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On the best of days Seatown was not beautiful. I have read in books romantic descriptions of Glebeshire coves, Glebeshire towns with the romantic Inn, the sanded floor, fishermen with gold rings in their ears and strange oaths upon their lips.
Moreover, in the ordinary way, a picnic, which depended so entirely for its success on the weather, was no great risk, because the Coles were indifferent to rain, as all true Glebeshire people must be. Mrs. Charlotte and pasties!... nevertheless, the invitation had been given and accepted. The Coles could but anxiously inspect the sky...
Most of all she longed to get him away from this place where he was. Then one day little Abrams said to her: "He'll never get well here." "That's what I think," she said. "Can't you carry him off somewhere? The country's the place for him somewhere in the South." Her heart leapt. "Oh, Glebeshire!" she cried. "Well, that's not a bad place," he said. "That would pick him up."
He sat down at the table, slowly unfolding the Glebeshire Morning News that always waited, neatly, beside his plate. His hand did not tremble, although his heart was beating with a strange, muffled agitation. "I suppose he went off somewhere," he said. "He never tells us, of course. He's getting too selfish for anything." He put down his newspaper and picked up his letters.
So I've thought it would be nice to have a little farm somewhere in the South, Devonshire or Glebeshire ... And then I'd marry of course, a girl who'd like that kind of life and wouldn't find it dull. There'd be plenty of work a healthy life for children right away from these towns ... That's my sort of idea, father, but of course one doesn't know ..." Martin trailed off into inconsequent words.
The richer and finer division spent several weeks of the winter abroad in places like Nice and Cannes, and the poorer contingent took their holiday from Skeaton in the summer in Glebeshire or the Lake District. The Constantines and the Maxses were very fine indeed because they went both to Cannes in the winter and Scotland in the summer. It was wonderful, considering how often Mrs.
Nothing seems to have had any effect upon me except, perhaps, these last two days. Do you know Glebeshire?" he asked me abruptly. I said that I had spent one summer there with a reading party. "Ah," he answered, smiling, "I can tell, by the way you say that, that you don't really know it at all. To us Glebeshire people it's impossible to speak of it so easily.
At last she was beside him, standing up against his table and looking over his head at the window behind him. "Nasty weather, Mr. Brandon," she said. Her voice was low and not unpleasant; although she rolled her r's her Glebeshire accent was not very strong, and she spoke slowly, as though she were trying to choose her words. "Yes," Falk answered. "Good for your trade, though."
Miss Jones arrived upon a wet January afternoon, one of those Glebeshire days when the town sinks into a bath of mud and mist and all the pipes run water and the eaves drip and horses splash and only ducks are happy. Out of a blurred lamp-lit dusk stumbled Miss Jones's cab, and out of a blurred unlit cab stumbled Miss Jones. As she stood in the hall trying to look warm and amiable, Mrs.
The man was fearless, a fanatic if you please, but devoted to his religion, believing in it with a fervour and sincerity that nothing could shake. An able man too, the best preacher in the diocese, better read in every kind of theology than any clergyman in Glebeshire. It was especially for his open mind about new religious ideas that the Archdeacon mistrusted him.
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