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Lord Harold Gray's a sure enough Lord, and she's his wife but but a chippy, just the same; that's what she is, in spite of the Gray emeralds and that great Gray rose diamond she wears on the tiniest chain around her scraggy neck. Do you know, Mag Monahan, that this Lady Harold Gray was just a chorus girl and a sweet chorus it must have been if she sang there! when she nabbed Lord Harold?
And Lady Hartledon stood and gazed after him as one in a dream. Thomas Carr was threading his way through the mazy precincts of Gray's Inn, with that quick step and absorbed manner known only, I think, to the busy man of our busy metropolis. He was on his way to make some inquiries of a firm of solicitors, Messrs. Kedge and Reck, strangers to him in all but name.
He, after this, came again and again never empty-handed oftener indeed than the doctor, whose skill failed, as he feared it would, to arrest the poor girl's malady, while Mr Gray's ministrations were successful in giving her the happy assurance that "though her sins were as scarlet, she had become white as snow," so he assured mother. "Praise the Lord," was her reply.
I called a cabriolet, and the first thing the driver asked was, "Is the Bill carried?" "Yes, by one." "Thank God for it, Sir." And away I rode to Gray's Inn, and so ended a scene which will probably never be equalled till the reformed Parliament wants reforming; and that I hope will not be till the days of our grandchildren, till that truly orthodox and apostolical person Dr.
Abraham Hart was an attorney, so called by himself and friends, living in a genteel street abutting on Gray's Inn Road, with whose residence and place of business, all beneath the same roof, George Hotspur was very well acquainted. Mr. Hart was a man in the prime of life, with black hair and a black beard, and a new shining hat, and a coat with a velvet collar and silk lining.
A subsequent window, showing our Lord on the Mount, had long disappeared, and some heraldry was all the east end of the chapel could boast. The gardens open by a handsome gate of wrought iron into Field Court, which is westward of Gray's Inn Square. Here Bacon planted the trees, and enjoyed the view northward, then all open, from a summer-house which was only removed about 1754.
Gray's clothing, elevate my slippered feet, "Yenghi Donia fashion," on a pile of Turcoman! carpets, and, abetted by the cheering presence of a bottle of Shiraz wine, exchange my recent experiences on the road for telegraphic scraps of the latest news.
The boy made his way back to Gray's Inn got your card and message called and failed to find you. There you have the state of the case, Mr. Blake, as it stands at the present time." "What is your own opinion of the case, Sergeant?" "I think it's serious, sir. Judging by what the boy saw, the Indians are in it, to begin with." "Yes. And the sailor is evidently the person to whom Mr.
The car moved away, swinging to the right across the traffic stream and clearly heading for old Bond Street. Quentin Gray's mercurial color deserted him, and he turned to Seton a face grown suddenly pale. "Good God," he whispered, "something has happened to Rita!" Neglectful of his personal safety, he plunged out into the traffic, dodging this way and that, and making after Monte Irvin's car.
Gray's decision had been quickly made. Opportunity had knocked he was not one to deny her admission, no matter how queer her garb. A hundred thousand dollars' worth of gems! The very figures intrigued him and diamonds are readily negotiable. There would be a natural risk attached to the handling of so large an amount. A thousand things might happen to a treasure chest of that size.
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