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"The women who give in to such fascination, such mere outward charms, are fools!" says she with a strength that adorns her. "Oh, come! Come now, dearest Margaret," says her aunt, with the gayest of little laughs, "would you call yourself a fool? Why, remember, your own dear Harold was "
Harold, by some manoeuvring, got his mother to himself for a time, making a comfortable seat for her in the sand, and shading her from the sun with an umbrella. "Mamma," he said, "I want a good talk with you; there are some questions, quite suitable for Sunday, that I want to ask.
'I shall be most happy to do so, Harold said, and then the carriage drove away, while he went in to his grandmother, who had not attended the funeral, but who knew that he had returned and was waiting for him.
To convince ourselves of this, we do not need to recall the effect of Werther, of Childe Harold, and of Don Juan, and the imitation of their sentimentality, misanthropy, and adventure, down to the copying of the rakishness of the loosely-knotted necktie and the broad turn-over collar.
In his heart he thought his own Pilgrimage of Harold inferior to his Imitation of Horace's Art of Poetry, a feeble echo of Pope and Johnson. This insipid performance he repeatedly designed to publish, and was withheld only by the solicitations of his friends. He has distinctly declared his approbation of the unities, the most absurd laws by which genius was ever held in servitude.
"Who heard from Harold last?" asked Devitt presently. "I did," replied Miss Spraggs. "It was on Tuesday he wrote." "How did he write?" "Quite light-heartedly. He has now for some weeks: such a change for him." "H'm!" "Why do you ask?" said Mrs Devitt. "I saw Pritchett when I was in town yesterday." "Harold's doctor?" queried Miss Spraggs. "He told me he'd seen Harold last week." "At Swanage?"
He listened intently to the conversation, which was in French. "I have just the thing for madame," the stranger was saying. "It be a noble and stately hall far from the beaten way. It was built in the old days by Harold the Saxon, but in later times, death and poverty and the disfavor of the King have wrested it from his descendants.
"What a pity," his father dropped with the special shade of dryness that was all Edward's own, "what a pity you haven't got one of your favourites to try on us!" Harold looked about as if it might have been after all a happy thought. "Well, Nanda's the only girl." "And one's sister doesn't count," said the Duchess. "It's just because the thing's bad," Tishy resumed for Mrs.
At the close of the conference a mass meeting was scheduled in the Town Hall, New York City, to discuss the morality of Birth Control. Mr. Harold Cox, editor of the Edinburgh Review, who had come to New York to attend the conference, was to lead the discussion.
I was so reduced in spirit that had Harold Beecham appeared then with a matrimonial scheme to be fulfilled at once, I would have quickly erased the fine lines I had drawn and accepted his proposal; but he did not come, and I was unacquainted with his whereabouts or welfare.
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