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"It's you, Twinkle-tail," she panted, as she held him up for a good look, "sure enough!" She carried him back to a large stone and despatched him painlessly with a blunt stick. Then she sat down to rest, for she was weak and dizzy from her struggle. Looking down at Twinkle-tail where he lay, she said aloud: "I wish Jeffrey was here. He'll never believe it was you unless he sees you."
One of the voices was certainly Gadbeau's. The other It was! It was! Though it was only a mumble, she knew it was Jeffrey Whiting who tried to speak! She took a step forward, ready to dash into the place, whatever it was. But the caution of the hills made her back away noiselessly into the brush. What could she do? Why? Oh, why had she not brought a rifle? Gadbeau was sure to be armed.
And I rather think you'll have to get into politics. You'd be mayor yourself if you'd get busy." Jeffrey had no impulse to-day to go and ask Esther if she were afraid of him as he had when Reardon told him the same tale. He wasn't thinking of Esther now.
But the slight editorial care required by the magazine was irksome to a man who had an unconquerable repugnance to all periodical labor. In 1813 Francis Jeffrey made a visit to the United States. Henry Brevoort, who was then in London, wrote an anxious letter to Irving to impress him with the necessity of making much of Mr. Jeffrey.
Jeffrey and Anna had retired to their room, and while Madam Conway was giving some household directions in the kitchen, he asked her to come and sit by him as he lay upon the sofa, himself placing her chair where the lamplight would fall full upon her face and reveal its every expression. Closing the piano, she complied with his request, and then waited in silence for what he wanted to say.
Moore characterizes it as "the most painful display of the versatility of genius that has ever been left for succeeding ages to wonder at or deplore." Jeffrey found in the whole composition "a tendency to destroy all belief in the reality of virtue;" and Dr. John Watkins classically named it "the Odyssey of Immorality."
Jeffrey, who, mindful of her exploit with the banner, and wishing to make some amends, met them alone on the threshhold, Maggie having at the last moment run away, while Theo sat in a state of dignified perturbation upon the sofa.
In half an hour the news of the finding of Manderson's body, with the inevitable rumor that it was suicide, was printing in a dozen newspaper offices; but before a copy reached Wall Street the tornado of the panic was in full fury, and Howard B. Jeffrey and his collaborators were whirled away like leaves before its breath. All this sprang out of nothing.
The two men ascended to the second floor that is, they ascended half-way, for at the first landing Jeffrey dropped his guest's suitcase and in a cross between a query and a cry exclaimed: "For God's sake, Harry, how do you like her?" "We will go up-stairs," answered his guest, "and we will shut the door."
Jeffrey's hands were usually too cold, and Theo's were too hot. Mrs. Jeffrey made the head of the bed too high, Theo altogether too low.
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