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He was thankful when the meal was over and they were ready to set out for Rotherwood. Dinah had some calls to pay, so Elizabeth had the house to herself for an hour or two; but she would not be idle for a moment. The sun was hot on the terrace and flower-beds, but the vases were to be replenished. Dinah had returned and brought her a cup of tea before she had finished.
The care they took of her small room, the fresh hot tea they managed to have ready when she came in, the penny bunch of daffodils they sometimes put on her table, were kindnesses, and she was grateful for them. "I am very much obliged to you, Jane," she said to the girl, when she got into the four-wheeled cab on the eventful day of her journey to Mallowe.
I am riding home to Volksrust. The bargaining lasted for some minutes, the storekeeper saying that the wine was of no use to him, for no Boer ever spent money on wine; the tea of course was worth money, but he had now a large stock on hand, and could give but little for it. However, the bargain was at last struck.
'Tea's ready, daddy, said the boy; 'come home with little John. 'Maybe you wouldn't object to a cup o' tea, sir, said the father, turning to me; 'it'll hearten you up a bit after your journey, and there's sure to be herrings. We almost lives on herrings here, sir, and then, if you're so minded, you can look at the room after.
"I don't know; it would depend upon circumstances," she murmured. "I will write and send for them," said Mr. Barrett, significantly. Miss Lindsay made no reply. They had arrived at her gate by this time, and, with a hurried handshake, she disappeared indoors. Mr. Barrett, somewhat troubled in mind, went home to tea.
But in his soul he was glad, because the soul is greater than the heart, and knows greater things. And now Dickie loved Beale more than ever, because for him he had sacrificed his dream. So he had gained something. Because loving people is the best thing in the world better even than being loved. Just think this out, will you, and see if I am not right. There were herrings for tea.
To him she had always appeared the most beautiful woman in the world. And now the fondly-indulged wife could do nothing but lie on her sofa and shed a rain of incessant tears, and drink strong tea, which had lost its power to comfort or exhilarate. She would see no one.
"I believe I need that more than any thing else." "Well, I will, immediately, after supper, that is. I am exhausted now with ministerial duties. You have asked Miss Phebe to tea have you not, Soeur Angélique? You cannot stay? Oh, but of course you must." "Of course she will," said Mrs. Whittridge, with her tender smile. "Phebe only lives to give pleasure to others.
But there's no one here to take it. No Mr. Blipper or Bob Guess around now." "Well, don't forget, and go off, leaving it hang on the tree," warned his wife. "I won't," said Mr. Bobbsey. A fire was made, and as Mrs. Bobbsey was sitting with her back against a stump, comfortably sipping her tea, she heard the sound of crying.
He didn't like Fred Booty to begin with, and when the impudent young monkey arrived after the others had gone, and had to have fresh tea made for him, thus accentuating and prolonging the unpleasantly, the intolerably festive hour, Mr. Ransome felt that he had been tried to the utmost, and that courtesy and forbearance had gone far enough for one Sunday.
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