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Updated: May 28, 2025
They showed her the mug and her face shone. "Oh, now Lady Conant's sent it, it'll be all proper, ma'am, won't it? 'George' of course he'd have to be, but seein' what he is we was hopin' all your people was hopin' it 'ud be 'Lashmar' too, and that'ud just round it out. A very 'andsome mug quite unique, I should imagine. 'Wayte awhyle wayte awhyle. That's true with the Lashmars, I've heard.
Suspense, she felt, was in the air, and when her sight cleared, saw, indeed, a mural tablet of a footless bird brooding upon the carven motto, "Wayte awhyle wayte awhyle." At the Litany George had trouble with an unstable hassock, and drew the slip of carpet under the pewseat. Sophie pushed her end back also, and shut her eyes against a burning that felt like tears.
Sophie's eyes sparkled. "I've thought that out too. We've got back at the English at last. Can't you see that she thought that we thought my mother's being a Lashmar was one of those things we'd expect the English to find out for themselves, and that's impressed her?" She turned the mug in her white hands, and sighed happily. "'Wayte awhyle wayte awhyle. That's not a bad motto, George.
The mug was worn and dented: above the twined initials, G.L., was the crest of a footless bird and the motto: "Wayte awhyle wayte awhyle." "That's the other end of the riddle," Sophie whispered, when he saw her that evening. "Read her note. The English write beautiful notes." The warmest of welcomes to your little man. I hope he will appreciate his native land now he has come to it.
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