at the clock, and stood, pen in hand, thinking of what she should write. "May I enclose a line?" asked Louis. "It is not wise, perhaps, for me to address to him a letter since I am on the other side.
As soon as we saw them start for their guns we both took off our hats and waved them over our heads, when they saw that they were needlessly alarmed. This train was from Texas, and the name of the captain was Sours, and it was beyond doubt the best organized train I ever saw on the plains; everything seemed to move like clock work. When I told Capt.
Hals, thinking to have some fun, consented to sit an hour precisely by the clock, and not to rise or look at what he fully expected to find a laughable daub. Vandyke began his work; Hals looked like a sitter.
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