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"Take the child and do the best for her, will you, Mrs. Rumbold? My cousin and I will supply all funds that may be needed." "I am sure that's very good of you, Mr. Lepel. The child couldn't be happier anywhere than she will be at Winstead. Alfred will write at once about it will you not, Alfred?" Alfred bowed assent.
An article of very tragic interest, because its publication was the indirect cause, in all human probability, of the death of its Author. This is not the place to recount Sir Lepel Griffin's career in many high places of Indian administration and diplomacy, latterly more particularly in the Punjab and Afghanistan.
"It might be." "Then Miss Vane will be the heiress. She and Mr. Lepel " He hesitated for a moment, and Cynthia looked up. "Miss Vane is going to marry Mr. Evandale father. She is not engaged to Mr. Lepel now." "Oh! Not engaged to Mr. Lepel now? Then what the dickens," said Westwood very deliberately, "did you and Mr. Lepel quarrel about, I should like to know?" "I can't tell you, father.
They probably themselves do not know it, but in the act of "drawing their inspiration" from alien scenes, or taking their own where they find it, are not they simply transporting to Europe "the struggle for material prosperity," which Sir Lepel supposes to be fatal to them here?
If was not a shadow of evil, but of sadness, of a subdued melancholy the sadness of a girl whose life had been darkened in early life by some undeserved calamity. It was a look that redeemed her face from the charge of inanimateness that might otherwise have been brought against it, and gave it that faintly sombre touch which was especially fascinating to a man like Hubert Lepel.
Governor says he will have to be put in the dark cell if he does not get better." "The dark cell? hum! Pray what is the effect of the dark cell on a prisoner?" "Well, sir, it cows them more than anything." "Where are your dark cells?" "They are down below, sir. You can look at them after the kitchen." "I must go into the town," said Mr. Lepel, looking at his watch.
It had figured as Medusa as Circe; the wonderful wicked woman of the Middle Ages had come to her in visions with just such subtle eyes, such languorous beauty, such fair white skin and yellow hair; the witch-woman of her weirdest dream had had the look of Florence Lepel; just as Hubert's far different features, with the dark melancholy expression of suffering stamped upon them, had stood for her as those of Fouqué's ideal knights, or of Sintram riding through the dark valley, of Lancelot sinning and repenting, of saint, hero, martyr, paladin, in turn, until she grew old enough to banish such foolish dreams.
"It matters nothing what they say, now." I told her. She left us. "There seems to be some private understanding between you," Rothsay said, when we were alone. "You shall hear what it is," I answered. "But I must beg you to excuse me if I speak first of myself." "Are you alluding to your health?" "Yes." "Quite needless, Lepel. I met your doctor this morning.
No; I had made up my mind, Mr. Lepel if you would not listen to me, I would go to London Bridge. If you think me wicked, I can't help it; it was my last resource." With her cheeks flaming, her eyes gleaming beneath her black brows, it was plain that she was dominated by passion of no common strength, by will and pride which made it well-nigh impossible for her to lead an ordinary woman's life.
Lepel, I don't. You could not send a child like that to a lady's house without letting the whole story be told; and who would take her then? In a charitable institution, now, she could be admitted, and no questions asked."
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