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Can you do as well as this?" and he exhibited a crabbed scrawl barely legible. "I hope that my writing would be more easily read than that, sir," answered Owen. "I could do the rule of three several years ago, and am pretty correct at summing up." "Umph!" repeated the old gentleman, "if I take you at your word, I must set you down as a genius.
Duty is better than a worthless woman, my Billikins, and I was never fit to be anything more than a toy to you a toy to play with and toss aside. And so good-bye, good-bye!" The scrawl ended with a little cross at the bottom of the page. He looked up from it with eyes gone blind with pain and a stunned and awful sense of loss. "When did the mem-sahib go?" he questioned, dully.
Sharp work, if these inferences were reasonable. And, satisfied that they were, Lanyard inclined to accord increased respect to the detective abilities of the American. But this note, this hurried, unsigned scrawl of five unintelligible words: what the deuce did it mean? On the evidence of the handwriting a woman had penned it. Cecelia Brooke? Who else?
Your plan and embellishment of my mode of life are fanciful, are flattering, and inviting. We will endeavour to realize some of it. Pray continue to write, if you can do it with impunity. I bless Sir J., who, with the assistance of Heaven, has thus far restored you. In the course of this scrawl I have been several times called to vote, which must apologize to you for its incoherence. Adieu.
"They tell me Miss Mackall has gone away," said Sam stiffly. "She was taken sick last night," replied Mrs. Beattie. "We all thought it best for her to go when she had a good chance." Sam stood undecided. Mrs. Beattie arose. "She left a note to bid you good-bye. I'll get it." This was what Sam read, written in a well nigh illegible scrawl: DEAR BOY, I cannot stay here. I am sick.
You must excuse this hasty scrawl, as it is only meant to let you know that I am still alive and going forward in my journey. Please to let Mrs. Dickson know that I am well." To Mrs. Park, Badoo, 29th May, 1805. "I am happy to inform you that we are half through our journey without the smallest accident or unpleasant circumstance.
"And his supper?" "He won't have any." "What?" cried Martha, with clasped hands. "No, my dear Martha, he will eat no more. No one in the house is to eat anything at all. Uncle Liedenbrock is going to make us all fast until he has succeeded in deciphering an undecipherable scrawl." "Oh, my dear! must we then all die of hunger?"
The penmanship of Bryant was aggressive, well formed and decidedly pleasing to the eye; while the chirography of Scott, Hunt, Moore, and Gray was smooth and easy to read but did not express distinct individuality. Byron's handwriting was nothing more than a scrawl.
Nothing more was necessary to place the conscience of the Duke of Albemarle at rest than a te absolvo said with a laugh, or the scrawl of "Charles the King," traced at the foot of a parchment; and with these two words pronounced, and these two words written, poor D'Artagnan was forever crushed beneath the ruins of his imagination.
But if you want my certificate, here's your own letter, old man," he said, producing Leonidas's last scrawl from his pocket. "And HERS?" said the boy cautiously. The stranger's face changed a little. "And HERS," he repeated gravely, showing a little pink note which Leonidas recognized as one of Mrs. Burroughs's inclosures.
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