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Updated: May 2, 2025
But the letter written to Beecot senior was yet unanswered, and Paul began to think that not even the chance of having a rich daughter-in-law would prevail against the obstinacy of the old gentleman. But when he reached his garret, after that lonely and tormenting walk on the Embankment, he found a letter from his father, and opened it with some trepidation. It proved to contain joyful news. Mr.
Nor could the quiet call of Hay make him stop. But at the end of the street he looked back, and saw Grexon entering the office of the lawyer. If Hay was the man Hurd said he was, Paul guessed that he would inquire about the heiress and marry her too, if her banking account was large and safe. For obvious reasons Beecot did not return to Gwynne Street.
The female Beecot retired to bed with the assistance of a maid, burnt feathers and sal volatile, and the male, as a last and clinching argument, figuratively buttoned up his pockets. "Not one shilling will you get from me," said Beecot senior, with the graceful addition of vigorous adjectives. "I don't ask for money," said Paul, keeping his temper, for after all the turkey-cock was his father.
She loved that child and shielded her from the consequences of killing Lady Rachel. The Sandal family don't want the case revived, especially as Maud is dead, so Mrs. Jessop as she is now can end her days in peace. The Government decided to let her go under the circumstances." "Tush," said Beecot senior, "sugar-coated pills and idiocy.
As there were no other children Paul was heir to the Beecot acres, therefore their present proprietor suggested that his son should wait with idle hands for the falling in of the heritage. In plain words, Mr. Beecot, coming of a long line of middle-class loafers, wished his son to be a loafer also. Again, when Mrs.
Beecot fancifully saw in him a man who had committed some crime and was fearful lest it should be discovered, or lest the avenger should suddenly appear. Deborah's confidential talk had not been without its effects on the young man, and Paul beheld in Aaron a being of mystery. How such a man came to have such a daughter as Sylvia, Paul could not guess. "Here you are, Mr.
"I just love the Newgate Calendar," she said, clasping her hands. "There's lovely plots for dramas to be found there. Don't you think so, Mr. Beecot?" "I don't read that sort of literature, Miss Qian." "Ah, then you don't know what people are capable of in the way of cruelty, Mr. Beecot."
A bad un you are, ses I." "No, Deborah, you are wrong. Mr. Hay is my friend." "Never shall he be my pretty's friend," declared Debby, obstinately, "for if all the wickedness in him 'ud come out in his face, pimples would be as thick as smuts in a London fog. No, Mr. Beecot, call him not what you do call him, meaning friend, for Judas and Julius Cezar ain't in it with his Belzebubness."
Beecot beats me," and Deborah rubbed her nose. "I shall always be Sylvia to you." "Bless you, lady-bird, but don't ask me to live with Mr. Beecot's frantic par, else there'll be scratchings if he don't do proper what he should do and don't. So there." Deborah swung her arms like a windmill. "My mind's easy and dinner's waiting, for, love or no love, eat you must, to keep your insides' clockwork."
"Because of the fainting," explained Debby; "the man ain't strong, though Sampson he may think himself ah, and Goliath, too, for all I care. But why ask, Mr. Beecot?" Paul did not reply to her, but asked Sylvia another question. "Do you remember that opal brooch I showed you?" "The serpent. Yes?" "Well, it's lost." "Lost, Paul?" The young man nodded mournfully.
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