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And on a more general view, Colonel, to confess the truth, though it may lower me in your opinion, I am heartly tired of the trade of war, and am, as Fletcher's Humorous Lieutenant says, "even as weary of this fighting-'" 'Fighting! pooh, what have you seen but a skirmish or two? Ah! if you saw war on the grand scale sixty or a hundred thousand men in the field on each side!
When will you begin?" "Now." "That's good. No time like now. Wait a bit, and I'll show you about the place before we go to lunch. You'll get hold of the ropes directly." This was Mr. Fletcher's veteran joke. At three o'clock Mr. Fletcher closed his desk. It was time to take his train. "Tomorrow, then," he said, "we will begin in earnest." "What are the business hours here?" asked Jack.
Fletcher's outhouses; at nine the villain is tramping the railway platform, in agony lest his burden shall mi-aow; at ten the monster is at Dippleford Admiral; at eleven the traitor is asleep in the bedroom of an inn, the agitated Rose uneasily slumbering upon his bed. Terror At Dippleford Admiral. "Impress your client," was the maxim of Mr. David Brunger.
Harcourt's genius, and a friend of his family, she felt that such an event would be deplorable, and she therefore begged to leave it to Mr. Fletcher's delicacy and tact to arrange with the author for its publication. She knew that Mr.
Beaumont and Fletcher's works did not make their appearance until a short time after the death of the latter; the publishers have not given themselves the trouble to distinguish critically the share which belonged to each, and still less to afford us any information respecting the diversity of their talents.
It is Bishop Hall's, Bishop Earle's, it is Beaumont's, Fletcher's, Jonson's, Shakspeare's, the picture which every dramatist, as well as satirist, has drawn of the 'gallant' of the seventeenth century. No one can read those writers honestly without seeing that the Puritan, and not the Cavalier conception of what a British gentleman should be, is the one accepted by the whole nation at this day.
Such is the fate of Brisac in Fletcher's Elder Brother, and of Ricardo and Ubaldo in Massinger's Picture. Sometimes, as in the Fatal Dowry and Love's Cruelty, the outraged honour of families is repaired by a bloody revenge.
"That was a kind and generous act, and Miss Cotton must feel proud of it," said Christie, with an indignant recollection of Mr. Fletcher's "cautious inquiries" about herself. "It was perfectly right and proper, Miss Devon; and I thank her for her care of my interests." And Mrs.
At her own door the second surprise stood waiting for her, in the person of Mrs. Fletcher's servant with a large box and a note from Miss Fanny. How she ever got herself and her parcel up the long stairs Jessie never knew, she was in such a frantic hurry to see what that vast box could contain.
"I say," murmured Diggory, after sitting for a quarter of an hour listlessly turning over the pages of a magazine, "Fletcher's sold us about that lark; I don't see the use of staying here any longer." Hardly had the words been uttered when some one in the passage outside crowed like a cock.
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