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But how many pheasants did you get?" "Nobbut two. T' birds is varra scarce." "Then I don't see why you ran the risk of stealing Langrigg pheasants when there are plenty in Red Bank woods." Shanks was silent for a moment or two, and then replied, as if Mordaunt's carelessness had banished his doubts: "Mr. Dearham put us oot o' dabbin and blew 't up."
She was not inclined to the sports of her age; she loved, rather, and above all else, to sit by Mordaunt's side and silently pore over some books or feminine task, and to steal her eyes every now and then away from her employment, in order to watch his motions or provide for whatever her vigilant kindness of heart imagined he desired.
The reader will understand that all explanations still remained to be made, on both sides. These soon came, however; facts pressing themselves on the attention, at such times, with a weight that is irresistible. The ice was broken by Herman Mordaunt's entering the room, and speaking to us, like one who felt that a great omission had been made.
He straightened himself instantly; he looked into her eyes. "But you are happy, yes?" he questioned. "Of course," she told him hurriedly. He smiled the ready smile with which he had learned to mask his soul. "Alors, I am pleased," he said. He helped her into the carriage, and turned, still smiling, to the man behind her. Yet he flinched ever so slightly from the grip of Mordaunt's hand.
"Nothing ever happens to Noel." "Something will happen to him before long if he doesn't behave himself," observed Mordaunt. "My patience began to wear thin last night when I caught him asleep with a smouldering pipe on his pillow." "Oh, but he always does what he likes in the holidays," pleaded Chris. "Does he?" Mordaunt's voice was uncompromising. She slipped a quick hand into his.
Bulstrode had been made acquainted with Herman Mordaunt's plans, they being sworn friends, and the latter warmly in the interest of the former's suit; and he had known how to profit by the information.
Her small, precise hand was to be seen here, there and everywhere, sometimes in the substitution of a single word, often in the rewriting of an entire sentence. But nowhere on her own pages was to be found so much as a scratch by the clumsy hand of her fellow novelist. Her story bore the fetching title: "Lady Mordaunt's Lover." Courtney read the first page of her script.
"There you are mistaken," Mordaunt made grave reply. "It is the simple truth that I want nothing more." "Ciel!" Bertrand jumped in his chair as if he had been stabbed in the back. "You insult me!" Mordaunt's hand came out to him instantly and reassuringly. "My dear fellow, I never insult anyone. It is not my way." "But you do not believe me!" Bertrand protested. "And that is an insult that."
The year 1758 was one of great activity, on account of the movements of the army, and no time was then unnecessarily lost. The history of Herman Mordaunt's sleigh was very different. The poor bays must have drowned soon after we saw them floating past us in the torrent.
All the misery and debasement of her equivocal and dependent situation had not been able to drive her into compliance with Mordaunt's passionate and urgent prayers; and her heart was proof even to the eloquence of love, when that eloquence pointed towards the worldly injury and depreciation of her lover: but this new persecution was utterly unforeseen in its nature and intolerable from its cause.
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