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To Stephen this question was naturally both unexpected and annoying, one's wife being the last person he wished to interest in other people's movements. He kept his head. "Ah well!" he said, "we haven't all got a talent for that sort of thing." The voice of Mr. Purcey travelled suddenly across the room. "Do tell me! How do you go to work to worm things out of them?" Mrs.
Purcey would have been, perhaps, the only one whose judgments he would have considered sound. No one had laid up a competence for Mr. Purcey, who had been in business from the age of twenty.
"Really," murmured Bianca; "I should have thought that you'd have got on so well." "He's a little bit too er scriptural for me, perhaps," said Mr. Purcey, with some delicacy. "Did we never tell you," Bianca answered softly, "that my father was a rather well known man of science before his illness?" "Ah!" replied Mr. Purcey, a little puzzled; "that, of course. D'you know, of all your pictures, Mrs.
Tallents Smallpeace, he added: "How do you do? We met the other day." "We did," said Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, whose little eyes were sparkling. "We talked about the poor, do you remember?" Mr. Purcey, a sensitive man if you could get through his skin, gave her a shrewd look. 'I don't quite cotton to this woman, he seemed saying; 'there's a laugh about her I don't like.
"Ah! yes you were tellin' me about them." "Oh, Mr. Purcey, but you had heard of them, you remember!" Mr. Purcey made a movement of his face which caused it to seem all jaw. It was a sort of unconscious declaration of a somewhat formidable character. So one may see bulldogs, those amiable animals, suddenly disclose their tenacity. "It's rather a blue subject," he said bluntly.
Don't you get out; she'll be all right directly." "Oh," said Cecilia, "thanks; but I must go in here, anyhow; I think I'll say good-bye. Thank you so much. I have enjoyed it." From the threshold of a shop she looked back. Mr. Purcey, on foot, was leaning forward from the waist, staring at his A.i. Damyer with profound concentration.
Purcey stared admiringly at Thyme, and Thyme, sitting very upright, was calmly regarding the unfortunate Egregio Pozzi, who apparently could not bring himself to speak. When Cecilia found herself outside, she stood still a moment to compose her nerves. Thyme had told her that Hilary was in the dining-room, and wanted specially to see her.
A certain modicum of decency and comfort is obviously necessary to man before we can begin to do anything but pity him; but that doesn't make it any easier to know how you're going to insure him that modicum of decency and comfort, does it?" "We've got to do it," said Thyme; "it won't wait any longer." "My dear," said Hilary, "think of Mr. Purcey!
He had approached in his slightly inconvenient way, as though seeing but one thing in the whole world. "You are living by yourself?" he had said. "I shall come and see you." Made by the Art Critic or by Mr. Purcey, that somewhat strange remark would have had one meaning; made by Mr. Stone it obviously had another.
There were no Hughs, no little model all that sordid life had vanished; there was nothing but the wind beating her cheeks and the A.i. Damyer leaping under her. Mr. Purcey said: "It just makes all the difference to me; keeps my nerves in order." "Oh," Cecilia murmured, "have you got nerves." Mr. Purcey smiled.
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