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Updated: May 9, 2025
"Why don't you say all these things to your father?" asked Harwood, trying to laugh. "I dare say he'll do anything you like. But please cheer up; those people over there will think we're having a terrible quarrel." The fact that they were drawing the glances of Miss Bosworth's party pleased her; she had been perfectly conscious of it all the time.
And Matthew himself was Sister Bosworth's eldest son, while one John Bunyan, a travelling tinker, was busy with his furnaces and his soldering-irons in Dame Bosworth's kitchen. Young Bunyan, with all his blackguardism, had never plashed down Beelzebub's orchard. He swears he never did, and we are bound to believe him.
Jimmie winked when the others roared at him and then looked reproachfully at Ned. "You promised not to tell about that!" he said, accusingly. At that moment a knock came on the door of the clubroom, which was on the top of the palatial residence of Jack Bosworth's father, and a moment later a tall, military-looking man with a white, stern face, thin straight lips and cold blue eyes was shown in.
He came of good family, but had small inheritance; his tongue told of age-long domination; his physique and carriage showed the horseman, the game-stalker, the nomad. Hugh had never bent over books since the day when he declined the university and got leave to join Colonel Bosworth's exploring party in the Caucasus.
And when Gifford talked over young Bosworth's bed half to himself and half to them about a medicine made ex carne et sanguine Christi, the future author of the Pilgrim's Progress never forgot the phrase. At a glance Gifford saw what was the whole matter with the sick man.
Jack Bosworth's father was a prominent corporation lawyer, while Harry Stevens, a lad with a historical hobby, was a prominent automobile manufacturer. Ned Nestor, the boy just now trying to entertain the very formal Captain Moore, was a member of the Wolf Patrol, also of New York, as was also Jimmie McGraw, who had been a Bowery newsboy before joining fortunes with Ned.
I made endless researches in connection with her, and, in answer to one of my inquiries, I was informed that eighteen years ago that is to say, about the time Jane's dress was in fashion the chemist's shop had been occupied by a dressmaker of the name of Bosworth. I hunted up Miss Bosworth's address and called on her. She had retired from business and was living in St. Michael's Road, Bournemouth.
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