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A lordly fellow, decided Kenneth, and forthwith took a keen dislike for him. Nevertheless, it was not difficult to account for Viola's interest in him; nor, to a certain extent, the folly which led her to undertake the exploit of the night before. Barry Lapelle would have his way with women. "You come from Kentucky, Mr. Gwynne," Lapelle was saying. "I am from Louisiana. My father came up to St.
You came with your mother to Gwynne Street," replied Sylvia, wondering why she had been honored with a visit. "Quite so. May I have a few minutes' conversation with you?" "Certainly." Sylvia saw no reason to deny this request, although she did not like Miss Krill.
Their conversation, passing down the stream of time, touched on all that was memorable in the life of both. She mentioned her husband but merely the two events, not long distant each from each, of their marriage and his death. "Your son is not like yourself does he resemble Mr. Gwynne?" observed Rothesay. "In person, yes, a little; in mind no! a thousand times no!"
When he entered the room she was talking to his uncle, and had her back turned to the door. He was at once greeted by Mr Gwynne and Lady Mary Nugent, so that he did not find it necessary to shake hands with every one, and made a kind of general bow, which he addressed to Miss Hall particularly, and was therefore unconscious of the half-attempt of Freda to rise from her seat as he entered.
Gwynne, who, in her matter-of-fact plainness, had no patience with any of Lyle's "romantic vagaries," as she called them, began to exert the dormant humour by which she always quenched his little ebullitions. Olive at last considerately came to the rescue, and proposed an evening stroll about the garden, to which Lyle gladly assented.
Me an' Tilly not bein' of 'appy matchin' don't correspond. We're Londing both," exclaimed Deborah, "father 'avin' bin a 'awker, but why she went to the country, or why I stopped in Gwynne Street, no one knows. And may I arsk, Mr. Beecot, why you arsk of that place?" "Your late master came from Christchurch, Mrs. Tawsey. Did you never hear him mention it?" "That I never did, for close he was, Mr.
He was tall and straight and his figure was shapely, despite the thick blue cape that hung from his shoulders. "I guess they ain't any dirtier than Phin Striker's boots are this time o' the year. Put them over here, boy, 'longside o' that cupboard. Supper'll be ready in ten or fifteen minutes, Mr. Gwynne." His smile broadened. He sniffed gratefully.
"You told me so once before," answered Harold, in a low tone. "Do you remember? It was at the Hermitage of Braid." He stopped, thinking she would have replied; but she was silent. Her silence seemed to grow over him like a cloud. When the lights came in, he looked the same proud, impassive Harold Gwynne, as in the old time. Already his clasp had melted from Olive's hand.
He almost blew himself and his store to Hallelujah a year or two ago, and so he isn't quite so enterprising as he was. I am on my way to town, Mr. Gwynne, so if you do not mind, I shall give myself the pleasure of riding along with you for a short distance. I shall have to leave you soon, however, as I am due in the town by ten o'clock.
"I wouldn't do him any harm for the world," said Mrs. Kaye, casting down her eyes and looking very young and innocent. "But I should hate to give him up. After all, there is no one half so interesting. Well, I'll go down and have it over." A few moments later she joined Gwynne at the foot of the staircase, and they went out to the woods.
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