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Unfortunately he never tried the effect of deserving better treatment as a remedy for his woes. The parson's good advice and Miss Betty's entreaties were alike in vain. He was ungrateful even to Thomasina. The little ladies sighed and thought of the lawyer. And the parson preached patience. "Cocky has been tamed," said Miss Kitty thoughtfully, "perhaps John Broom will get steadier by-and-by."
He knew that nook of his was wanted for cattle stalls on the new principle, and very handy it would be with all that water close at hand, but he had worked for sixty years, and had had nineteen children there, and he would not turn out. Not he. The parson's "missis" and the squire's "missis" came the other day about that youngest boy of his.
Go and live and starve in your dreary old house, and marry a parson's daughter, and sing psalms with your precious mother; and I have no doubt you and she she who has thwarted me all through life, and whom I hated, yes, I hated from the moment she took my son from me, and brought misery into my family, will be all the happier when she thinks that she has made a poor, fond, lonely old woman more lonely and miserable.
Brownlow, who inhabited a large old-fashioned house on the Fulham Road, just beyond the fashionable confines of Brompton, but nearer to town than the decidedly rural district of Walham Green and Parson's Green.
In a lull of the tempest, the clear voice, somewhat shrill, made answer, "Yes, I'll save you." There was a second's quiet, one of those tremendous seconds such as must have been before the world was: then a roar to shatter hearts. A hand gripped Kit's. The boy looked up into the Parson's blue and brimming eyes. "It was worth it," those eyes said. Then the crowd broke all about them.
He wished, do you see, to know with what weight the stone would fall down, and talked something about gravitation a word which I could never understand to the present day, save that it turned out a grave matter to me. I, like a silly fellow myself, must needs consent, and, flinging the stone up to a vast height, contrived so that it fell into the parson's hand, which it cut dreadfully.
Claracilla, a Tragi-comedy, printed in folio, London 1663; written at Rome, and dedicated to his sister in-law lady Shannon; on this play and another of the author's called the Prisoners, Mr. Cartwright has written an ingenious copy of verses. The Parson's Wedding, a Comedy, printed in folio, London 1663; written at Basil in Switzerland.
In an ordinary way, a police-constable's life is like a parson's: they see more'n most men o' what's goin' on, but they don't belong to it. You can't properly hobnob with a chap that, like as not, you'll be called on to marry or bury to-morra, nor stand him a drink nor be stood when, quite as like, next time you'll be servin' a summons. There's a Jane on both sides." "A who?"
Therefore it befell that the parson's sermon of the morning had dropped like living coals on his conscience. It had sounded that familiar, lifelong, best-loved, trumpet call of duty the old note of joy in his strength rightly and valiantly to be put forth which had always kindled him and had always been his boast.
"How long will it take you?" asked David. "About an hour." "All right. I will meet you in front of the parson's house in an hour. We will go back by train. I have money enough." "I'd just as soon walk." The woman spoke with the utmost humility of love and trust. She had not even asked where the man lived.
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