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Updated: June 9, 2025
She won't leave Cockley, and he's doing his best to get her to go. CURTISS. Good, indeed! Here's Mrs. Cockley's health. To the only wife in the Station and a damned brave woman! BLAYNE. I suppose Gaddy will bring his wife here at the end of the cold weather. They are going to be married almost immediately, I believe.
"It was so sudden, and she did it as if she'd never done it before. I'd actually been thinking she hadn't any feeling at all." "No reason why she should have. She's been taken care of by the clock and dressed like a puppet, but she's not been treated human!" broke forth Mrs. Blayne.
"Perhaps they have found some ignorant woman who really was a relative of Peter Blayne, and who may have a small claim on the property. It is enough to invalidate the deed Mrs. Carringford has and yet she will be unable to prove that Strout and his man Jamison knew about the fault in the title.
"I will KISS you!" she said solemnly, and performed the rite as whole-souledly as Donal had done. "Dear little mite!" exclaimed the surprised Dowson. "Dear me!" And there was actual moisture in her eyes as she squeezed the small body in her arms. "She's the strangest mite I ever nursed," was her comment to Mrs. Blayne below stairs.
MACKESY. Then I've met her. She was at Lucknow last season. 'Owned a permanently juvenile Mamma, and danced damnably. I say, Jervoise, you knew the Threegans, didn't you? What's that? Knew who? How? I thought I was at Home, confound you! MACKESY. The Threegan girl's engaged, so Blayne says. Bless my soul! I'm getting an old man! Little Minnie Threegan engaged.
Alice G. Blayne may be perfectly honest in her contention." "But in that case won't Mr. Strout or Mr. Jamison give me my money back?" asked Mrs. Carringford. "If there was much chance of that, do you think Strout would have stirred up any such suit as this?" asked Mr. Day quietly. "No. Strout at least thinks he sees his way to making you lose the house.
I'm going to bed if you begin squabbling. Thank Goodness, here's Anthony looking like a ghost. Enter ANTHONY, Indian Medical Staff, very white and tired. ANTHONY. 'Evening, Blayne. It's raining in sheets. Whiskey-peg, lao, Khitmatgar. The roads are something ghastly. CURTISS. How's Mingle? ANTHONY. Very bad, and more frightened. I handed him over to Fewton.
BLAYNE. That's just what he would do, damn him. Oh! I say, Anthony, you pretend to know everything. Have you heard about Gaddy? ANTHONY. No. Divorce Court at last? BLAYNE. Worse. He's engaged! ANTHONY. How much? He can't be! BLAYNE. He is. He's going to be married in a few weeks. Markyn told me at the Judge's this evening. It's pukka. ANTHONY. You don't say so? Holy Moses!
"But I never even heard of this Mrs, Blayne," murmured Amy's mother. "A poor widow, ma'am," said the lawyer blandly. "And one who can ill afford to lose her rights. She as heir of old Peter Warburton Blayne who lived in that house where you now reside for a great many years. He died. His heirs were not informed. The place was sold for taxes for a nominal sum, ma'am.
Mingle might just as well have called him in the first place, instead of bothering me. BLAYNE. He's a nervous little chap. What has he got, this time? ANTHONY. 'Can't quite say. A very bad tummy and a blue funk so far. He asked me at once if it was cholera, and I told him not to be a fool. That soothed him. CURTISS. Poor devil! The funk does half the business in a man of that build.
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