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Updated: June 17, 2025
At eight Martie tucked Teddy into bed, straightening the clothes over Margar before she went into the dining room for an hour of solitaire. "Mrs. Bannister's Boarding House"; she liked the sound. The men would tell each other that it was luck to get into Mrs. Bannister's.
Your whole conscience stirred with Bannister's performance of Walter in the Children in the Wood but Dicky seemed like a thing, as Shakspeare says of Love, too young to know what conscience is. He put us into Vesta's days. Evil fled before him not as from Jack, as from an antagonist, but because it could not touch him, any more than a cannon-ball a fly.
Morgan staggered, slipped down to the floor, a bullet crashing through the chandelier as he fell. For a moment his body jerked. Then he rolled over and lay still. The foreman's weapon covered him unwaveringly, but no more steadily than Bannister's gaze the man who had come in with him who lay lifeless on the floor. The man looked at the lifeless thing, shuddered, and backed out of the saloon.
"Did I?" There was the ghost of a sad smile about his eyes. "The way you act, a person might think you one of Ned Bannister's men," she told him, scornfully. "I expect you're right." She repented her a little at a charge so unjust. "If you are not ashamed of your name why are you so loath to part with it?" "Y'u didn't ask me my name," he said, a dark flush sweeping his face. "I ask it now."
The Bird Room at Judge Bannister's was back of the library. It was a big room lined with glass cases. There hung about it always the faint odor of preservatives. The Trumpeter Swan had a case to himself over the mantel. He had been rather stiffly posed on a bed of artificial moss, but nothing could spoil the beauty of him the white of his plumage, the elegance of his lines.
He and she and William Bannister lived in a kind of hermit's cell for three and enjoyed this highly unnatural state of things enormously. Life had never seemed so full either to Kirk or herself. There was always something to do, something to think about, something to look forward to, if it was only a visit to a theatre or the inspection of William Bannister's bath. Stung to Action
He had tried to deceive himself, but he could do so no longer. Ruth had changed. The curse with which his sensitive imagination had invested John Bannister's legacy was, after all no imaginary curse. Like a golden wedge, it had forced Ruth and himself apart. Everything had changed. He was no longer the centre of Ruth's life.
"If I may be allowed to say so, madam, I think that there must have been trouble at Mrs. Bannister's. A telephone-call came from her very early this morning for Mrs. Winfield which caused Mrs. Winfield to rise and leave in a taximeter-cab in an extreme hurry. If I might be allowed to suggest it, it is probably a case of serious illness. Mrs. Winfield was looking very disturbed." "H'm!" said Mrs.
Bannister's, and back of it there was something else." "Something else?" I questioned. Penelope did not answer. She had turned from me to the parasol and the sand. I repeated the question. "Herbert Talcott is married a year now," she said in a measured tone. "His wife was a Miss Carmody the daughter of Dennis Carmody, who owns the Sagamore or something like that mine." A pause. Her head tossed.
It's not so bad!" "It's better for me," said the young wife, "because of the uncertainty of Mr. Bannister's plans." "They're all uncertain men," submitted Mrs. Curley thoughtfully. "That is, the nice ones are," she added. "You show me a man whose wife isn't always worrying about him and I'll show you a fool!" "Which was Mr. Curley?" Martie asked, twinkling.
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