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It was an invaluable remark to her; I do not know how she would have got along without it. My mother, who sat with her back to the window, would always consider it due to Mrs. Booch to turn about and regard the evening in the act of elongation or contraction, whichever phase it might be.
I now knew my fate but too well I was in the hands of Holkar. Strength is deceitful, valor is unavailing, fame is only wind the nightingale sings of the rose all night where is the rose in the morning? Booch, booch! it is withered by a frost. The rose makes remarks regarding the nightingale, and where is that delightful song-bird? Penabekhoda, he is netted, plucked, spitted, and roasted!
This ended the first skirmish. A certain gloom of manner and a pause was considered due to the sacred memory of Sir Roderick. "George," said my mother, "don't kick the chair!" Then, perhaps, Mrs. Booch would produce a favourite piece from her repertoire. "The evenings are drawing out nicely," she would say, or if the season was decadent, "How the evenings draw in!"
I now knew my fate but too well I was in the hands of Holkar. Strength is deceitful, valour is unavailing, fame is only wind the nightingale sings of the rose all night where is the rose in the morning? Booch, booch! it is withered by a frost. The rose makes remarks regarding the nightingale, and where is that delightful song-bird? Pena-bekhoda, he is netted, plucked, spitted, and roasted!
"What won't they say next?" said Miss Fison. "They do say such things!" said Mrs. Booch. "They say," said Mrs. Mackridge, inflexibly, "the doctors are not recomm-an-ding it now." My Mother: "No, ma'am?" Mrs. Mackridge: "No, ma'am." Then, to the table at large: "Poor Sir Roderick, before he died, consumed great quan-ta-ties of sugar. I have sometimes fancied it may have hastened his end."
Booch was a smaller woman, brown haired, with queer little curls on either side of her face, large blue eyes and a small set of stereotyped remarks that constituted her entire mental range. Mrs. Latude-Fernay has left, oddly enough, no memory at all except her name and the effect of a green-grey silk dress, all set with gold and blue buttons. I fancy she was a large blonde.
And more particularly I hated it when Mrs. Mackridge and Mrs. Booch and Mrs. Latude-Fernay were staying in the house. They were, all three of them, pensioned-off servants. Old friends of Lady Drew's had rewarded them posthumously for a prolonged devotion to their minor comforts, and Mrs. Booch was also trustee for a favourite Skye terrier.
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