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Updated: May 14, 2025
And when the shape of a witch's chin became the immediate point of discussion I knew it was in Antoine's mind that such conversation was unbecoming, an offense to the memory of Raymond Bashford. Mrs. Farnsworth's brown eyes sparkled, and the color deepened in my aunt's cheeks as we discoursed upon witches and the chins thereof.
From this sunless nook, this narrow niche, I began my study of Boston, whose historic significance quite overpowered me. I was alone. Mr. Bashford, in Portland, Maine, was the only person in all the east on whom I could call for aid or advice in case of sickness. My father wrote me that he had relatives living in the city but I did not know how to find them.
Bashford was not all that she pretended to be. The day was marked by unusual activities on the part of the waiters and bell-hops. Instead of the company drills to which I had become accustomed they moved about in pairs along the shore and the lines of the fences. I learned that Antoine had ordered this, and the "troops" were obeying him with the utmost seriousness.
Bashford and I made no question that Searles's companion was indubitably my uncle's widow gave me her hand and smiled in a way that showed that she was not so greatly displeased with Alice as her words implied. "Pay that driver for me and don't fail to tip him. Those Methuselahs at the gate all but killed him.
I wanted to warn him that Alice Bashford was not an ordinary widow, who vexes officers of trust companies with foolish questions and is prone to overdraw her account, so I left when he did. "I want to talk to you," he said nervously when we were outside. "I'll send the car ahead to the gate." When the shrubbery cut us off from the house he stopped abruptly and seized my arm.
It was hardly worth going at all if they only had half the day. The Semi-drunk remarked that he had just thought of a very good place to go if they decided to have a change. Three years ago he was working for Dauber and Botchit and they went to 'The First In and the Last Out' at Bashford.
"Because you don't love him," Bashford resumed with confidence, "is no reason that you should be unhappy just because he has proposed to you." She sobbed again, and from the midst of her sobs she cried "That's the trouble. I wish I did love him. Oh, I wish I were dead!" "Now, my dear child, you are worrying yourself over trifles." His other hand crossed over after its mate and rested on hers.
She uttered a few commonplaces in an uncommonplace tone without pausing in her knitting. Mrs. Bashford had been knitting too, and as she sat down she took up her yarn and needles. It was a sweater, I think; it doesn't matter. What matters is that her hands moved swiftly and deftly. Her manner of knitting was charming.
It was highly creditable to the old Tyringham servants that the house was thoroughly habitable. All that need be done before Mrs. Bashford arrived was to lay linen on the beds and take the jackets from the furniture; a couple of hours would suffice, Antoine said. As we were on our way down-stairs the old fellow detained me a moment. "Have you told him about the parties?
Her environment acted as a soporific upon her ancient desire always to live with Daisy. This desire no longer prodded her as in the days of her companionship with Billy. The more she saw of Billy, the more certain she had been that she could not live away from Daisy. The more she saw of Ned Bashford, the more she forgot her pressing need of Daisy. Ned Bashford likewise did some forgetting.
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