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His only recourse was Eloise, and he planned a long time how to approach the subject without mentioning her apron. At last a happy inspiration came to him, and when Howard's attention was diverted another way he bent over her and began. "Astonishing, isn't it, where all the stuff comes from? Somebody must have given very freely. I never gave a thing except money.
But the play is only to be read, and therefore home, with no pleasure at all, but only in sitting next to Betty Hall, that did belong to this house, and was Sir Philip Howard's mistress; a mighty pretty wench, though my wife will not think so; and I dare neither commend, nor be seen to look upon her, or any other now, for fear of offending her.
Van Burnam merely wanted his letter back, but she refused to return it unless he would promise her a complete recognition by his family of her marriage and ensure her a reception in his father's house as Howard's wife. This was more than he could engage himself to perform.
If there were leisure in this too-leisurely chronicle for what might be called aftermath, the dinner that Honora had given to some of her Quicksands friends might be described. Suffice it to recall, with Honora, that Lily Dallam, with a sure instinct, had put the finger of her wit on this new attribute of Howard's. "You'll kill me, Howard!" she had cried.
Howard's first object in reading is to improve his style; but," added he, turning to the title-page, and pointing to Franklin's name, "you, perhaps, did not know " "Oh, Dr. Franklin's works," interrupted Supine: "I did not see the name before to be sure I must bow down to that." Having thus easily satisfied Mr. Supine's critical scruples by the authority of a name, Mr.
Howard's swift imagination pictured the mutual attraction of the two, the enchanting discoveries, the laughing sympathy. Guthrie would, no doubt, come down to Windlow. It was exactly the kind of match that Mr. Sandys would like for Maud; and this was to be the end of this tragic affair. How was he to endure the rest of the days of the visit?
Vivian Howard, the famous author and dramatist, whose new novel, "Amy Martin," Daily readers need not be reminded, was to start in the Daily as a feuilleton on Monday week, had been robbed of his famous cat "Abishag the Shunamite." The whole reading public were well aware of Mr. Howard's devotion to this valuable pet. Scarcely a portrait of Mr.
Davis, of Howard's Creek, went by me, making for the rear with a shattered right arm and a ghastly hole through his cheek. He tried to grin on recognizing me. Word was passed on from our rear that runners had been sent to hurry up Colonel Christian and his two hundred men. Among the captains killed by this time were John Murray and Samuel Wilson.
As they gazed in silence at each other, Howard divined something of the hard, bitter feeling which came into Grant's heart as he stood there, ragged, ankle-deep in muck, his sleeves rolled up, a shapeless old straw hat on his head. The gleam of Howard's white hands angered him. When he spoke, it was in a hard, gruff tone, full of rebellion. "Well, go in the house and set down.
Lord Seymour had come up with a squadron from the mouth of the Thames, but his ships had but one day's provisions on board, while Drake and Howard's divisions had all but exhausted their supplies. The previous day's fighting had used up the ammunition obtained at Dover. Starvation would drive every English ship from the sea in another week at latest.
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