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But virtually the same, virtually the same. The difference is merely in a lawyer's mind." "You intend to give me no other notice?" "You are right. No." "Do you contemplate undeceiving Sir Leicester to-night?" "A home question!" says Mr. Tulkinghorn with a slight smile and cautiously shaking his head at the shaded face. "No, not to- night." "To-morrow?"
Tulkinghorn, "make another visit here, or at Mr. Snagsby's, and you shall learn." "In that case you will send me to the prison, perhaps?" "Perhaps." It would be contradictory for one in mademoiselle's state of agreeable jocularity to foam at the mouth, otherwise a tigerish expansion thereabouts might look as if a very little more would make her do it. "In a word, mistress," says Mr.
Possibly to roam the house-tops again and return by the chimney. "Mr. Guppy," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "could I have a word with you?" Mr. Guppy is engaged in collecting the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty from the wall and depositing those works of art in their old ignoble band-box.
"You are a vixen, a vixen!" Mr. Tulkinghorn seems to meditate as he looks distrustfully at her, then he replies, "Well, wench, well. I paid you." "You paid me!" she repeats with fierce disdain. "Two sovereign! I have not change them, I re-fuse them, I des-pise them, I throw them from me!"
In this reply, down to the word "wager" inclusive, mademoiselle has been ironically polite and tender, then as suddenly dashed into the bitterest and most defiant scorn, with her black eyes in one and the same moment very nearly shut and staringly wide open. "Now, let us see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, tapping his chin with the key and looking imperturbably at her, "how this matter stands." "Ah!
The time was once when men as knowing as Mr. Tulkinghorn would walk on turret-tops in the starlight and look up into the sky to read their fortunes there. Hosts of stars are visible to-night, though their brilliancy is eclipsed by the splendour of the moon.
Here, beneath the painted ceiling, with foreshortened Allegory staring down at his intrusion as if it meant to swoop upon him, and he cutting it dead, Mr. Tulkinghorn has at once his house and office. He keeps no staff, only one middle-aged man, usually a little out at elbows, who sits in a high pew in the hall and is rarely overburdened with business. Mr. Tulkinghorn is not in a common way.
"You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am not at present placed?" says mademoiselle. "Certainly, certainly!" "And to confer upon me the favour of your distinguished recommendation?" "By all means, Mademoiselle Hortense." "A word from Mr. Tulkinghorn is so powerful." "It shall not be wanting, mademoiselle." "Receive the assurance of my devoted gratitude, dear sir." "Good night."
"Please yourself, please yourself." "If you know what you mean, that's quite enough." These he utters with an appearance of perfect indifference as he looks over the papers on his table and prepares to write a letter. Mr. George looks distrustfully from the painted ceiling to the ground, from the ground to Mr. Smallweed, from Mr. Smallweed to Mr. Tulkinghorn, and from Mr.
I know from my own inquiries and through my eyes and ears that Lady Dedlock did make such visit in the dress of her own maid, for the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn employed me to reckon up her ladyship if you'll excuse my making use of the term we commonly employ and I reckoned her up, so far, completely.
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