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There were moments when I fancied I might have had more patience with them if they hadn't been so fatally benevolent. I hated at all events Mr. Rumble's picture, and had my bottled resentment ready when, later on, I found my distracted friend had been stuffed by Mrs. Wimbush into the mouth of another cannon. A young artist in whom she was intensely interested, and who had no connexion with Mr.
Weeks Wimbush, upstairs, was still saving our friend in her own way, I asked my young lady to let me briefly relate, in illustration of my point, the little incident of my having gone down into the country for a profane purpose and been converted on the spot to holiness. Sinking again into her chair to listen she showed a deep interest in the anecdote.
Lady Lapith did not marry again, but determined to devote the rest of her life to the well-being of her three children Georgiana, now five years old, and Emmeline and Caroline, twins of two." Henry Wimbush paused, and once more put on his pince-nez. "So much by way of introduction," he said. "Now I can begin to read about my grandfather." "One moment," said Mr.
Were it not for tradition and the explicit account of them left by Sir Ferdinando, we should be unaware that these noble privies had ever existed. We should even suppose that Sir Ferdinando built his house after this strange and splendid model for merely aesthetic reasons." The contemplation of the glories of the past always evoked in Henry Wimbush a certain enthusiasm.
"Hullo," she said, looking up. "I'd forgotten you were coming." "Well, here I am, I'm afraid," said Denis deprecatingly. "I'm awfully sorry." Mrs. Wimbush laughed. Her voice, her laughter, were deep and masculine. Everything about her was manly.
At the first stile a group of village boys, loutish young fellows all dressed in the hideous ill-fitting black which makes a funeral of every English Sunday and holiday, were assembled, drearily guffawing as they smoked their cigarettes. They made way for Henry Wimbush, touching their caps as he passed. He returned their salute; his bowler and face were one in their unruffled gravity.
Jenny looked at him, surprised. "English? Of course I am." He was beginning to explain, when Mrs. Wimbush vailed her Sunday paper, and appeared, a square, mauve-powdered face in the midst of orange splendours. "I see there's a new series of articles on the next world just beginning," she said to Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "This one's called 'Summer Land and Gehenna." "Summer Land," echoed Mr.
Two vehicles, a barouche and a smart hansom, were drawn up before the house. "In the drawing-room, sir? Mrs. Weeks Wimbush." "And in the dining-room?" "A young lady, sir waiting: I think a foreigner." It was three o'clock, and on days when Paraday didn't lunch out he attached a value to these appropriated hours. On which days, however, didn't the dear man lunch out? Mrs.
In the front pew sat Henry Wimbush, calm, well-bred, beautifully dressed. There were times when Mr. Bodiham wanted to jump down from the pulpit and shake him into life, times when he would have liked to beat and kill his whole congregation. He sat at his desk dejectedly. Outside the Gothic windows the earth was warm and marvellously calm. Everything was as it had always been.
"Twopence," she repeated firmly. "Nobody will pay more than twopence." "And now there's Jenny," said Mr Wimbush. "Jenny," he said, raising his voice, "what will you do?" Denis thought of suggesting that she might draw caricatures at sixpence an execution, but decided it would be wiser to go on feigning ignorance of her talent. His mind reverted to the red notebook.
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