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George Boult's shop at Ingleby, and now enlisted in such and such a regiment was addressed to that gentleman at his private residence, The Court, Cashelthorpe. He read the letter among others as he ate his breakfast, gave a shrug and a snort of impatience, and put it aside on a little heap of those which required answering.
"I implore you to be patient with the boy," was about all she thought it wise to say; that and the promise she made to write at once to Bernard to beg of him to consider his circumstances and Mr. Boult's goodness, and to change what was amiss. Bernard, her darling, handsome son! While she said it she saw him in a thousand pictures stored in her mother's heart.
At the mature age of fifty-five, George Boult's ideal happened to be realised by Bessie Day. Fair-skinned she was, and very plump. Her waist was small, exceedingly, as was in accordance with the taste of that day, but her hips and bust were large; there was a promise of a double chin to come later.
Boult's Manchester man to the same table with us. And now, here we are keeping his plates hot, if he comes in late, and telling him all our secrets." "Mama and I don't tell Mr. Gibbon any secrets," Deleah said. "I dare say Mr. Gibbon does not want to hear them. As for me I find, when you live in the same house with a man, it's impossible to keep him at arm's length."
Only seven when all that happened to papa." "Franky must not go into one of George Boult's shops," Sir Francis said. "When Franky is old enough to leave school to begin to earn his living come and tell me, will you?" Her face lit, till it was lovely as a sun-kissed flower. "Oh, I will!
It was also whispered that one of such persons of wealth and note would have led off with at least a hundred pounds. George Boult's name was down for fifty. It was a large amount for him to give not because he could not well have afforded more, but because he was all unaccustomed to giving.
Long's pardon for the trouble she had given him, told him she had been locked into the church, and said she should not have rung the bells, but that she was very cold, and hearing Farmer Boult's man go whistling by with his horses, she was in hopes he would have gone to the clerk for the key to let her out. The people were ashamed to ask Little Madge any questions before Mr.
Boult could have bought up all the superior people who turned up their noses at him, his friend frequently declared; it had been a standing grievance of his against his wife that she declined to put Mr. Boult's name on the list of people invited to her parties. George Boult was a self-made man; the process of manufacture recent, and unfortunately fresh in people's minds.
He wished to forget these defects, which the other thought it his duty conscientiously to point out. "Very nice. Very nice. Very suitable indeed," was the verdict finally pronounced. The Honourable Charles's soreness was not at all soothed thereby. Since the abode, obviously in Mr. Boult's eyes, left so much to be desired, it was no compliment to be told it was suitable.
Bernard at George Boult's little branch shop in the country town of Ingleby, chained body and soul to the heavy drudgery of uncongenial occupation, thought of his father only with rage and resentment. Franky, childlike, had apparently forgotten. Deleah could not forget.
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