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Updated: June 20, 2025
Linda hesitated, plainly conveying the fact that, if she were to wait, he would have to say something really important. "Just you two," he deliberated; "Miss and Mrs. Jones." "Not at all," Linda asserted shortly; "our name is Condon." "I wonder if you'd tell her this," he went on: "a gentleman's here by himself named Bardwell, who has seen her and admires her a whole lot.
He was afraid of Rodaine that Rodaine would get up a lynching party and string him up. Harry here and Mrs. Howard helped him out of town. And this is the explanation!" Bardwell smiled quizzically. "It looks like there 's going to be a lot of explanations. What time was it when you were trapped in that mine, Harkins?" "Along about the first of November." The sheriff turned to the page.
"It's not too late, old man," Bardwell said, almost in a whisper. "By God! I wish I weren't a coward!" was Trefethan's answering cry. "I could go back to her. She's there, now. I could shape up and live many a long year... with her... up there. To remain here is to commit suicide. But I am an old man forty-seven look at me.
Having been a congressman gives him the right to the floor of the House or Senate. He will be found later on championing any bill that has money in it, no matter how patent the steal. This description of the Hon. Bardwell Slote, of Cohosh, is not in any way overdrawn. It is, in fact, conservative, If an exact portraiture of him were given, the ICONOCLAST would be unmailable.
Fairchild, circling far to one side, caught her, and with all his strength resisted her squirming efforts until Harry and Bardwell had come to his assistance.
It was there, the story of Crazy Laura and her descent into the Blue Poppy mine, and again the charge of dynamite which wrecked the tunnel. With a little sigh, Bardwell closed the book and looked out at the dawn, forcing its way through the blinding snow. "Yes, I guess we 'll find a lot of things in this old book," came at last.
Bardwell turned the closely written pages, with their items set forth with a slight margin and a double line dividing them from the events tabulated above. At last he stopped. "Testified to-day at the inquest," he read. "I lied. Roady made me do it. I never saw anybody quarreling. Besides, I did it myself." "What's she mean did it herself?" the sheriff looked up.
Stamping feet sounded on the steps, the knob turned, and Sheriff Bardwell, snow-white, entered, shaking himself like a great dog, as he sought to rid himself of the effects of the blizzard. "Hello, Mason," came curtly. "Hello, Bardwell, what 'd you find?" The sheriff of Clear Creek county glanced toward Anita Richmond and was silent. The girl leaped to her feet.
Some of the elders that received her, and required the confession, were engaged is selling the son from his mother." The following communication from the Rev. WILLIAM BARDWELL, of Sandwich, Massachusetts, has just been published in Zion's Watchman, New York city: Mr. He is a man of unblemished character, a member of the M.E. Church in this place, and familiarly known in this town.
One of Vard's associates Bardwell, wasn't it? threatened disclosures. The rival machine got hold of him, the Independents took him to their bosom, and the press shrieked for an investigation. It was not the first storm Vard had weathered, and his face wore just the right shade of cool vigilance; he wasn't the man to fall into the mistake of appearing too easy.
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