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"I should not have gone to that house last night," he went on, "but I knew that my mother was there, and I had received information that one of our scouts by the name of Leroy was in great danger of capture. What I did discover was that Miss Ryder had been captured." He laughed as he said this, and gave me a peculiar look. "As to Leroy," I asked, "was he at that house?
Montague told her all about Lucy; and, in the meantime, he watched the latter, who sat near the centre of the table, talking with Stanley Ryder. Montague had played bridge with this man once or twice at Mrs. Winnie's, and he thought to himself that Lucy could hardly have met a man who would embody in himself more of the fascinations of the Metropolis.
I do feel for this father whose life is slowly ebbing away whose strength is being sapped hourly by the thought of the disgrace the injustice that is being done him! I do feel for the wife of this suffering man!" "Ah, its a complete picture!" cried Ryder mockingly. The dying father, the sorrowing mother and the daughter, what is she supposed to be doing?"
The absurd rule about not hitting a man when he is down has never obtained a place in the great female soul; so Ryder lashed him without mercy. "Well, sir," said she, "methinks you have gained little by breaking faith with me. Y' had better have set up your inn with me, than gone and sinned against the law." "Much better: would to Heaven I had!" "What d' ye mean to do now? You know the saying.
Ryder seated himself on a block near the tent entrance, his back half turned to the others, and neither spoke nor moved throughout the narration. Stony looked from one to the other, and then commenced his story. He told it in a monotonous voice, with a dull face and eyes heavy with drink.
"Why do you want to add to the girl's misery? Don't you think she has suffered enough?" "Do you know what she has done?" said Ryder with pretended indignation. "She has insulted me grossly. I never was so humiliated in my life. She has returned the cheque I sent her last night in payment for her work on my biography. I mean to make her take that money.
Mrs. Ryder was busy at her escritoire looking over a mass of household accounts. "Hello, mother!" he cried, running up and hugging her in his boyish, impulsive way. Jefferson had always been devoted to his mother, and while he deplored her weakness in permitting herself to be so completely under the domination of his father, she had always found him an affectionate and loving son.
Ryder is akin to Coleridge, too, for there is a direct visional analogy between "The Flying Dutchman" and the excessively pictorial stanzas of "The Ancient Mariner." Ryder has typified himself in this excellent portrayal of sea disaster, this profound spectacle of the soul's despair in conflict with wind and wave.
The armed feudalism of the middle ages had been succeeded in twentieth century America by the tyranny of capital. Yet, ruminated the young artist as he neared the Ryder residence, the American people had but themselves to blame for their present thralldom.
Ryder cordially, "what have you to tell me? I can give you only a few minutes. I expect a lady friend of yours." The plutocrat sometimes condescended to be jocular with his subordinates. "A lady friend of mine, sir?" echoed the man, puzzled. "Yes Miss Shirley Green, the author," replied the financier, enjoying the detective's embarrassment. "That suggestion of yours worked out all right.
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