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"Something better than that." "I could think of a good many better things," said his wife, with a sigh of latent bitterness. "What's this one?" "I've had a visitor." "Who?" "Can't you guess?" "I don't want to try. Who was it?" "Rogers." Mrs. Lapham sat down with her hands in her lap, and stared at the smile on her husband's face, where he sat facing her.
At night, when his mother took the candle away with her and left him alone in the dark, he was not afraid; for, by closing his eyes, he could always see the two women quite plainly; and always he saw them at work, each with a pillow on her lap, and the lace upon it growing, growing, until the pins and bobbins wove a pattern that was a dream, and he slept.
"This is quite a different meeting from the one Señorita Rodriguez had planned, isn't it?" she asked. There was a taunting curve on her scarlet lips; the shadow passed from her eyes; her slim, white hands lay idle in her lap. Mr. Grimm regarded her reflectively.
"I found him on the parlour sofa, the little window and the escritoire open!" Fulk said breathlessly, "the villain!" "I'm not hurt," said dear Alured's voice, faintly, but reassuringly, "Oh! put me down, Fulk." We did put him down on the floor there was no other place with his head on my lap, and I found strange voices asking him what Perrault had done to him. "Oh! nothing! 'twasn't that.
They carried Derry away, and Rachael followed them up to the head of the stairway outside of the operating-room, and sat there, her hands locked in her lap, her head resting against the wall. Alice dared not join her, she kept her seat by the library fire, and with one hand pressed tight against her eyes, tried to pray. Rachael did not pray. She was unable even to think clearly.
It seemed a long time before Ginger came back, and before we were left alone; and then she told me all that she had seen. "I can't tell much," she said. "We went a gallop nearly all the way, and got there just as the doctor rode up. There was a woman sitting on the ground with the lady's head in her lap.
Westerfelt found him with his back to the door, sitting over the fire, a leather-bound tome in his lap. "Hello!" he cried, seeing who it was; "pull up a seat." Westerfelt drew a rickety chair from beneath a dusty desk and sat down. "Did you get home all right?" he asked. "Yes."
With the book open on her lap, and her hands clasped around her knees, she sat looking steadily into the fire. She did not know what a long, long step she was taking out of childhood that afternoon, nor that the sweet seriousness of her new purpose shone in her upturned face.
Quiet she lived and died, nor was she reckoned great in letters by her contemporaries. She wrote on her lap with others in the room, refused to take herself seriously and in no respect was like the authoress who is kodaked at the writing-desk and chronicled in her movements by land and sea. She was not the least bit "literary."
And there were a lot of children, father, all round the woman where she sat on a box, and she was tying in a bunch some flowers that were huddled in her lap, and the children were picking out the good ones for her; and just then a man, who was bending over back of them all, breaking off some little branches from a big green one, straightened up suddenly, and, father, as true as you live," cried Jasper, in intense excitement, "it was your poor man!"
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