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We walked down together. He spoke about my sketching, and I told him I had come on my annual pilgrimage, to ask Mary Brinsley to marry me." "Jerome!" "Yes, I did. This is my tenth pilgrimage. Mary, will you marry me?" "No," said Mary, softly, but as if she liked him very much. "No, Jerome." Wilmer squeezed a tube on his palette and regarded the color frowningly. "Might as well, Mary," said he.
As Wilmer had foreseen, the strength for further labour was gone for ever. He lingered about for a few weeks, and then took to his bed. And now came the time for the full trial of Mrs. Wilmer's mental and bodily strength. Notwithstanding all her close application at the needle, the small sum that had been saved from former earnings, slowly, but steadily diminished.
"You're going to marry Wilmer Deakon and be a proper happy wife!" he declared, bringing his fist down on a hard palm. "Get this other nonsense out of your head!" Suddenly he was trembling at the old catastrophe reopened by Lucy. His love for her, and his dread, choked him. She added nothing more, but sat rigid and pale and rebellious.
"Because you can't, that's all. Partly because you get the habit of facing the music. I should like " Wilmer had an unconsidered way of entertaining his sitters, without much expenditure to himself; he pursued a fantastic habit of talk to keep their blood moving, and did it with the eye of the mind unswervingly on his work. "If I were you, I'd do it. I'd write an essay on the muscular habit of courage. Your coward is born weak-kneed. He shouldn't spill himself all over the place trying to put on the spiritual make-up of a hero. He must simply strengthen his knees. When they'll take him anywhere he requests, without buckling, he wakes up and finds himself a field-marshal. Voil
Yes, I've been asking her to marry me." Marshby stiffened. His head went up, his jaw tightened. He looked the jealous ire of the male. "What do you want me to stand here for?" he asked, irritably. "But she refused me," said Wilmer, cheerfully. "Stand still, that's a good fellow. I'm using you." Marshby had by an effort pulled himself together.
At one time a sister-in-law of Olae Christaphersen, Bastine Christaphersen, was in childbirth. The midwife said the child could not be born without medical help. Her husband started for Wilmer to get the doctor. At seven o'clock she began to get blue and lost consciousness. They sent for Brother Olae.
But come, you want a glass of something to revive you. Let us step in here. I am a little dry myself." Without hesitation or reply, Wilmer entered a drinking-house, with the young man, where they retired to a box, and ordered brandy and water. After this had been taken in silence, the friend, whose name was Wilbert Arnold, said
Alexander, one of the founders of The Saturday Evening Post, to which The Dreamer was a frequent contributor, and Mr. Clarke, first editor of The Post and others of what Edgar Poe's friend, Wilmer, would have dubbed the "press gang" of Philadelphia.
He intends returning to the North, and his $30,000 will be a clear gain, for I am told he had not a cent when he married her. "Write me when you have fixed the time for your return, and believe me, with love to all, "Your affectionate relative, JANET WILMER." Bacchus entered in time to hear the latter part of this letter. He had his master's boots in his hands. When Mrs.
If we could learn whether he says to himself: "I see hate in that face, hypocrisy, greed. I will paint them. That man is not man, but cur. He shall fawn on my canvas." Or does he paint through a kind of inspired carelessness, and as the line obeys the eye and hand, so does the emotion live in the line?" "Oh, gammon!" snapped Wilmer.
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